tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59322025174163498182024-02-19T21:36:38.498-05:00echos & visionsWelcome to echos & visions! This is the place to read my new stories, poetry and essays and find out when and where they'll be published. There are also links to my favorite sites, book reviews, pictures, interviews and other bits and pieces I hope you will enjoy. MaryAnneMaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-1648483762393381762012-12-15T14:11:00.001-05:002012-12-15T14:11:33.217-05:00ARTISTIC FAILINGS<i>Many thanks to Meg, Ken and the crew at Connotation-Press for repeatedly publishing my work. http://connotationpress.com/fiction/1668-maryanne-kolton3-fiction</i><div>
<i><br /></i><div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Ellis watched from a cushioned window seat across the room,
as yet another grad student managed to push his way into the crowd surrounding
her husband. <i>Amusing</i>, she thought, the way he drew people to him
like metal filings to a magnet.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> <i>Zzzzzzzzt!
</i>They became attached to him for the evening. Yes, he remained
erudite and charming. Yes, he was still handsome for a man of advancing
years and yes, he continued to radiate an aura of scholarly gravitas that
managed to intimidate them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
She was elderly, the oldest woman in the room and the only
one carrying a handbag. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>She
kept touching it as if to make sure it hadn’t vanished from the pillow next to
her. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>She massaged her
temples for a moment - academic social gatherings still tended to give her
migraines. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Her friend, Max Richter, head of the Anthropology
department, had been one of the few people able to resist becoming ensnared in
the net of charisma cast by her husband, the Pulitzer Prize winning author.
That was the single reason Ellis had slept with Max off and on over the
years, until his death ten summers ago.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
The rest of them knew her husband, Charles Brinkman, as the
shape-shifting persona he summoned for them.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> And,
they adored him. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Of course,
they didn’t have to share a house with him, bear his children, put up with his
bullying anger -- his “creative angst” as he referred to it --and nurture his
monstrous ego for all these many years.</div>
<a name='more'></a><o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
She smiled as she observed him lean in close to the
Dean’s young wife, as if to encourage an intimate<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>tête-à-tête, when in fact, he was both
having trouble hearing her, and hoping for a glimpse of her breasts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
He wore his thinning, white hair long, and pulled back into
a short ponytail. A style he had first adopted in the sixties and never
abandoned. His carefully trimmed, full, white beard and mustache, burly
physique and apple-hued cheeks often led children to mistake him for Santa.
<i>Ha!</i> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>She
thought,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Santa indeed.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Ellis Barrett had already been discovered when they met at
one of her openings.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> Charles
resembled a prizefighter in those early years. Big, barrel-chested, legs
most often positioned in a combative stance. He was working on his PhD in
English Literature and Creative Writing. MFA’s had not yet been invented.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
She was a painter of growing consequence, nine years older
than he, known for her sophisticated, mind-searing abstracts. Ellis, just
out of her first marriage, was tall, a slender, dark-haired, blue-eyed
beauty with opalescent skin. The sexual and intellectual attraction
between them was intense, immediate, and all encompassing. They married
within the month.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Once more, she rubbed at the expensive, supple
leather of her handbag. Charles moved around the room with his admirers
hanging on his every word. Jockeying to be the one closest to the
award-winning writer, some came too close, and he waved them back with a
graceful gesture and a playful grin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
There was a time when Ellis was the only one he wanted
clinging to his arm. He<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>wore<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>her like a striking spray of
long-stemmed, calla lilies. Charlie, as he was known then, was just
beginning to ascend the steep staircase of his ambition. He needed her by
his side to validate him in some obscure way, like a stamped parking ticket or
a gold star on a school paper.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Within a year of their marriage she was pregnant. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Ellis painted less and less as his
need for her constant adoration subsumed her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
After their twin sons were born, she was much too
tired and irritable for daily worship at the altar of his successes.
That’s when he began sleeping with a student here or another professor’s
wife there. The public knowledge of these first few infidelities
humiliated her. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>They<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>raked at her heart. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>She soon got over the hurt and began
her friendship with Max. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Max
Richter, her husband’s best friend. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>The
irony of their relationship was not lost on either of them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The two male children she and Charles produced were
certainly not shining examples of anybody’s parenting skills. Ellis
sometimes thought it was harder for creative people to parent successfully.
Difficult to scour through the overlay of profound intellect to access
the tenderness, patience and self-sacrificing love required to raise children.
She didn’t much care for hers. They were spoiled egotists and often
quite cruel.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
When her husband began to travel each summer, to pacify his
publisher and woo his readers, Ellis started to paint again. She was
exhilarated by the extravagance of the Kolinsky sable brushes, and the
brilliance and luminosity of the sumptuous oils. Pilbara Red, Flinders
Blue-Violet, Viridian and Italian Pink. She spewed her feelings of
anxiety, inadequacy and impatience onto each prepared canvas.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
She hired nannies for her toddlers and locked herself in
the carriage house at the back of their property. She made it clear that
any interruption, except for that of a death, would result in immediate
termination. Even Max was barred from her studio when she was working.
Ellis painted with a swiftness and determination that both terrified her
and emboldened her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
A<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:state w:st="on">New York</st1:state><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>gallery solicited a showing of
her larger pieces through her agent. Sales were quite brisk. Other
exhibits were arranged, and Ellis found herself fêted by the international art
intelligencia. She became a woman of substantial means. Independent
and famous all over again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
After a time her children were sent off to boarding schools
and then moved on to universities in<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:city w:st="on">London</st1:city>. She knew
she had not been a good mother. At this point she was not sure she would
recognize the boys if she saw them passing on the street. She’d been
uncaring and selfish in her efforts to save herself. Somehow, in the
throes of creativity, the shame this might have engendered soared above her
like a cloud of starlings, briefly darkening the sky.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Charles<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>had
met someone he deemed important to him while teaching abroad for a
semester. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>He petitioned for
a divorce. She startled him by agreeing at once. He mumbled and
hovered for a month, then asked if they might continue on together. He said
he couldn't go on without her. Ellis laughed and tried to discern when
she had last thought of herself as part of a couple. They remained
legally married still. Once in awhile she cataloged the reasons for
staying. They were scant, but she did not leave. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Charles wrote rarely now. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>He had been made Chair of some
department or other at the college where he’d taught for nearly forty years,
and assumed responsibility for two or three seminars a month. He still
needed her, but she no longer cared.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Ellis stood, picked up her bag and walked toward her
husband. He smiled at her slow-paced approach and put his arm around her,
kissing the top of her head. Claiming her for effect in front of the
others. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>She told him she
was tired and wanting her bed. Charles said she should take the car, as
he was going to stay on for a bit. One of the boys, in the crush of those
encircling him, offered to drive him home.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
She murmured her farewells as she walked to the hallway.
Once on the sidewalk, she fingered the airline ticket to<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:country-region w:st="on">France</st1:country-region><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>and the passport in her handbag. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Their driver gently took her arm to
help her into the car. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Ellis
saw, in her mind’s eye, the house she’d purchased in the tiny, seaside<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">village</st1:placetype><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>of<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><st1:placename w:st="on">Cabourg</st1:placename></st1:place>,
and the brief note she’d left on the nightstand in her husband’s bedroom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Ellis breathed a sigh of relief. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Breaking the constraints of so many
years left her feeling light-headed. Her innate selfishness
had been her salvation after all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
She knew that to study the Impressionists who had painted
on the Côte Fleurie, and linger in solitude by the sea, would suit her
perfectly during these last few years of her life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-81184513988349776482012-11-30T00:40:00.001-05:002012-11-30T00:40:46.754-05:00AN INTERVIEW WITH KEN BRUEN: THE JACK TAYLOR SERIES<br />
<div class="Section1">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>By MaryAnne Kolton </i></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><i>Sly, profane, charming, alcoholic, sensitive, lonely, handsome,
addicted to drugs, ballsy, well read, wry, nasty, self-deprecating, savvy,
vicious, darkly humorous, vulnerable, cunning, insecure, emotionally damaged, loves
his music, melancholy, short-tempered, bookstore lover. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Jack Taylor or Ken
Bruen? </i><b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Do you always tell the truth?<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Of
course, but bearing in mind Tom Waits dictate<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">...............Do
I tell you the truth or just string you along?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">And of
course, never allow a little thing like the truth to ruin a good yarn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Sean
Connery said...........tell them the truth and then it’s their problem.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Now
take all the above, add a large dose of incredulity and stir.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">I’ve
always been a fine ...........stirrer, vital if you intend to write.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<b><i><span style="color: #222222;">There
is a rumor making the rounds that one of your ribs was surgically removed, and
from this rib Jack Taylor was created.
What are the similarities between you and Jack?<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I’m laughing at the
notion, great idea.</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Jack is based partly on
my brother Noel, who was found dead , a homeless alcoholic, in the Australian
outback.</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Does alcoholism run in
our family?</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">It gallops.</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I wanted a character who
had my fascination with books, who showed the horror of booze and unlike the
other stereotype, did not love ‘His Mammy’</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Jack says</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">‘My mother is a walking
bitch’</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Jack is the road I might
have traveled if I’d another lifetime to squander.</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">He has alas, my short
temper, and love of hurling.</span></div>
<a name='more'></a><o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<b><i><span style="color: #222222;">You
mentioned your fascination with books.
What about your passion for music?
Jack has a distinct love/need for the haunting, pulsing, rabid music of
the soundtrack of his life. Is it your
music or his?<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I sometimes think that music is a spiritual ID.</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Jack’s music runs pretty much parallel to my own.</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">It’s always:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: auto;" />
</span>
<div class="Section2">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; tab-stops: 1.0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Van Morrison,</span><span style="color: #222222;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; tab-stops: 1.0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Tom Waits, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; tab-stops: 1.0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Tom Russell, </span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; tab-stops: 1.0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Marc Roberts</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; tab-stops: 1.0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The Clash</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; tab-stops: 1.0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The Pogues</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; tab-stops: 1.0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Gretchen Peters</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; tab-stops: 1.0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Emmylou Harris</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; tab-stops: 1.0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Iris DeMent</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: auto;" />
</span>
<div class="Section3">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<b><i><span style="color: #222222;">Many
of the people in Jack’s life appear to be soulless deviates. It would be too facile to say they are all
mentally deranged . Where do they come
from?<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;">My
friends.</span><b><i><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">There seems to be a neon
sign over my head that proclaims</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">“Gather here ye rogues,
vagabonds, ragamuffins, marginalised, ye fooked, “</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">This of course in no way
includes my writer friends who are</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Sane</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">loving</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">and dammit</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Successful.</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">One of my best friends
said one time, the biggest surprise of her life was she read I had a real
education!</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">And the other who said on
hearing I did jail in <st1:place w:st="on">South America</st1:place> who wasn’t
surprised but amazed.</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">..............They let me
out</span><span style="color: #222222;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I’ll forgive most
anything, even awful novels if they have a sense of humour. You’re ahead of the game when you realize,
they are not...........no way..........laughing............WITH...........you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<b><i><span style="color: #222222;"> And yet your books are so dark and intense. Aren’t you using some of these characters to
define the nature of evil?<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in;">
<b><i><span style="color: #222222;"> “</span></i></b><i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Ralph tried to smile and hoped
the lunatic was going to leave, but the man said, ‘I get a very bad press, and
really, I’m a fun guy. You like tricks,
Ralphy?’<b> </b>Ralph managed to utter a
yes. He knew if you could keep a psycho
on your side, you had a shot.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> The man said,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-right: .5in;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> ‘Wonderful, I do love a player. Watch this.’<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> And he clicked his fingers.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> A noose appeared above the statue of St. Jude. Last resort of hopeless cases.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> ‘Just for the hell of it, you’re going to hop up on
there, put that around your ecclesiastical neck and swing as if you meant it.’<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> Ralph felt his limbs move and he was walking toward St.
Jude.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Yes,
the very dark characters do signify evil in all its guises and I studied evil
for my Ph.D dissertation and so it is reflected in all the books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">I
research evil but try to live as if it wasn’t a constant threat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<b><i><span style="color: #222222;">One
last ‘evil’ question. Do you believe
there is a spiritual aspect to evil?<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">Oh God no, the
two terms are so far apart. I do believe
there is zealotry where spirituality is hijacked in the
name of evil.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Spirituality
is almost always absent in those who claim to be spiritual.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">True
spirituality is akin to humility, i.e. once you think you have it, you’ve lost
it</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 8.0pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<b><i><span style="color: #222222;">Do
you see yourself as a religious man?<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">I believe that
religion is for people who are afraid of hell.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Spirituality
is for those who’ve been there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Thus, I’m
trying to be the latter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<b><i><span style="color: #222222;">The
books Jack buys, reads and quotes from are not those of an uneducated
thug. More likely those of a man who has
a desperate need to educate himself in spite of the lack of opportunities given
him—or one who has a painful wish to know the ‘how and why’ of the world he occupies. Which is it?<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">It's a dual
motive with Jack</span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 8.0pt;">.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">One the
fierce thirst to know and connect with the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">To try
and self educate, the noblest act in a fractured world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">A
bookless world to Jack would confirm the bleak view he already suspects.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 6.0in;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">‘You get a call out of the
proverbial blue that knocks the bejaysus out of you, I’d had a dream, on Thursday night, that I’d
still hadn’t been able to shake. Laura
was back in my life. I swear, I could
feel her hand in mine.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 6.0in;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">For no reasons at all.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 6.0in;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">We were feeding the swans at
Claddagh , and she leant back into my shoulder and I was deliriously happy.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 6.0in;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">And woke.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 6.0in;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Tears on my face, coursing down
my cheek.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 6.0in;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Hard arse that.’ <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<b><i><span style="color: #222222;">Pure
poetry, that. . .Does Jack have relationship problems with every women he meets
because they are afraid of him or rather because he is afraid of himself?<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">Thank you
so much, MaryAnne</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">What a
lovely thing to say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">And how
wonderfully perceptive of you, yes, he is afraid of relationships
because of himself, he doesn't ..............dare to be happy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">And his
self-loathing is such he is suspicious anyone could love such as him<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<b><i><span style="color: #222222;">How
do you explain the fact that here in the <st1:country-region w:st="on">United
States</st1:country-region> we bow down to you as The King of Irish Noir and in
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region></st1:place>
you are just Joe Writer?<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">A couple of
things I believe. My constant assertion that my influences are US not Irish and
that is always going to be a bitter pill here. I'm supposed to trot out the usual tired
hackyned Irish giants.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Two, I
don't play the Irish events calendar, I have as much interest in Literary
heritage as I do in The Waltons.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">And......................
in truth, they don't think I'm much cop in every sense.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Thank
you for the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">US</st1:place></st1:country-region>
compliment, would it were so, but lovely thought. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F1F1F1; mso-line-height-alt: 3.6pt;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_i1025" type="#_x0000_t75"
alt="" style='width:.6pt;height:.6pt'>
<v:imagedata src="file:///C:\Users\MARYAN~1\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image002.gif"
o:href="https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/images/cleardot.gif"/>
</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><img height="1" src="file:///C:/Users/MARYAN~1/AppData/Local/Temp/msohtml1/01/clip_image002.gif" v:shapes="_x0000_i1025" width="1" /><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<b><i><span style="color: #222222;">You
spend a fair amount of time in the <st1:country-region w:st="on">US</st1:country-region>,
honoring cities like <st1:state w:st="on">New York</st1:state> and <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Las Vegas</st1:place></st1:city> with your
presence. <st1:state w:st="on">New York</st1:state>
is understandable, but <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Las Vegas</st1:place></st1:city>? What’s the siren song that calls you to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Sin</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place>? Or the Bone Yard as it is now called by some.
. .<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I love Vegas as I got married there, oh so
many years ago when I thought happiness was separate from reality. We'd no money and the whole biz cost about 150
bucks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Vegas used to convey
a certain edgy glamour and you felt anything was possible.</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">That notion is quickly
dissipated by a visit to the pawnshops on the ridge of the city, to see dreams
shattered by the items on sale, a real wake up call.</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Though I had real fun
setting a scene there in 'American Skin'</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">And.............. I think
Bouchercon in Vegas was the greatest gathering of mystery writers ever, legends
abounded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<b><i><span style="color: #222222;">Some
have said you are also a card shark extraordinaire!<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I'm highly impressed, MaryAnne, that you
tracked down that.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Indeed, as I write, I've
been reading Al Alvarez and his superb book on Poker.</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">My father believed you'd
never be lost if you had one great skill so instead of cars, he taught me poker
and phew-oh, it saved me arse on many an occasion and true, in Vegas, I had one
amazing evening when the cards were alchemy, it was like winning The Edgar and
all the other mystery prizes in one night and as much as a rush</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Texas Hold em
is especially gripping these dark days</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<b><i><span style="color: #222222;">Since
we’ve determined you are not Jack Taylor, but rather a successful writer with a
wife and daughter, what is a typical day in <st1:place w:st="on">Galway</st1:place>
like for you and your family?<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;"> I
make breakfast for the family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Then
write, always, no matter how barren my mind is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">I kid
you not, 2 hours of cycling which is a blast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Afternoons,
a blend of writing and email<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Then,
with my dog to feed the swans.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Intersperse
with friends, household biz, new books to read and night is for the <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">DVD's<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Breaking
Bad<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Game of
Thrones<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Walking
Dead<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Review
what I've written, usually I go<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Jesus
wept..................................what was I thinking<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<b><i><span style="color: #222222;">Breaking
Bad, the perfect choice: a man who has
lost his soul. . . and what’s for breakfast?<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> </span></span><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Breaking
Bad............. just superb. I'm reading Life Of Pi and
the biography of David Foster Wallace.</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Breakfast is always,
Greek yoghurt, with honey and a banana crunched in. A pot of Colombian,
that's coffee I mean.</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Truth to tell, I yearn
for the cholesterol nightmare</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Three rashers</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">2 eggs over easy</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Mushrooms</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Toast with Irish butter</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">2 Dietrich sausages</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">and you have to have tea
with that to get the full lethal taste</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 8.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 8.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<b><i><span style="color: #222222;">What’s
due to be released next and what are you working on?<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I'm working on the final <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Taylor</st1:place></st1:city></span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">And a TV series</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">And a new standalone</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Jack Taylor</span></b><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">The Guards</span></i><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">(2001) <span class="apple-converted-space"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">The Killing of
the Tinkers</span></i><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">(2002) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">The Magdalen
Martyrs</span></i><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">(2003)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">The Dramatist</span></i><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">(2004<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Priest</span></i><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">(2006)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Cross</span></i><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">(2007)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Sanctuary</span></i><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">(2008)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">The Devil</span></i><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">(2010)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Headstone</span></i><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">(2011)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<strong><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">Ken Bruen</span></strong><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">[b.1951] is one of the most prominent Irish crime
writers of the last two decades. Born in <st1:place w:st="on">Galway</st1:place>,
he spent twenty-five years traveling the world before he began writing in the
mid 1990s. As an English teacher, Bruen worked in <st1:country-region w:st="on">South
Africa</st1:country-region>, <st1:country-region w:st="on">Japan</st1:country-region>,
and <st1:place w:st="on">South America</st1:place>, where he once spent a short
time in a Brazilian jail. He has two long-running series: one starring a
disgraced former policeman named Jack Taylor, the other a <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city> police detective named Inspector
Brant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">Praised for their sharp insight into the darker side
of today’s prosperous <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region></st1:place>,
Bruen’s novels are marked by grim atmosphere and clipped prose. Among the best
known are his<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><em>White Trilogy</em><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>(1998-2000) and<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><em>The Guards</em><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>(2001), the Shamus award-winning first
novel in the Jack Taylor series. Along with his wife and daughter, Bruen
continues to live and work in <st1:place w:st="on">Galway</st1:place>. You can
find his website<span class="apple-converted-space"> at </span><a href="http://www.kenbruen.com/">http://www.kenbruen.com/</a> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">Author Photograph © Reg Gordon Photos<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
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<b><i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 10pt;">MaryAnne Kolton’s</span></i></b><i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 10pt;"> fiction has appeared or
is forthcoming in numerous literary publications including the Lost Children
Charity Anthology, Thrice Fiction and Connotation Press among others. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Her story “A Perfect Family House” was
shortlisted for The 2011 Glass Woman Prize. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 10pt;">Author Interviews have appeared most recently in the Herald de <st1:city w:st="on">Paris</st1:city>, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Los
Angeles</st1:city></st1:place> Review of Books, Her Circle Zine, The
Literarian/City Center and January
Magazine.</span></i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"> <i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">MaryAnne’s
public email is <a href="mailto:maryannekolton@gmail.com">maryannekolton@gmail.com</a>.</span></i> <i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">She
can also be found on Facebook and Twitter.<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">© MaryAnne Kolton<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-54205404539993480592012-09-12T14:49:00.001-04:002012-09-12T14:49:50.333-04:00PASSIONATE ABOUT LIFE, WRITING AND OPEN WATER: AN INTERVIEW WITH MATT BONDURANT Thanks once again to Linda Richards at <a href="http://www.januarymagazine.com/profiles/bondurant.html">January Magazine</a> for publishing this interview.<br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Matt Bondurant is passionate about life, writing and open water. His second novel follows the hugely successful <i>The Wettest County In the World</i>, now a riveting film called <i>Lawless</i>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">His new novel,<i> The Night Swimmer</i>, is a richly textured journey of a young couple, Fred and Elly. This powerful tale of melancholy, goats and the dark waves off the southern coast of Ireland, caught me up and held me in its net until the very last page. </span></div>
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Matt Bondurant was born and raised in Alexandria, Virginia. He received his B.A. and M.A. in English from James Madison University, then went on to earn a PhD in English Creative Writing from Florida State University. Bondurant is the author of three novels, <i>The Third Translation</i> (Hyperion 2005),<i>The Wettest County in the World</i> (Scribner 2008), and <i>The Night Swimmer</i> (Scribner 2012), as well as numerous published stories, poems, essays and reviews. The film, <i>Lawless,</i> was made from Bondurant’s second novel, <i>The Wettest Country in the World</i>. <i>Lawless</i> was directed by John Hillcoat (<i>The Road</i>) and stars Shia Labeouf, Tom Hardy, Jessica Chastain, Mia Wasikowska, Gary Oldman and Guy Pearce and is currently in release.<br />
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<b>MaryAnne Kolton: Was there anything specific in your childhood that encouraged you to be a writer? Tell us a bit about your life before you became Doctor Bondurant?</b><br />
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<b>Matt Bondurant: </b>I developed a serious reading habit at a very young age, mostly due to my mother’s relationship with books. We went to the library every week, each time taking home an armload of books, more than we could possibly read. I still have yet to encounter a book written before about 1950 that my mother hasn’t read.<br />
My parents also ran an antique stall on the weekends, and in those days [1970s] you could just leave your eight-year-old kid at a used bookstall for the entire afternoon. From grades four to my senior year in high school I spent most of my time in school trying to conceal a book under my desk. I would bring several so I had spares when they were confiscated. I developed the essential habits of quiet isolation, becoming very comfortable with spending whole days alone. I was an ostensibly normal child for the most part, playing sports, friends, and the rest of it. I just read a lot of books.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />I also think some time in my early teens I developed a strong case of unearned self-importance. I wanted to be someone of note, someone who knew things. I dreamed of being a serious intellectual, an impressive figure to whom others deferred. I did things like read <i>Moby Dick</i> when I was 12 years-old. Essentially I was a pretentious twat, a Holden Caulfield-type (though mostly internalized) in the suburbs of Washington DC. I read the classics at an age when I wasn’t prepared for them, not in the slightest, and yet while I understood very little I felt as if I was doing something of importance.<br /><br />I cannot overestimate the role of a single book from my childhood: <i>The Children’s Anthology of Folktales, Myths, and Legends</i>. I read this book nearly every night for a decade, tales of Odin and Loki, Robin Hood, Jack the Giant Killer, I read them all over and over again. I think it affected the way that I understand story and the elemental aspects of storytelling. There are only after all a handful of stories, and the great legends and myths are the best archetypes of narrative, distilled over the centuries. <br /><br />But throughout all of this time I was not a writer. I was a reader. I still don’t consider myself a writer. John Updike is a writer. <a href="file:///Web%20Sites/januarymagazine/profiles/atwood.html">Margaret Atwood</a> is a writer. Pynchon, McCarthy, DeLillo, those are writers. I’m just a dude who has written a few things. I <i>try</i> to write. I hold the title “writer” in high esteem, and I do not think it should be used so lightly.<br /><br />But there was a kind of moment when I began to contemplate the possibility of being a writer. Or, at least someone who tries to write fiction. Because in college I thought I was a poet. Oh yes, <i>a poet</i>. I was the guy who lured girls up to his room in the frat house to read them poems I had written, Morrissey wailing in the background, a few candles flickering. I would sleep in the woods at night, drunk out of my mind, clutching a copy of <i>Leaves of Grass</i>. I memorized some Byron, hoping for that opportunity that never came. I watched firelight, sunrises, and small birds with a serious turn of mind.<br /><br />Of course it was all horrible, and after messing around a few years after college I was rejected by every MFA program I applied to so I went back to school for my M.A. in literature. This was the best thing that ever happened to me because in graduate school I re-read all those important books and actually got something from them. And I met some serious, intelligent people who knew a lot more about books than me, and this time I actually paid attention. That set me on the right path, and I continued on with the PhD because I wasn’t done reading. I’m still not.<br />
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<b>Ah, <i>The Children’s Anthology of Folktales, Myths, and Legends</i>. Now I see where the scrim of magical realism comes from in <i>The Night Swimmer</i>. Blind goat herders, the strange vision on the hill and Sebastian. Next, perhaps you might try to explain what compels people like you and your character, Elly, to throw yourselves into icy cold, open water and swim until your limbs are numb and painful...</b><br />
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One of the things that got me started on this book was that very question. Through my research on open water swimming and swimmers I have some theories, but let’s be clear: I’m not <i>compelled</i> to throw myself into icy cold water and to swim until I’m hypothermic. I have a very strong urge to jump in nearly any body of water I find, and I often will, but while I’m not particularly averse to cold water I probably have only a slightly better than average capacity for it. This June I’m participating in an English Channel swim training camp for <i>Outside Magazine</i> and believe me, the thought of getting in the North Atlantic at six am, water temp about 58 degrees, does not fill me with joy. It seems really unpleasant, and it likely will be. I am plan on suffering through it as much as I can in order to do the article. Races like Alcatraz and other open water swims I’ve done are fun because I like a challenge and I like to compete, especially if it is all over in less than two to three hours. I can do nearly anything for about two hours I’ve learned. That is about my psychological limit, though I’m not sure if it is the physical pain or mental exhaustion that shuts things down at this point. It’s not like I’m <i>not</i> afraid of sharks and other marine denizens, either.<br /><br />Elly, like a lot of real open water swimmers and English Channel swimmers, actually enjoys the whole thing, the cold, the deep water, the pain and suffering, all of it. She feels completely at home, safe, content, free, more than she does on land. Some people are really like this. If you read any of Lynn Cox’s books [the greatest female long distance swimmer ever] they are these ecstatic hymns to the beauty of swimming in the ocean and the great joy that it brings to her. It isn’t <i>like</i> a religious experience -- it <i>is</i> a religious experience. And this is when she’s swimming in 40-degree water for six hours across a lake or Norway or something. It is just something that we mortals will never understand. There are physical aspects, like body-fat ratios, chemical compositions, nerve arrangement and sensitivity, but I think that most of it is mental. I spent three years on this question and I cannot answer it.<br /><br />I’ve met people like Elly and Lynn and tried to talk to them about it but of course they have a very hard time explaining what it is that drives them. All of my books have begun this way: an exploration of some aspect of a startling, often esoteric human capacity. In my first book I wanted to know how an expert in cryptographic hieroglyphic translations could pore over a piece and sort the symbols in his mind all day, and what made them fall into line and mean something. With the second I wanted to know what an 18 year-old man (my grandfather) in 1930 Franklin County, Virginia wanted out of life, how he wooed a girl, and how he could end up getting shot with a carload of moonshine one snowy afternoon in December.<br /><br />The poet David Kirby said: “Only charlatans and shallow begin with perfect knowledge of what it is they want to say. An honest writer begins in ignorance and writes toward the truth.”<br />
I don’t know anything about people or this world.<br />
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<b>I'm thinking the fact that Elly is married to Fred might provide a portion of the motivation for her love of deep-water swimming. A way to escape his melancholy. Your description of long distance swimming as a self-motivating sport -- almost a religious experience -- puts a whole different spin on the activity. Makes it a lot more understandable.</b><br />
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<b>The reference to the poet David Kirby reminded me of your memorable, deftly lyrical, descriptions of Ireland, the tiny village of Baltimore, and Cape Clear. <i>The Night Swimmer </i>is full of richly textured portraits of place and people. It would appear you have spent a great deal of time there. Were you in Ireland to swim, to do research for the book, or have you always had a passion for the southern coast of the Emerald Isle?</b><br />
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In the fall of 1999 I was a graduate student living in the West End of London, teaching Shakespeare to a group of sullen American undergraduates. I was in a sixth floor walk-up flat that I shared with five other guys, just a couple blocks from the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street, one of the busiest intersections in the world. <br />
London is my favorite city, ever, but it is also extremely crowded, filthy, noisy, and expensive, and so after a couple months I was determined to find the quietest, most remote corner of Europe I could find. <br />
I started heading west, to Wales, then Ireland seemed a likely candidate, so I crossed at Swansea, took a train west to Cork and just kept going. <br />
When the bus line ended I hitchhiked to Baltimore, a coastal town I’d heard about from some locals, and then I learned of a couple islands offshore to the west, even further away from humanity, so I caught a ferry to Cape Clear, the last hunk of rock in Europe before the Atlantic takes over. I ended up staying the whole week, most of that time spent with a blind goatherd on his farm, tending the animals, tramping the fields, climbing around the rocky coastline, checking out Bronze Age burial sites. I learned a lot about the island, and how to milk, feed, and breed British Alpine goats, which might come in handy someday.<br />
It was also clearly a place full of story possibilities, and characters abounded. Like much of Ireland, it is a richly textured land, and I wanted to write about it. <br />
I came back twice in the next couple years, and by this point I was setting up the basic elements of the book, mostly just in my head. Then when work on <i>The Wettest County in the World</i> wrapped up in 2007 I came back again for a week, and then a last time in 2009 with my wife. By this time I certainly had a passion for the southern coast of Ireland and Cork County, but at first I was merely trying to find some quiet grassy spot to watch the sea.<br />
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<b>You mentioned <a href="http://www.januarymagazine.com/profiles/http.doc"><i>The Wettest County in the World</i></a>. The film version, <i>Lawless</i>, is out, getting rave reviews, and is full to overflowing with heavy hitting stars. Did your participation in the production whet your appetite for screen writing? </b><br />
Not particularly. Reading the screenplays that Nick Cave produced actually made me very aware of how ruthlessly you have to cut down a novel to make it fit the format, and how often you have to reach for exaggerated displays of narrative information and character building. Everything is simplified and amplified, and I think that would be a hard thing to do to a story that you had any personal investment in. I like a new challenge and I'll try anything once, but I'm also sure that I will always have the novel form at the center of my creative efforts.<br />
<b>Getting back to <i>The Night Swimmer</i>, what are your thoughts on the comparisons made to John Cheever's <i>The Swimmer</i>?</b><br />
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Well, since my narrator is basically obsessed with John Cheever, and since she is a devoted swimmer who holds many things in common with Neddy Merrill, and because the novel is littered with quotes from John Cheever's journals, and there are obviously scenes, expressions, lines, etc., that are certainly inspired by that story, and because I as a writer try to emulate Cheever's prose style (unsuccessfully), modes of description, themes, and just about anything else the guy ever created on the page, then I would say I clearly welcome such comparisons. As a writer I'm not fit to rinse Cheever's highball glass, but he is the great starry image I look up to with longing. The book is in many ways an homage to Cheever, my favorite American prose stylist.<br />
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<b>The <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CpA0g0UG9CU"><span style="color: blue;">trailer for the movie <i>Lawless</i></span> is stunning.</a> You must be very proud. Cannes Film Festival and the Weinstein’s, no less.</b><br />
<b> </b><i> </i><br />
Yep. And I certainly am proud. It is a very odd thing to experience. | <i>September 2012</i><i></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>MaryAnne Kolton</b>’s fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous literary publications including the </span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Lost Children Charity Anthology, Thrice Fiction, Lost In Thought Literary Magazine, Anatomy, Her Circle</span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> and Connotation Press among others. Her story “A Perfect Family House” was shortlisted for The 2011 Glass Woman Prize. </span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Her work has appeared most recently in Her Circle, The Literarian/City Center, January Magazine and The Los Angeles Review of Books. </i></span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">MaryAnne’s public email is<a href="https://mail.google.com/mail/?view=cm&fs=1&tf=1&to=maryannekolton@gmail.com" target="_blank">maryannekolton@gmail.com</a>. She can also be found on Facebook and Twitter.</span></i><br />
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MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-6074287171713633422012-09-01T15:29:00.000-04:002012-09-01T15:29:08.680-04:00A True Independent Spirit Known for Her Generosity, Best Selling Novels, and Collection of Cowboy Boots: An Interview with Caroline LeavittThanks, once again to Melissa at<a href="http://www.hercircleezine.com/2012/09/01/a-true-in-dependant-spirit-known-for-her-generosity-best-selling-novels-and-collection-of-cowboy-boots-an-interview-with-caroline-leavitt/"> HerCircle Zine</a>.<br />
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<span class="date published time" title="2012-09-01T00:00:54+00:00">September 1, 2012</span> | By <span class="author vcard"><span class="fn"><a class="fn n" href="http://www.hercircleezine.com/author/mkolton/" rel="author" style="color: #964904; text-decoration: none;" title="MaryAnne Kolton">MaryAnne Kolton</a></span></span> | <span class="post-comments" style="background-image: url(http://www.hercircleezine.com/wp-content/themes/elle/images/icon-dot.png); background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; margin: 0px 0px 0px 3px; padding: 0px 0px 2px 10px;"><a href="http://www.hercircleezine.com/2012/09/01/a-true-in-dependant-spirit-known-for-her-generosity-best-selling-novels-and-collection-of-cowboy-boots-an-interview-with-caroline-leavitt/#comments" style="color: #964904; text-decoration: none;">Leave a Comment</a></span> <span class="categories">Filed Under:<a href="http://www.hercircleezine.com/category/up-close-interview/" rel="category tag" style="color: #964904; text-decoration: none;" title="View all posts in UpClose Interview">UpClose Interview</a></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.hercircleezine.com/2012/08/25/a-true-in-dependant-spirit-known-for-her-generosity-best-selling-novels-and-collection-of-cowboy-boots-an-interview-with-caroline-leavitt/120901_caroline_leavitt/" rel="attachment wp-att-21504" style="color: #964904; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="" class="alignleft size-medium wp-image-21504" height="300" src="http://www.hercircleezine.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/120901_Caroline_Leavitt-214x300.jpg" style="border: none; display: inline; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; max-width: none;" title="120901_Caroline_Leavitt" width="214" /></a></div>
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She wears so many hats: novelist, essayist, interviewer, book reviewer, as well as being an award-winning senior instructor at UCLA Writers Program online. And that’s just a partial list of her talents. Although admittedly obsessive and compulsive to a degree, I found her relaxed, open and a joy to interview.<div style="font-size: 12px; padding: 0px 0px 15px;">
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<strong>MaryAnne Kolton: Will you share some information about your childhood? Favorite books, family life and who first encouraged you to read?</strong></div>
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Caroline Leavitt: I grew up in a working class suburb of Boston, Waltham, where it was uncool to be Jewish, smart and sickly, and I was all three. I had terrible asthma as a child and while the other kids were out playing, I was in the school library reading and dreaming up stories. I was bullied a great deal, but reading was an escape for me. I used to beg the librarians to find me books about kids with asthma, and while they couldn’t, they did give me <em>Mrs. Mike</em>, a wonderful book about pleurisy, and lots of 18th century novels about TB! My parents both encouraged me to read and I still remember when my mother had a show-down with the local librarian who refused to let me take books from the “adult section.” My mother marched in and told her that I could read whatever I wanted, even <em>Lady Chatterley’s Lover</em>, and that the librarian was not to shoo me out of the adult room any longer!</div>
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Both my sister and I read for hours and we also wrote books together. We always had the same story, about a young girl like us, who was orphaned but had millions of dollars so she could run around the world having adventures. We illustrated the books, too. I have to say that reading and writing saved my life. I wasn’t that little girl with asthma anymore when I was lost in a story. I could be anything and anyone.</div>
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<strong>MAK: I’ve read that your home life was also fraught with brutality and intermittent abandonment. How do you see this less-than-ideal childhood affecting your work?</strong></div>
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CL: What an excellent question. I’m really glad you asked that. Well, in my work, I try to both understand and rewrite the story of my life. I’ve written some terrible mothers—but I’ve tried to make them sympathetic or at least understandable. In putting these characters into print, I reduce their power over me in a way. I often have felt that if I couldn’t write, I would have gone insane because there was just too much pain growing up. When I wrote Sam in <em>Pictures of You</em>, a little boy with asthma, it was incredibly healing for me because in giving this little boy so much compassion, I got to heal my own shame and fear about growing up sickly. And of course, raising a child—giving him the exact opposite childhood I had—has been the most healing of all. It’s like getting a second chance to do it right, to break the cycle, to give my son everything I so desperately wanted for myself. I get to see the results, too: a happy, well-adjusted, confidant, talented boy!</div>
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<strong>MAK: Since you mention it, your most recent novel, <em>Pictures Of You</em>, led to what sounds like an idyllic relationship with <a href="http://www.workman.com/algonquin/" style="color: #964904; text-decoration: none;">Algonquin Books</a>. Would you care to tell us how much and why you adore them so?</strong></div>
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CL: I tell everyone I am the poster girl of second chances. I’ve had four publishers go out of business just as my novel was about to come out. (The novel died). The last two publishers I had were big huge ones that gave me two and three book deals, and they did no promotion or publicity, never returned my calls or emails, and one editor even handed me over to her 21-year-old assistant. (I was lucky. She was a great editor.) When I turned in<em>Pictures of You</em> to my then publisher, they declined it, saying, “It’s just not special. We don’t get it.” I knew my career was over. I had 9 novels out there, and though they all (except for one!) got fantastic reviews, my sales were so poor, I could probably buy a week’s worth of groceries with what I made. No one really knew who I was, so who would publish me?</div>
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I cried to my writer friends. One of them was at Algonquin and she said, “Want me to ask my editor?” She did, the editor liked the idea of the book and wanted to read it, and three weeks later, I had a sale. Algonquin did amazing things that no other publisher did for me. They invited me to come in and meet all of them. They told me they were going to change my career. And they did. They got that novel into 4 printings 6 months before publication. They turned it into a <em>NYT</em> bestseller, and they are STILL promoting it nearly two years later, which is unheard of in an industry that usually gives writers three months. At a party, one of the marketing people told me, “You know how we are different? Other publishers look at sales figures and say, ‘Hmmm, this author isn’t’ doing so hot. We should drop her/him.’ But we look at it, and say, ‘Hmmm, this author isn’t doing so hot. What can we do to promote this book better?’”</div>
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I call them gods and goddesses. They are all so warm, so respectful of their writers, and my editor, Andra Miller, is brilliant. Plus, I know and love a lot of the Algonquin writers. Many were like me—rejected by their publishers, or unhappy with their publishers—and then suddenly, their lives changed. I adore all of them. Anything they want me to do, I do, because every decision they’ve made has been golden. When they first decided to make <em>POY</em> a quality paperback, I was panicked. I said, “But it won’t get the reviews,” and they said, yes it will. That paperback got more and bigger reviews than any hardback of mine, including from places like <em>Newsweek</em>; <em>Vanity Fair</em>; <em>Elle</em>; <em>O, the Oprah Magazine</em> and so much more. I went from having no sales to being a <em>NYT</em> bestseller. Amazing. Totally amazing.</div>
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<strong>MAK: “…as they got closer, she saw all these bright bolts of color… ‘What the fuck?’ Luke said… “They’re my clothes.’…her favorite blue dress, her winter coat, and all her junk jewelry sparkling among the dandelions… the yard was a Jackson Pollack of clothes. Then the door banged open, and there was Nora… Her arms were full of clothes and she stared hard at Isabelle and Luke, then opened her arms so the clothes tumbled out onto the front steps… ‘You don’t follow my rules, you don’t live under my roof.’ Nora shouted.”</strong></div>
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<strong>In this bit from <em>Pictures Of You</em> we hear from one of the “terrible mothers” you mentioned before. There is often a fair amount of tension in most of your novels. When you are writing these scenes are you as angst-filled as the objects of the abusive characters appear to be?</strong></div>
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CL: I am. To me, the most terrible and terrifying thing is to be cast out by your mother, the one person who is supposed to love you unconditionally. The whole “You don’t follow my rules, you don’t live under my roof” argument is one that robs you of your own individuality. It’s as if Nora wants to live through Isabelle, and if she can’t, then she rejects her. Certainly, I felt terrible writing this scene, but there’s also the desire to have others see it, to have them understand that there is sometimes a heavy price to pay when you are determined to shape your own life. I should say that I love my mother and she loves me and she never threw me out of the house! But we did have huge arguments about how I was going to live my life, and my mother was deeply upset when I did not follow the path she wanted for me, and I did feel rejected sometimes because of that. I used to tell people some of the things that happened to me growing up, and no one believed it, but when I write about it, or about the feelings I had, somehow they do.</div>
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<strong>MAK: In your novels, most of the characters have a sense of being many-layered. How do you keep the layers from overlapping and have you ever wanted to delve more deeply into the psyche of a character than you allowed yourself to do?</strong></div>
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CL: Another great question. I do a whole lot of work on my characters as I am writing, pages and pages that never enter the novel. I have letters the characters write to me or to each other, I have stories of their whole childhood—and sometimes only a line is used—arguments and conversations they have. I was about to say, no I’ve never wanted to delve deeper because I know the characters so well, but then I remembered, in <em>Pictures of You</em>, there is a moment, when April stands in front of the car as if she knows it’s coming for her, and for the first time in my whole writing life, I really didn’t know what was going on in her head. I felt she was alive. I knew everything about her and even though she isn’t a particularly likable character, I felt great sympathy for her. I knew she was alive and breathing on the page, but she was so confused inside that it was disturbing to me—almost as if there was a “danger ahead” sign stopping me from going further.</div>
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<strong>MAK: You have talked at length about your attempt to adopt a second child, which in turn gave birth to your stunning novel, <em>Girls In Trouble</em>. Do you ever find yourself “over-mothering” your son, Max, because of the circumstances surrounding his birth and the knowledge that he will likely be your only child?</strong></div>
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CL: I worked really hard to give my son the kind of childhood that I wished I had had for myself. I wanted him to feel respected, lavished with love, but because I had grown up with a mother who smothered me a bit, I wanted to give him independence, too. I wanted him to be able to make his own decisions about a lot of things. Of course it was hard for me! I adore my son and I always wanted to spend all my time with him, but I made sure to keep those feelings to myself. It’s hard now that he’s 16. He has his own life. He’s going to be going to college, and though part of me thinks, “Go to school in NYC! Live ten minutes away! When you marry you can live next door!” I know that isn’t a healthy way for me to be. So I tell him to go out there and experience the world, the way I did. To have adventures. And to know that I and his father will be here supporting him. </div>
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As far as not having another child, it’s funny but Max was adamant about NOT wanting a sibling. We could have tried to adopt again internationally (we had tried domestically), but every time we brought it up to Max, he was really unhappy about it. And then, as two writers, we thought, well, could we afford two children? It began to feel like the right decision to have just one. The right one.</div>
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<strong>MAK: Some authors need complete silence in which to write. Others listen to music. Still others find the clamor of family and pets thought-inducing. What about you?</strong></div>
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CL: I work best in my office that is right across from my husband Jeff’s office. I can look out my door and see him working! I love to blast music, but often the same song over and over and over, and it doesn’t even have to be good music or music I like. I’ve been known to write whole chapters on the Carpenters. (Yes, I admit it.) For 20 years, I had a tortoise sharing my office and I found the clicking of his jaws to be really comforting.</div>
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<strong>MAK: I can envision hundreds of would-be authors running out to buy tortoises as we speak… or not. Okay. It’s time to talk about the boots… go for it!</strong></div>
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CL: When I first signed with Algonquin, they gave me something no other publisher gave me—a tour! To 30-some cities. I was anxious that I do well, and I had some speaking engagements in front of 500 people, and I knew I needed a talisman, something that I could put on like a superman cape that would make me feel confidant and strong and cool. Plus, my wardrobe is all New York black. So I began to look on eBay and I saw this pair of red cowboy boots. They were only $14 so I got them. As soon as I put them on, I felt different. I felt kick-ass strong and interesting. The first day I wore them out, two people stopped me in the street to ask about them. When I put them on for tour, I became the kind of woman who wore red cowboy boots. My nerves vanished. And the more I wore them, the more, suddenly, I became known for wearing them—so much so that I began to call my tour the Red Cowboy Boots tour. When I was interviewed by Anne Lamott in California, and filmed, the one thing people wanted to know about was my red boots! Since then, I bought up three other pairs on eBay, and I splurged and got a pair of green Old Gringo boots (these are the boots that feel like slippers—you’ve never worn a more comfortable boot) embroidered with flowers, but I’m waiting for my new tour to start to wear them! Oh, and I’m calling the new tour the Isadora Duncan Long Scarf and Old Gringo cowboy boots tour!</div>
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<strong>MAK: We know you have a new novel in the works and we know you have seen the potential cover. How about a title, a release date, a paragraph, a sentence?</strong></div>
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CL: Title is <em>IS IT TOMORROW</em>, which is the title of a very old jingoistic 1950s pamphlet about how tomorrow could bring about the horror of (gasp) COMMUNISM! I loved the title and wanted to use it. It will be out May 7, 2013 (things could change) and all I can say about it is that it’s set in the 1950s dream of suburbia, where a divorced Jewish mother and her son are somehow targeted when a boy (her son’s best friend) vanishes. It’s about being an outcast, about paranoia, about boys and their fathers, mothers and sons, and how people are not who you always think they are. I was really influenced by “The Killing”—a show I began to watch when <em>Pictures of You</em> was part of a book tie-in for the show. I was obsessed with the way that show kept leading you down roads where you thought you knew how things were going to turn out, and then suddenly, there was a reveal, and everything reversed. </div>
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<strong>MAK: Caroline, thanks so much for sharing the information about <em>Is It Tomorrow</em>, (sounds like a grand read—can’t wait) and for being so forthcoming and generous with your answers here.</strong></div>
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<a href="http://www.hercircleezine.com/2012/09/01/a-true-in-dependant-spirit-known-for-her-generosity-best-selling-novels-and-collection-of-cowboy-boots-an-interview-with-caroline-leavitt/120901_levitt_boots/" rel="attachment wp-att-21557" style="color: #964904; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="" class="alignleft size-medium wp-image-21557" height="225" src="http://www.hercircleezine.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/120901_Levitt_boots-300x225.jpg" style="border: none; display: inline; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; max-width: none;" title="120901_Levitt_boots" width="300" /></a><strong><a href="http://www.carolineleavitt.com/" style="color: #964904; text-decoration: none;">Caroline Leavitt</a></strong>is the author of nine novels: <em>Girls In Trouble, Coming Back To Me, Living Other Lives, Into Thin Air, Family, Jealousies, Lifelines</em> and<em>Meeting Rozzy Halfway</em>. Various titles were optioned for film, translated into different languages, and condensed in magazines. Her new novel, <em>Pictures of You</em> went into three printings months before publication and is now in its fourth printing. A <em>New York Times</em> bestseller, it is also a Costco “Pennie’s Pick,” A <em>San Francisco Chronicle</em> Editor’s Choice “Lit Pick,” and it is one of the top 20 books published so far in 2011, as named by BookPage.</div>
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Her essays, stories and articles have appeared in <em>Salon, Psychology Today, New York Magazine, Parenting, The Chicago Tribune, Parents, Redbook, The Washington Post, The Boston Globe</em> and numerous anthologies.</div>
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She won First Prize in <em>Redbook Magazine</em>‘s Young Writers Contest for her short story, “Meeting Rozzy Halfway,” which grew into the novel. The recipient of a 1990 New York Foundation of the Arts Award for Fiction for <em>Into Thin Air</em>, a 2003 Nickelodeon Screenwriting Fellow Finalist, and a semi finalist in the Fade In/Writer’s Net Screenplay competition, she was also a National Magazine Award nominee for personal essay.</div>
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Caroline has been a judge in both the Writers’ Voice Fiction Awards in New York City and the Midatlantic Arts Grants in Fiction. She is an award-winning senior instructor at UCLA Writers Program online, where she teaches “Writing The Novel” online, and she also mentors privately. A book critic for <em>The Boston Globe </em>and <em>People</em>, she won a 2005 honorable mention, Goldenberg Prize for Fiction from the <em>Bellevue Literary Review</em>, for “Breathe,” a portion of<em>Pictures of You</em>. Caroline has appeared on “The Today Show”, “The Diane Rehm Show”, German and Canadian TV, and she has been featured on “The View From The Bay”.</div>
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Caroline Leavitt lives in Hoboken, New Jersey, New York City’s unofficial sixth borough, with her husband, the writer Jeff Tamarkin, and their teenage son Max.</div>
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<span class="categories">Filed Under: <a href="http://www.hercircleezine.com/category/up-close-interview/" rel="category tag" style="color: #964904; text-decoration: none;" title="View all posts in UpClose Interview">UpClose Interview</a></span> <span class="tags" style="background-image: url(http://www.hercircleezine.com/wp-content/themes/elle/images/icon-dot.png); background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; margin: 0px 0px 0px 3px; padding: 0px 0px 2px 10px;">Tagged With: <a href="http://www.hercircleezine.com/tag/caroline-leavitt/" rel="tag" style="color: #964904; text-decoration: none;">Caroline Leavitt</a>, <a href="http://www.hercircleezine.com/tag/maryanne-kolton/" rel="tag" style="color: #964904; text-decoration: none;">MaryAnne Kolton</a>, <a href="http://www.hercircleezine.com/tag/pictures-of-you/" rel="tag" style="color: #964904; text-decoration: none;">Pictures of You</a>, <a href="http://www.hercircleezine.com/tag/upclose/" rel="tag" style="color: #964904; text-decoration: none;">UpClose</a>, <a href="http://www.hercircleezine.com/tag/writer-interview/" rel="tag" style="color: #964904; text-decoration: none;">writer interview</a></span></div>
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<img alt="" class=" avatar avatar-70 photo user-56-avatar" height="70" src="http://www.hercircleezine.com/wp-content/plugins/user-avatar/user-avatar-pic.php?src=http://www.hercircleezine.com/wp-content/uploads/avatars/56/1329924960-bpfull.jpg&w=70&id=56&random=1329924960" style="background-color: #f6f6f6; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border: 1px solid rgb(229, 229, 229); float: left; margin: 0px 10px 0px 0px; max-width: 100%; padding: 3px;" width="70" /><strong>About MaryAnne Kolton</strong><br /><div style="font-size: 12px; padding: 0px;">
MaryAnne Kolton’s fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous literary publications including the <em>Lost Children Charity Anthology</em>, <em>The Toucan Magazine</em>, <em>Lost In Thought Literary Magazine</em>, <em>Anatomy</em>, Her Circle Ezine, and Connotation Press among others. Her story “A Perfect Family House” was shortlisted for The 2011 Glass Woman Prize.</div>
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Author Interviews with Leah Hager Cohen, Siobhan Fallon, Charles Baxter, Alice Hoffman, Dan Chaon, Tupelo Hassman, Carol Anshaw, Lyndsay Faye, Kathryn Harrison and Charlotte Rogan have appeared most recently in <em>The Los Angeles Review of Books</em>, Her Circle Ezine, The Literarian/City Center and <em>January Magazine</em>. MaryAnne’s public email is maryannekolton@gmail.com. She can also be found on Facebook and Twitter and at her blog site <a href="http://www.maryannekolton.blogspot.com/" style="color: #964904; text-decoration: none;">maryannekolton.blogspot.com</a>.</div>
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MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-52212410788515403712012-08-22T19:05:00.000-04:002012-08-22T19:05:02.539-04:00A HISTORY ENTHUSIAST WITH UNCANNY ATTENTION TO DETAILS, AND SUPERB RESEARCH AND WRITING SKILLS: AN INTERVIEW WITH LINDSAY FAYEThank you, once again, to Dawn Raffel at the The Literarian - Center For Fiction for her fine presentation of my work! <a href="http://www.centerforfiction.org/forwriters/writers-on-writing/lyndsay-faye-interviewed-by-maryanne-kolton/">http://www.centerforfiction.org/forwriters/writers-on-writing/lyndsay-faye-interviewed-by-maryanne-kolton/</a><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: small;">Lyndsay Faye</span></b></div>
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<em>The historical novelist (and Center for Fiction <a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780399158377/lyndsay-faye/gods-gotham" style="color: #8b070d; text-decoration: none;">reading group</a> leader) talks with<strong>MaryAnne Kolton </strong>about playing dress-up, discovering "vivid particulars," and deciding what to cut</em></div>
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<i>Following her remarkable debut<b>,</b></i><b><i> </i></b><a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9781416583318" style="color: #8b070d; text-decoration: none;">Dust and Shadow: An Account of the Ripper Killings by Dr. John H. Watson</a>, <i>Lyndsay Faye entices us to enter the roiling streets of New York City in </i><a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780399158377/lyndsay-faye/gods-gotham" style="color: #8b070d; text-decoration: none;">The Gods of Gotham</a><i>. The year is 1845. Two seemingly unrelated events, the Irish potato famine and the creation of the “copper stars” are the basis for a riveting tale of desolation, crime, politics, and intrigue. </i><i> <b> </b></i></div>
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<strong>I find that most people like to know something about the early background of the authors they read. With that in mind, will you tell me what books you read as a child? Did anyone specifically encourage you to read? What was your family life like?</strong></div>
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I grew up with books. My mom read to me and my little brother continually, and my dad did too. I always adored stories, so a time without books doesn't really exist in my recollection. I'm very grateful to both my parents for that, for having a house where it was no question you loved reading. And I learned to read for myself quite early, I think. All the usual classics --<i>The Secret Garden, The Mouse and the Motorcycle, Peter Pan, Ferdinand the Bull</i>. We loved the Narnia books, my brother and I. I'd an early mind to be a playwright/director, so I outfitted my brother in a pair of khakis, paper cloven hooves, and some kind of horn headband, and then glued cotton balls all over his chest with Elmer's. He made a fabulous Mr. Tumnus.<br /><br />When I started reading for myself, I was voracious about it. <i>The Lord of the Rings</i> series was a huge favorite. I pored over them. Something about the bravery and self-sacrifice enthralled me to the point that I read the entire thing aloud to my little brother (with a few canny deletions of endless descriptions of forests). At about age ten, I discovered the Sherlock Holmes mysteries, and I've been obsessed with those ever since. It turned out that hero stories are my mojo.<br /><br />We grew up in the Pacific Northwest, so we pretty much had free rein of the neighborhood. My parents were always careful, but the town was safe, so we put pennies on railroad tracks to flatten them and sailed Lego men through dyke tunnels and fostered families of mice we found in the meadow. If we weren't reading tales of adventure, then we were out running amok imagining our own.</div>
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<strong>Finally! A writer with an idyllic childhood. Costume design, staging and directing at such a young age— someone must have been trying to tell you something. What made you leap from actress to historical novelist?</strong></div>
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That was a very strange leap of faith. I hadn't been auditioning much after my husband and I moved to New York--which seems counter-intuitive, but I suppose I was a bit overwhelmed by the system and the sheer talent and motivation involved in being halfway decent at surviving as a New York actor. And then, there are times when all an actor wants to do is to stop belting out high notes for skeptics and seize a little career autonomy. I'd picked up a Sherlock Holmes vs. Jack the Ripper novel on a whim, found the style engaging but the solution wildly improbable, and groused to myself that there didn't seem to be a pastiche that treated both Sherlockiana and Ripperology with respect simultaneously. I wanted to read that book. So when the restaurant where I was working got knocked down with bulldozers, I sat down and wrote it.<b></b></div>
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<strong>And you chose historical fiction. As I’m sure you are already aware, combining the first NYC “copper stars’ with the events in Ireland was brilliant. The research must have been riveting. How many months before you felt comfortable enough to begin writing?</strong></div>
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Every book I've written has involved about six months of research before I even start a Word document. I generally divide my time between the New York Historical Society and Bryant Park Research Library, and then order other books that I can't do without. That phase is very distinct and enjoyable for me. I get to learn amazing incidental things like the origins of tap dancing and the history of the word "okay." (The cultural intersection of blacks and Irish in the Five Points had a great deal to do with the development of tap; okay was a deliberate joke standing for "oll korrect.")</div>
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<strong>One thing that distinguishes <em>The Gods of Gotham</em> from other historical fiction is that the plot, historical connection, and characters are all so well layered and finely drawn that neither one overwhelms the other. How did you achieve that balance?</strong></div>
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Oh, thank you—-that's very kind. Well, ultimately, I think the novel is a completely character-driven engine, or at least I intended it to be so. The historical setting and events force the characters to make certain decisions of necessity, which in turn creates the plot. By which I mean all the characters contribute. They're in a maelstrom of their own making. And we're not talking about a mystery where the good guys are tracking DNA evidence and fibers and cell phone signals—-in truth, while I do love reading modern mysteries with nice juicy forensics and clever crime- solving, I'm far more interested in how people behave. And I don't have an advanced degree in criminal science. Any attempt I made at a tech-driven book would be woefully lacking. So I write about what makes people tick instead.<br /><br />I'm hugely gratified that the book seems layered. The technique is simply one of character relevance. Did the event affect my character Tim? Put it in. Is it peripheral history that fails to engage him emotionally? Skip it. Does it matter to him what this particular street looks like? Include it. Does he care when that building over there was constructed? No, so don't narrate that information. Timothy likes creating word pictures and he's a bit dazzled by his city (at the same time he's disgusted by it), but I try my best never to put words in his mouth that don't belong there. If I've somehow achieved balance by being (to my mind) massively unbalanced on the side of character, then hallelujah and pop the champagne.<i> </i></div>
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<strong>I also found your incredible attention to detail and the descriptive passages in this book so significant. I was so there! Not all writers are capable of achieving this level of involvement. Is this due to preparation or creative writing skills? Or are you just steeped in the aura of New York City past and present? For instance: </strong><strong><em>"Neighborhoods in New York change quicker than its weather. Spring Street…a mix of people in the usual everyday sense: blue-coated Americans with their collars over their lapels and their hats neatly brushed, laughing colored girls waking your eyes with canary yellow and shocking orange dresses, complacent ministers in brown wool and thin stockings. There are churches in Spring Street, eating houses smelling of pork chops with browned onions. It isn’t Broadway north of Bleecker, where the outrageously wealthy bon ton and their servants peer down their noses at one another, but it isn’t Ward Six either.”</em></strong></div>
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That's lovely of you to say. When I'm conducting research, I keep a long list of details that engage my senses. I have no formal training in creative writing, but it's what any good actor would do--inhabit the world. If I'm reading a book of historical fiction, I don't want to be told they stopped for a meal, I want to be told they stopped for fried herring wrapped in newspaper, because that's a concrete image, and a meal isn't. So when I encounter vivid particulars in my research, I record them as meticulously as I do historical facts. More meticulously, actually, because not every historical fact will be relevant, but every dress style or restaurant description <i>could </i>be relevant if I need a setting.<br /><br />Anyone can do this with practice, diligence, a dash of creativity, and a mild case of OCD, by the way. It's about finding primary sources. Diaries, satires, newspapers. The key is to be omnivorous. When I'm researching by reading a newspaper from 1845, I don't just write down the headlines. The headlines are often immaterial. I record the advertisements, the concert listings, the society gossip, the slang expressions, the ins and outs of everyday life. It isn't difficult, just time-consuming.</div>
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<strong>The layout of <em>The Gods of Gotham</em> was especially impressive. The endpaper maps and the slang dictionary were notable as well as functional. Were these part of your plan?</strong></div>
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Any author who goes so far as to plan her own layout and endpapers is destined for swift, painful lessons! But my editor, Amy Einhorn, is very generous, and all about historical clarity as well as the beauty of her hardcovers, and so we worked together on what would serve the material best. I couldn't be happier with how it looks. The book is gorgeous, and that's all due to the mapmaker and the interior designer and the cover designer. I was consulted on the map's street layout details and historical accuracy, and I wrote the slang dictionary. Otherwise, all credit goes to the artists.</div>
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<strong>You have said that the story of Elizabeth Rafferty and her infanticide is true. Did you consider other real crimes with which to test Timothy? And if so, how did this one win over the others?</strong></div>
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I just found the story of Eliza Rafferty so heartbreaking and compelling. She killed her child in what was almost certainly a very confused state of mind, whether due to malnutrition or postpartum depression or psychosis we of course can't determine any longer. But she had no safety net whatsoever, and many thousands of Irish people found themselves in the identical position when they arrived on our shores. The murder of Aidan Rafferty I chose specifically because it would serve as a springboard from which to create imagined crimes for Timothy to solve, because people reading about such a terrible tragedy immediately say, "Oh, <i>those </i>are the stakes. The stakes are that high." <i> </i></div>
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<strong>Have you been approached by anyone who wants to option the book for a movie? Even as I was reading it, I could see great visuals. And with your background, you must have thought about the possibility.</strong></div>
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I try not to think about movie options since they're such longshots for authors, but that would absolutely rock my world. I'd die of bliss.</div>
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<strong>I hear you are writing the sequel to <em>The Gods of Gotham</em> as we speak. Do you have a working title? When might we expect to see it in print?</strong></div>
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We're mucking about with the title at the moment, but it'll be out next spring. </div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Author Photo by Gabriel Lehner</span></div>
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<strong>Lyndsay Faye</strong> moved to Manhattan in 2005 to audition for work as a professional actress; she found her days more open when the powers that be elected to knock her day-job restaurant down with bulldozers. Her first novel, <em><a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9781416583318" style="color: #8b070d; text-decoration: none;">Dust and Shadow: an Account of the Ripper Killings by Dr. John H Watson</a></em><b>, </b>is a tribute to the aloof genius and his good-hearted friend whose exploits she has loved since childhood. Faye's love of her adopted city led her to research the origins of the New York City Police Department, the inception of which exactly coincided with the start of the Irish Potato Famine. Her second and third novels, <em><a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780399158377/lyndsay-faye/gods-gotham" style="color: #8b070d; text-decoration: none;">The Gods of Gotham</a></em> and its sequel, follow ex-bartender Timothy Wilde as he navigates the rapids of his violently turbulent city, his no less chaotic elder brother Valentine Wilde, and the perils of learning police work in a riotous and racially divided political landscape.</div>
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<a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780399158377/lyndsay-faye/gods-gotham" style="color: #8b070d; text-decoration: none;">This fall, Lyndsay Faye is leading a Center for Fiction reading group on Sherlock Holmes.</a> </div>
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<strong>MaryAnne Kolton</strong>’s fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous literary publications. Her public email is <a href="https://mail.google.com/mail/?view=cm&fs=1&tf=1&to=maryannekolton@gmail.com" style="color: #8b070d; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">maryannekolton@gmail.com</a>, and she can also be found on Facebook and Twitter.</div>
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MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-12149114456219532722012-08-07T17:10:00.000-04:002012-08-07T17:10:20.443-04:00A SUPERB WRITER INVESTED IN SPELLBINDING FICTION, ETHICS AND THE NATURAL WORLD: AN INTERVIEW WITH CHARLOTTE ROGANA big thank you to Linda Richards at January Magazine for her continued support!<div>
<a href="http://www.januarymagazine.com/profiles/rogan.html">http://www.januarymagazine.com/profiles/rogan.html</a>
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<b><i>The Lifeboat </i></b><i>(<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Reagan Arthur Books) </span>by Charlotte
Rogan kept me awake at night. The first
night to read straight through to the end… unthinkable to drift off to sleep
not knowing how the story plays out...The second night to read it again,
focusing on the philosophical and ethical conundrums. The harrowing tale of Grace and her fellow
travelers will call to you again and again. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222;">MaryAnne: Readers always crave more knowledge about the
personal side of the authors they read. Can you tell us what books you
read as a child? Who encouraged you to read and what was your home life
like?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><b><span lang="EN-GB">Charlotte</span></b></st1:place></st1:city><b><span lang="EN-GB">: </span></b><span lang="EN-GB">Story time was sacred when I was growing up. My family did not get our
first television set until long past the time I was able to read for myself,
and books represented the door to two magical kingdoms: the realm of the
imagination and the world of education and ideas. My family cared about both. Part
of the fun of visiting relatives was having an aunt or a grandmother read to
whatever assortment of children she found piled on the couch or gathered at her
feet. My grandmother, who was born in <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country>, loved Rudyard Kipling; my
mother, who was tough and adventurous, loved <i>Robin Hood</i> and <i>The Call of
the Wild</i>; my father could recite “Jabbberwocky” from <i>Through the Looking Glass</i> and “Concord Hymn” by Ralph Waldo
Emerson. I was excited by the stories, but I also loved the rhythm of the words
and the distinct voices and interpretations brought to the texts by different
readers.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The other
sacred thing in our lives was the outdoors. My parents were self-taught
naturalists, and it wasn’t unusual for me to open the freezer looking for ice
cream and find instead a dead fox or woodpecker that my mother had found
somewhere and planned to take to the nature center she and my father helped to
start. My siblings and I looked under rocks and examined samples of water from
the pond behind our house. We spent hours in whatever scrap of woods we could
find, acting out stories we had read about in books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Interestingly,
the imagination implied in reading and writing was roundly squashed by my
primary and secondary education. We read for detail; we wrote in a rigid format
to answer specific and not very interesting questions; we knew there were
correct answers to the questions, and I got very good at guessing right. On
going to college, I was astonished to find whole departments filled with people
who took creativity very seriously, but it took me until my mid-thirties to
return to literature in an attempt to finally learn how to write.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222;">MaryAnne: What
lovely, stimulating childhood experiences. So much better than television
-- maybe with the exception of the frozen animals in the freezer. . .</span><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222;">You wrote three unsatisfying novels plus<i> The</i> <i>Lifeboat</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>over a period of several years without
anyone knowing. Will you explain why you
wrote in secret for such a long time?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><b><span lang="EN-GB">Charlotte</span></b></st1:place></st1:city><b><span lang="EN-GB">:</span></b><span lang="EN-GB">
In the twenty-five years since I started writing, I have completed a
total of four novels besides <i>The Lifeboat</i>,
but I wouldn’t call them unsatisfying at all. While the first is probably the
typical practice novel and deserves to stay in its drawer and another is
perhaps too quiet to find a wide audience, I think the other two have real
possibilities. Time will tell whether I go back to them or not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I imagine
people vary greatly as to when they decide to declare themselves as writers,
but I </span><span lang="EN-GB">didn’t do it until I sold <i>The Lifeboat</i> to Little, Brown. For one thing, writing is a quiet
thing—I could either talk about it or I could do it. For another, I am not the
kind of person who needs a lot of interim feedback on my projects. As anyone
knows, there is a huge difference between a second-to-last draft and a last draft,
so showing unfinished drafts to people didn’t seem like a useful exercise to
me. Of course, once I had a professional agent and editor on board, I found
their input extremely valuable in taking my work to the next level of
completion. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">As for the
writing itself, I liked doing it, and I knew I was getting better with each
attempt. That was enough to keep me going. Writing not only focused my reading,
but it directed my research. Crafting a novel is like working a giant puzzle:
it can be difficult and frustrating, but it is also a lot of fun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB">MaryAnne:
The heroine/anti-heroine Grace is so wonderfully layered and
exceptionally interesting. One could
almost peel her like an onion. She gives
the impression of being more intuitive than the other survivors, and yet,
frustratingly indecisive as well. At
other times, she was downright manipulative and calculating. Does anyone really know Grace well? Do you?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on"><b><span lang="EN-GB">Charlotte</span></b></st1:city></st1:place><b><span lang="EN-GB">: </span></b><span lang="EN-GB">I love that readers are seeing Grace in so many
different and often evolving ways. That phenomenon epitomizes one of the things
I like best about fiction—that readers become part of the story as they decide
between competing interpretations of characters and events. Sometimes they make
connections the author didn’t envision but that are no less valid, since we are
all grappling with the same paradoxes of the human condition and since some of
any writer’s impulses are unconscious.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Because we
only have access to Grace’s thoughts and feelings and because she is highly
aware of herself as an observer and actor in the lifeboat, she appears in much
sharper relief than the other characters. While I don’t think she is smarter
than all of them, she is certainly gifted when it comes to sensing social cues
and nuance. It was fun to write about someone who refuses to conform to
expectations and whose greatest strength can also be thought of as her greatest
flaw: her ability to adapt. Does this make her inconsistent and unreliable or
does this make her strong? Clearly, people who can adapt to new and extreme
circumstances are more likely to survive them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">And if it
makes you feel any better, even I don’t know everything about Grace. One of the
things I learned by writing this novel is that there are opaque parts of a
character even for the author. So when someone asks me to pin down one of the
unanswered questions in the book, I can only answer, “Your guess is as good as
mine.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB">MaryAnne:
Among other perceptions, <i>The
Lifeboat</i> is a story of indefatigable conflict: class distinctions, male
versus female, man against nature, convention as opposed to necessity. Was disharmony meant to be the core of the book?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on"><b><span lang="EN-GB">Charlotte</span></b></st1:city></st1:place><b><span lang="EN-GB">: </span></b><span lang="EN-GB">The fundamental human conflict is with nature,
and all other conflicts grow out of that. I started writing <i>The Lifeboat</i> after reading some case law
about shipwrecked sailors who were put on trial after being rescued. The idea
that we try to fit the human struggle to survive into legal and moral
structures so we can punish and reward stayed with me, and not too long after
that, I started to hear Grace’s voice in my head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The minute
you confine a group of people to a small space, all sorts of conflict are bound
to arise. Human beings do not get along very well, and they get along least
well with those who are most unlike themselves. You don’t have to look very far
to see evidence of this us-versus-them mentality—both history and the news are
rife with it. In a world that has been reduced in size through population
growth, immigration, and advances in technology, understanding of and tolerance
for the other will be crucial if we are going to survive without more and
deadlier conflicts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">While I
find this sort of conflict fascinating, I did not write <i>The Lifeboat</i> with an agenda. The core of the book evolved
organically as I imagined how my characters might react as the days in the
lifeboat turned into weeks. Of course, I bring the person I am to the project
of writing, so the things that interest me—the natural world, gender issues,
law—are bound to come out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">MaryAnne:
The Sea and its fierce, unpredictable majesty is definitely a main
character in the book. Your descriptions
truly gave it a life of its own. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222;">“The boat
pitched and rolled as it alternately climbed the foamy heights of the waves and
then descended into hellish troughs so that we were surrounded on four sides by
walls of black water…Hardie later told us they (the waves) had reached at least
forty feet…Adding to our distress were the torrential rain that battered us
from above and the jagged lightning that split the sky…sometimes the boat would
crest a wave and hang on for an instant before pitching downward from that
height like a sled down an icy slope.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<b><span style="color: #222222;">I read that you have spent a great deal of
time on the water. Hopefully, not under
these conditions.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on"><b><span style="color: #222222;">Charlotte</span></b></st1:city></st1:place><b><span style="color: #222222;">: </span></b><span lang="EN-GB">I grew up in a family of sailors, so the sea
was a large presence in our family. My
father was highly competitive and liked to race with the other boats we saw,
which had the effect of turning a casual family outing into a high-stakes,
all-hands-on-deck game.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">While I
never experienced any truly dangerous conditions, I vividly remember
encountering terrible weather and feeling both exhilarated by it and afraid.
Our boat had a small cabin, and we children could go down there to escape the
rain. But being below decks while the boat pitched and rolled made us sick, so
my sister and I would usually ride out a storm hunched into our slickers and
trying to stay out of the way. It was these experiences that allowed me to
imagine what those weeks in the lifeboat must have been like for Grace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">MaryAnne: </span><i><span style="color: #333333;">Publishers
Weekly</span></i><span style="color: #333333;"> wrote about you:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b><span style="color: #333333;">Rogan “circles around society’s ideas about
what it means to be human, what responsibilities we have to each other, and
whether we can be blamed for choices made in order to survive.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="color: #333333;">The opportunity to dine on this complex meal of
philosophical and ethical ideas is one of the most captivating aspects of <i>The Lifeboat. </i>Did bits of your architectural training
affect the addition of these structural considerations?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on"><b><span style="color: #333333;">Charlotte</span></b></st1:city></st1:place><b><span style="color: #333333;">: </span></b><span lang="EN-GB">A story certainly has structure. The
author chooses how the relevant information is presented, and the reader moves
through the chapters the way he or she might move through a series of rooms.
This dimension might be thought of as the plot. The basic building blocks of
the novel are of course words—a set of sounds endowed with both music and
meaning. Through the words, the reader can see a character performing some sort
of action—perhaps interacting with another character or moving toward some
goal—but the words can be evocative of other things, either startling the
reader or working to enrich the meaning in more subtle ways.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB">But I think of the third dimension—the depth—as
probably the most interesting one available to a novelist. At any moment in a person’s—or character’s—life,
there are a hundred things going on, and fiction can get at these in a way that
non-fiction or film cannot. The character is, both consciously and
unconsciously, motivated by past successes and failures, by deeply-held and
sometimes conflicting beliefs, by loves and disappointments, by things he or
she has learned or heard about, by unarticulated hopes and fears. The best
fiction works on many levels at once, so that readers are drawn in by the
action but find themselves making connections and asking questions far
beyond—or maybe beneath—the level on which that action takes place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">MaryAnne:
How difficult was it to write a novel and raise triplets at the same
time?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><b><span lang="EN-GB">Charlotte</span></b></st1:place></st1:city><b><span lang="EN-GB">: </span></b><span lang="EN-GB">Triplets sound very exotic, but after the first
year or two, they are pretty much the same as any set of three small children
in terms of what they require. Having children really focused me. I stopped
thinking I could accomplish many things and turned my attention to two: my
family and my writing. I also gave up any grand ambitions I might have had and
became satisfied with smaller things. I can’t remember who said: “No mother can
write a novel, but any mother can write a chapter.” Life is all about juggling
and prioritizing, and I got good at saying No to other things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">MaryAnne:
Organized. You must be incredibly
organized!<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">You have said: <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">“Writing is my attempt
at reverence--for the natural world and for the thing in people that will
sometimes do the right thing in spite of the consequences to themselves and in
spite of the cacophony of voices claiming privileged insight into what the
right thing is.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">How did you come by this bit of
philosophy? Can you elaborate on why you
feel this way? <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><b><span lang="EN-GB">Charlotte</span></b></st1:place></st1:city><b><span lang="EN-GB">: </span></b><span lang="EN-GB">To write about the world, you have
to observe it very closely. That alone is an act of reverence. Choosing words
that do justice to the beauty around us is another way of paying tribute to it.
The best writing opens a person’s mind rather than closing it. Understanding
people like ourselves is no great trick, but fiction can put us in someone
else’s shoes and allow us to question our assumptions in a way that makes us
better people. Mostly, doing the right thing starts with asking questions
rather than blind obedience to dogma, and one of the things fiction does best
is to ask questions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">MaryAnne:
You appear to have a very naturalistic point of view and you describe it
beautifully. Are you working on
something new and would you care to share anything about it with us?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:city w:st="on"><b><span lang="EN-GB">Charlotte</span></b></st1:city><b><span lang="EN-GB">: </span></b><span lang="EN-GB">I am superstitious when it comes to talking
about unfinished projects, but I will tell you that it is set in <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">South Africa</st1:place></st1:country>.
My husband and I spent the better part of a year in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Johannesburg</st1:city></st1:place>, and we fell in love with the
country and the people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 10pt;">Charlotte
Rogan graduated from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Princeton</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">University</st1:placetype></st1:place> in 1975. She
worked at various jobs, mostly in the fields of architecture and engineering,
before teaching herself to write and staying home to bring up triplets. An old
criminal law text and her childhood experiences among a family of sailors
provided inspiration for <i>The Lifeboat</i>, her first novel. After many years
in <st1:city w:st="on">Dallas</st1:city> and a year in <st1:city w:st="on">Johannesburg</st1:city>,
she and her husband now live in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Westport</st1:city>,
<st1:state w:st="on">Connecticut</st1:state></st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 10pt;">MaryAnne Kolton’s fiction
has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous literary publications including the
Lost Children Charity Anthology, Thrice Fiction, Lost In Thought Literary
Magazine, Anatomy, Her Circle, and Connotation Press among others. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Her story “A Perfect Family House” was
shortlisted for The 2011 Glass Woman Prize. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 10pt;">Author Interviews with</span></i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 10.0pt;"> <i>Leah Hager Cohen, Siobhan Fallon,
Charles Baxter, Alice Hoffman, Dan Chaon, Tupelo Hassman, Lyndsay Faye and
Kathryn Harrison </i></span><i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 10pt;">have appeared most recently in Her Circle, The
Literarian/City Center, January Magazine and The Los Angeles Review of Books.</span></i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 10pt;">MaryAnne’s public email is <a href="mailto:maryannekolton@gmail.com">maryannekolton@gmail.com</a>.
She can also be found on Facebook and Twitter.
<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">© MaryAnne Kolton<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
</div>MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-27043048505304122512012-07-19T00:25:00.002-04:002012-07-24T13:35:08.591-04:00A MAP OF REALITY<i>Thanks to all those at Thrice Fiction - </i><a href="http://www.thricefiction.com/pdf/ThriceFiction005X.pdf">http://www.thricefiction.com/pdf/ThriceFiction005X.pdf</a><br />
<i>See Page 21 for story and outstanding illustrations!</i><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A MAP OF REALITY</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
by MaryAnne Kolton</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Bethann Dean was
huge, like the Goodyear blimp, only rounder.
And only in front. If you were
walking behind her, you wouldn’t even know she was pregnant. She stood on the driveway, in the dark, next
to the car, with her pink polka dot, overnight bag, looking … determined? Impatient?
Resigned? Hard to tell. Lloyd raced from room to room, making sure
all the lights were off, throwing some salmon kibble at the cat dish and
grabbing several energy bars.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Lloyd, please!”
she hollered. She had yelled these same
two words, at exactly the same volume and with the identical tone of exigency,
on the afternoon the blimp had been created.
Lloyd’s parents were on a cruise.
The couple was on his bed, her legs wrapped tight around his lower
back. He didn’t have a condom and she
wasn’t on the pill. They had been dating
for three months. He had graduated from
high school three days before. Bethann
had one more year to go.<br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Since both
families were devout Christians, Bethann and Lloyd were married two months later.
A tense, family-only, ceremony followed by cake and champagne for the
grown-ups (sparkling grape juice for Bethann) at the Dean’s mansion. Lloyd’s football scholarship from Duke was forfeited
like an expensive watch, pawned, never to be retrieved. Bethann would get her GED at some point. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
The Deans were
devastated by the news, but pretended – in public – to be pleased about having a grandchild to
spoil. Lloyd was their only child. He would be the first male in four
generations not to attend Duke and play for the Blue Devils. Each time his father, Richard, former
linebacker “Dickie” Dean, thought about this, he had to press the fingers of
his fisted hand against his mouth to keep the furious, disappointed words
inside. His wife, Lenora Rose, accepted
the insincere congratulations at the country club with a tight smile and murmured
words of thanks. Since she had always
envisioned Lloyd married to a well-educated, young woman with impeccable manners, from another
prominent family in their refined circle of friends, her life had become one
weepy day after another. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Of course, there
was the social divide to be considered. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Bethann’s single,
bartending mother was thrilled to bits. Her
daughter had always been much in demand as a babysitter. Evie Butts had no doubt she’d be a wonderful
mother. Her co-workers at the Slide Right
Inn applauded and hugged her as if she’d won the Lottery. To think that the child they’d known since
infancy was moving so far up in the world.
Once Evie had announced the good news, she noticed that her regular
customers looked at her with a newfound touch of deference. As if she, a potential member of the Dean
family – if only by marriage – had gained a little more shine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Richard and Lenora Rose rented a small,
furnished apartment for the couple. It
was decided that Lloyd would take courses at the local community college and
work part-time for his father at one of the car dealerships on Dean’s <st1:street w:st="on">Auto Rodeo Road</st1:street>. Bethann would continue her summer job serving
soft cones, sundaes and blizzards at the local DQ. Once the baby, Eva Rose, was born, Bethann’s
future was charted as a stay-at-home mom.
Lloyd would eventually work full time for his father. The child’s gender was the icing on the cake
for Evie, and a mortal wound endured by Richard Dean.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
The Deans supplied
the necessary baby furniture, travel systems, swings, bouncing chairs and other
equipment. Upon reviewing the credit
card bills, Richard remarked he could easily fund a moderate-sized, company
start-up with the payments. Evie hit
garage sales like a soldier going into battle, until she had accumulated
several onesies, much-read copies of <i>Pat
the Bunny</i> and <i>Goodnight Moon,</i> and
a barely soiled, handmade baby quilt.
The <span style="background-color: white;">pièce
de résistance was purchased with saved tip money: a pink tee shirt with the
words “Grandma’s Little Angel” scripted in gold and silver glitter on the
front.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">Lloyd dutifully
attended childbirth and parenting classes. As the anxiety-riddled, father-to-be, he
assimilated all the information and took part in all the exercises. He repainted the apartment with environmentally
safe, fume free paint. He took Bethann
to her doctor’s appointments, attended classes at Le Blanc Community College,
prepped cars at his dad’s Cadillac dealership, and tried not to appear as if he
was being tasered every few hours. He
forced himself to put one foot in front of another.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">On the nights
that Bethann came straight home from the Dairy Queen, instead of sitting at the
Slide, getting pregnancy and parenting advice from aging alcoholics and other
shady characters, Lloyd rubbed her swollen feet and legs. They talked about the last minute items they
had yet to purchase: baby gates, plastic caps for the electrical outlets and
locks for the cupboard doors. He tried
to convince Bethann that they could wait a bit for those things, since the baby
wouldn’t come down the chute knowing how to crawl. But she was insistent that all security
systems be in place before they brought their baby girl home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;"> One night when he sat on the floor in front of
the television, watching a basketball game and doing a report, his very pregnant, young
wife said to him, “Lloyd, honey? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">“Yeah,” he
answered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">“I know this
isn’t what you wanted. How you planned
your life to be. But you are happy about
the baby, aren’t you?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">Lloyd paused a
minute. “Yeah,” He said.
“Sure.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">“And you do love
me just a little bit, don’t you?” The
tears were tracking down Bethann’s plump cheeks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">“Uh, yeah, I
love you. It’ll all work out,
Bethann. I promise.” He felt like such a shit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="background-color: white;">Sometimes they lay stretched out on
the floor watching the reality shows that Bethann loved. One train wreck after another, that’s how he
saw them. Lloyd remarked on how dumb the
shows were until he realized the cameras and crew might well show up on his
doorstep at any moment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">On the few
occasions that he had a moment alone, he felt disgusted with himself – angry
and bullied by everybody else. He got
headaches when he tried to focus his thoughts.
His hands trembled for no reason.
Cold sweats soaked the sheets at night and he muttered curse words at
inappropriate times. One minute he was a
big deal, high school football star and the next, a piece on a game board,
pushed here, dragged there. He began to
run several miles a day and found that running helped him breathe normally and think
rationally. It was the one pleasurable
activity he allowed himself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">Bethann was
awash in a sea of hormones - pouting and
blue one minute, euphoric the next. She
saw her friends from school infrequently.
She and Lloyd argued a lot and talked very little. Her heart told her that the birth of their
little girl would cure everything. Or at
least she hoped it would. She wasn’t
sure because, truth be told, she didn’t really know Lloyd all that well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">Lloyd’s best
friend and most of the others guys were away at college, texting him daily
about the booze, girls and full-on party weekends. He saw his life slipping away from him, like
a hard-to-hold-onto bar of soap in the shower.
He’d had his future all mapped out, much the same as a well-organized,
cross-country trip. Somehow, well, no,
not somehow – but because he was stupid, stupid, stupid </span>– <span style="background-color: white;">before he ever got
to the first rest stop, he’d encountered a never-ending detour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">When he’d told
his dad Bethann was pregnant, Richard looked at him as if he’d heard Lloyd say
there was a large box full of writhing, cottonmouth snakes in the front
entrance hall. Next he wanted to know if
Lloyd was sure he was the father.
Richard called Lenora Rose into the library. They both agreed that Lloyd had no choice but
to do the responsible thing and marry the girl.
He was never given a chance to share his thoughts before the verdict was
read. His mother asked him later if he
loved Bethann. It didn’t feel right,
under the circumstances, to tell her he didn’t think so. Bethann was blonde, blue-eyed and hot. That was pretty much how he felt about her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">She was still
blonde and had blue eyes, however, she had gained almost fifty pounds during
her pregnancy. Lloyd tried to be a good
husband. It was a daunting task without
an instruction manual. When the baby
started to kick, Bethann was forever insisting he press on the enormous mound
that had been her sleek stomach. He
dutifully felt his daughter kicking, but he couldn’t connect with the ‘my
daughter” part. He was floundering in
the scrim of a future snatched from him by something with a maw so voracious,
he dare not go after it. What life might
hold for him in the months to come was a mystery. All he knew for sure was that the imminent
responsibility for a wife and daughter was nipping at his heels.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">He hurried out
to the car, took Bethann’s bag, tossed it in the back, and helped his wife into
the passenger seat. She was on her cell
phone, calling her mother. After they
agreed to meet at the ER, she speed dialed Lloyd’s parents and handed the phone
to him. His dad answered and Lloyd told
him Bethann’s water had broken and they would be at the hospital in about ten
minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">“Yeah,
okay.” Richard slurred, awakened from an
unsettled, cocktails plus wine plus brandy induced sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">“So are you guys
coming or not?’’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">“Probably ‘or
not’. Let me ask your mother.” He planted the phone against a pillow while
he discussed the matter with his wife.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">“Call us back
after the child is born.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">Lloyd
disconnected and handed the phone back to Bethann. “Not coming,” he said. “Now there’s a surprise.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">By the time they
pulled up to the Emergency Room entrance, Bethann was growling like a mad dog. Her mother was right behind them. Lloyd put the car in park and ran in to tell the
nurse behind the glass wall that his wife was having a baby. She commandeered an orderly with a wheelchair
and sent him outside with Lloyd. The
couple and Evie were escorted to a spacious birthing suite. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">Bethann was
huffing and puffing like an old time locomotive when the labor “concierge”
nurse, Amy, appeared. She told Bethann
to slow down. It would be hours before
her baby arrived. And it was. Ten hours later, Bethann was screaming like a
banshee at every contraction. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">“Did you forget
the breathing exercises you learned in childbirth class? Let’s you and I do them together.” said Amy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">“Screw
breathing,” pronounced Evie. “If it
makes you feel better, you just yell your head off, baby girl. ” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">Lloyd was numb,
useless. Traumatized by the screaming
and yelling and horror of it all, he said he was going out to get some fresh
air and a Doctor Pepper. Could he bring
anybody anything? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">“Can you bring
me something? Really?” shouted Bethann. “Don’t you dare leave this room, Lloyd Richard
Dean, unless it’s to find someone who can get this baby out of me!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">Lloyd slipped
out the door and into the quiet hallway.
He walked toward the bank of elevators on the wall to his right. As he pressed the down arrow, the tears
slipped from his eyes, tracked a path down his cheeks, around his nose and onto
his Go Blue Devils tee shirt. He
stumbled toward his car, lodged in the parking deck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">He sobbed for a
long while after he slid behind the steering wheel. When he finally got himself under control, he
started the car and headed out to the 7-Eleven on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Ellsworth Road</st1:address></st1:street>. He parked, got out, wiped his face on his
shirt and looked around. He watched the
traffic speed by for a few minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">Lloyd locked the
car, walked out to the road and started to run on the shoulder. Soon he was running at a steady pace. The breeze soothed his swollen eyes. He reached in the pocket of his jeans,
fumbling for his cell phone. He stared
at it for a moment, then tossed it out into the middle of the road. He kept running, right on through the
sunrise. He ran until he got a killer
cramp in his right calf. Lloyd stopped
and did some stretches on the sidewalk at an intersection. When that didn’t help, he sat down on the
grass and tried to massage his throbbing leg.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">A trucker,
pulled up next to him and yelled out his window, “You okay, kid?” Lloyd nodded yes. “Where you runnin’ to?” Lloyd pointed straight ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;"> “Haul yourself up here and I’ll give
you a lift.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;"> Lloyd managed to open the door and
get in the cab before the light turned green. The driver changed gears and the
truck crawled forward at a snail’s pace,
sandwiched between cars in the morning traffic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;"> “Where exactly are you goin’?” asked
the driver. Once again Lloyd motioned forward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;"> “Son, I’m hauling a load of flat
screens to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Juneau</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Alaska</st1:state></st1:place>,” said the driver with a puzzled look
at his passenger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-color: white;"> “<st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Alaska</st1:place></st1:state>,” mumbled Lloyd. He nodded his head. He leaned against the window, fell asleep in
about a minute, and slept soundly for the first time in months.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-24074811517786398502012-06-21T18:11:00.000-04:002012-06-21T18:11:14.808-04:00BETH<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-size: 14px;">Thanks to all those at</span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Inwood Indiana </span></span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-size: 15px;">for</span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-size: 14px;"> the release of Harvest Time, which contains my story <b>BETH</b>. Page 271. The online copy is available by visiting the website and clicking the “Current Issue” link. </span><a href="http://inwoodindiana.com/" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #1155cc; font-size: 14px;" target="_blank">http://InwoodIndiana.com</a> </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The paperback issue will be forthcoming in several days.</span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Beth</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>by MaryAnne Kolton</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: .25in; text-indent: .5in;">
Beth
hoped she might at last be unhooked from the shame of her errant father and
manipulative mother now that they were both dead, but she soon learned it
didn't work that way. Her depression
deepened and the tapes of “not good enough, never will be, just like your
father” refused to be stilled. Barely audible, they swarmed like gnats
around her head. The non-stop voices of
her parents gave her headaches so violent that she was unable to complete the
course work for the last semester of her business class. She failed to eat, lost too much weight and
spent days in bed. She slept the hours
away. Depression settled deep into the
pores of her skin. </div>
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At
some point during the next three weeks when she crawled out of bed to go to the
bathroom, Beth stood in front of the sink and risked a glance at the
mirror. She was shocked by what she saw
there. An emaciated woman of
indeterminate age looked out at her.
Filthy hair hanging from her head in clumps, face grey with grime,
soiled, tattered pajamas hanging from a skeletal frame. Beth tilted her head and listened, startled
by the near silence. The voices were so
muted she was hardly able to make out what they were saying.</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
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<i>Enough</i>, she said to herself. She pulled the pajamas from her body and ran
the water in the tub, adding a good measure of bubble bath. Once the bathtub was almost full, she
gathered a bar of soap, washcloth, shampoo and a razor. She stepped into the hot soapy bubbles. Beth slipped under the water and washed her
hair at least three times. She drained
some water out of the tub, and turned on the faucet to rinse her hair. As the tub filled again, she soaped her frail
looking body, shaved her legs and underarms and gently washed her face. Then she lay back and listened. </div>
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<br /></div>
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****</div>
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The
words Beth recalled most often from childhood were admonitions, “Be quiet! Your dad is sleeping. If you wake your dad, you’ll be sorry. You know what your dad is like when you wake
him up.”</div>
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Beth’s
dad was usually pissed-off by the time he came downstairs for dinner. His hair stood out from his head at a dozen
different angles and he had a dark stubble map of unshaven beard. He always went straight from the stairs to
the kitchen cupboard where the liquor was kept and knocked back at least two
shots of Scotch before coming into the dining room. Why did he have to drink before work? The Scotch seemed to obscure something. It was a hiding place of some sort and hung
in the dining room like the grey haze of cigarette smoke over a room full of
partygoers. Beth saw it capturing
secrets in its lacy scrim.</div>
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****</div>
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Beth
had been going to business school at
night and working one of the checkout lines at the local grocery store, where
she listlessly pushed produce and canned goods across a beeping scanner during
the day. She lived in a studio apartment
not even three blocks from the old house where she had grown up. It had been sold to a young family after her
dad’s death. Whenever Beth walked by on
her way to work and saw the flower boxes filled with explosions of pink geraniums
or blue and yellow petunias, the scampering little ones playing in the front
yard and the mom sitting on the newly installed porch swing, sipping coffee and
visiting with neighbors her eyes filled with tears and she wasn’t sure why. She started taking a different route to work. </div>
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Beth
had no real friends, no one to talk to. Her
sisters and brothers had their own families now and she didn’t keep in touch
with them because they had all moved far away - besides they reminded her too
much of her growing-up days. Her
co-workers with were nice enough to her, but not a day went by when one of the
people from the old neighborhood didn’t come into the store. She imagined she heard them whispering behind
their hands about her dad, her family and her broken marriage. She tried growing a tough, magenta,
lobster-like shell to replace her skin, to keep their inaudible remarks from causing
her pain. Meanwhile, the tape in her
head containing the voices of her mom and dad grew louder. When she was at work, the tapes combined with
what she perceived as the neighbors cruel murmurings assaulted her to the point
where she often felt like throwing herself through the oversized plate glass
window at the front of the store to get away from them. In the end, the panic attacks and the
subsequent migraines left her no choice but to quit.</div>
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<br /></div>
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****</div>
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<br /></div>
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Life
was turned around in her house. Her
father was going to work when most people were on their way home. Her father was a night shift foreman in the
Belting Department at Goodrich. When
they weren't in school, her mom had a tough time keeping five kids either
outside or soft-spoken all day. </div>
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The
worst part, as far as Beth was concerned, was that he hardly ever wore a shirt
when he came to the table and that led to the nightly lecture, right after
mealtime Grace, from her mom about propriety and decency etc. etc. The kids and her father heard it so often
they just tuned it out, all except for Beth.
Her mom kept bugging her about bringing friends home and said they’d be
welcome to stay for dinner anytime. Did
her mom really think she would ever ask anybody to come to her house for dinner? She was sure they would make fun of her and
her family after seeing her dad's hairy, man breasts at the dinner table. She couldn’t risk it. School was bad enough.</div>
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There were a couple men from work that her dad
went out drinking with, every now and then, after a shift. One morning he didn't come home from work and
her mom was not all that concerned until he didn't show up for dinner. She started calling around to see where he
might be. Beth didn’t know who she was
calling, but her mom got more angry than anxious with each conversation. They were all sent to bed early that night,
even though it was summertime and still light out. Beth heard her mom pacing the rooms
downstairs and smelled the smoke from the Camel cigarettes she lit one after
another.</div>
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Around
three in the morning, Beth woke when a car pulled up to the curb. The people inside were laughing and
yelling. She went to her window and saw
several men shove her dad and a strange woman in a peach silk dress out on the
front lawn. The car took off fast, its
tires squealing as it raced up the street.
Porch lights blurted on at all the neighboring houses.</div>
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The
woman lay passed out on the grass.
Beth's dad stood up and slurred, “Hey Carol, get the kids up and come on
down here. I want you all to meet Ruth.”. Her mom slammed the windows shut and double
locked the front and back doors.</div>
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Her
dad went missing in action for about a week after that. The whispering at school - the school was
only a block from her house and even the white wimpled nuns were talking about
it - and between her mom and her mom's friends tormented Beth. The feelings she had of not being the same as
the other kids fed on the whispers. She
felt them growing like a large, plum-colored bruise on her forehead until Beth
was sure everyone could see it. She
sometimes cried herself to sleep at night wishing she didn’t have to go to
school and face the talking behind her back and the questioning looks. When she tried to talk to her mom about why
her dad did the things he did her mother got angry with her. </div>
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“Your
dad works hard to keep a roof over your head, food on the table and clothes on
your back. Don’t ever let me hear you
disrespect him that way again!” </div>
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Some
of her brother's pals did come for dinner.
They enjoyed the spectacle of her Scotch infused father trying to get a
forkful of food from his plate to his mouth when he'd had four or five shots
rather than the usual two. But to
snicker was to incur a look from her mom that could scorch paint off a
car. Beth had been at other kids’ houses
for dinner and their dads were always dressed at mealtime and didn’t drink
before dinner. This disparity heightened
her feelings of otherness, of somehow not being suitable in some way. She knew her family was unlike those of her
friends, but she wasn’t quite sure what made them so.</div>
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It
was less harrowing for Beth when there was just family for dinner at her house.</div>
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Her
dad didn’t seem to have any friends except the men he drank with. He did have four boisterous, roughhousing
brothers all close in age. Sometimes on
Sunday, the brothers would get together at their house and spend the afternoon
in the back yard drinking beer, listening to the Indians game on the radio and
jumping off the garage roof. </div>
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Beth
was never sure how the roof jumping started or why. She thought it had something to do with
seeing who could leap and land farthest away from the small concrete block garage. She did know that some of the neighbors
called her mom to complain about the noise and the cursing. Beth sat on the front porch on Sundays or
stayed in her room so she wouldn’t be expected to answer the phone. </div>
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More
than one Sunday was spent at the hospital Emergency Room waiting for a bone to
be set and once her dad gave himself a black eye when he leaned too far over
the beer cooler and flipped the lid up too fast. Beth grew to hate those Sundays.</div>
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When
her dad came home after her mom locked him out, he was more short-tempered and
combative than usual. If Beth or her
siblings talked back or fought with each other her father would send one of
them outside to cut a long, sturdy stalk from the forsythia bush in the front
yard. He would peel the thin, mottled,
brown bark from “the switch” as he called it and lace the back of the most
obvious offender's legs with stinging red welts. Always high enough to be hidden by their
shorts or dresses. He would keep the
switch next to his chair as an implied threat.
The switchings hurt, but as Beth got older she steeled herself and
didn't cry. This made her dad switch her
harder and longer than any of the others.</div>
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Her
mother never intervened during these incidents unless her dad reached for his
belt. She was unable to talk him out of
using it, but she poured him a few drinks and he usually went to sleep before
the punishment was meted out. Her dad's
drinking seemed to be both the problem and the solution at the same time. Beth was never able to figure out how this
worked.</div>
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She
was beginning to think her whole family was crazy. Did that mean she was crazy, too?</div>
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<br /></div>
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****</div>
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<br /></div>
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When
Beth moved on to high school, she joined the art club, the newspaper staff,
anything that meant she didn’t have to go home right after school. She was able to avoid dinner this way more
often than not. High school also meant
dating and when Beth first started going out, only the boys that no one else
would go out with asked her. She
expected this because her mother had told her many times she would never be a
pretty girl, but she was smart, “thank goodness” and that would make up for
it. Beth was shy and these dates were
torture for her. She came home sweaty,
sick to her stomach and exhausted. She
was trying so hard to find a way to fit in, to be part of the crowd.</div>
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Tim Dolan was nice-looking, two years older
and had a stylish, robin’s egg blue convertible with a white top. Beth met him when she was a senior and he asked
her to dance when he stopped in at a Friday night mixer where she expected to
spend most of the evening standing against the wall under the basketball
backboard. She was shocked when he asked
her to dance to all the songs after the first one and her heart was racing when
he offered to drive her home after the dance.
Tim was attracted to Beth’s fragile, sensitive nature and her wistful
prettiness. </div>
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Beth
made sure she was always ready and waiting at the door when they started to go
out on a regular basis. Never once did
she allow him to meet her parents. Her
mom would peek from behind the curtains or stand at the screen door to catch a
glimpse of him. She badgered Beth to
bring him in so she and her dad could meet him and when Beth ran out of excuses
she just said, “No, mom. I don’t want
to.” Tim took Beth to her prom and they
went together for almost a year after that.
Beth tried to explain about her family to Tim once or twice but he said
it didn’t matter. She was the one he
loved. </div>
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He
was very protective of Beth and gentle with her. She liked him more than any boy she had ever
known, but his niceness made her not quite trust him for reasons that she
didn’t understand. He was an only child
and his parents acted like they loved him and each other in a way that made
Beth wonder if they were all just pretending.</div>
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When
he asked her to marry him, Beth’s mother said Tim was a real “catch” from a
decent family and it was unlikely she’d ever get another chance like this. Beth was still puzzled by what seemed to her
like contradictions and uncertainties.
The idea of the two families ever becoming close or even casual friends
was ridiculous, but because she felt Tim loved her and would protect her, Beth
allowed herself to say yes.</div>
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Beth's
wedding reception was an embarrassing fiasco.
Her dad made a fool of himself, drunk, staggering around and pawing all
the young women. Her mother sat stone
faced at the parents’ table resisting the Dolans efforts to make conversation
with her. Tim’s parents were so nice to
Beth. Mr. and Mrs. Dolan both made a
point of telling Beth she was the daughter they always wanted. Still it made Beth’s stomach twist to think
about what should have been one of the happiest days of her life. </div>
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Beth’s next youngest sister married eighteen
months later, and she couldn’t stand to sit through what became a virtual
replay of her own wedding. Her dad kept
falling down when he tried to dance and spilled drinks on himself and other
guests. Beth told Tim she had a migraine
and asked if they could leave. She cried
in the car and apologized over and over for her dad’s behavior. Tim put his arm around her and pulled her
closer. He told her she was a good wife
and a good person. He said they didn’t
have to spend time with her family if it upset her. He wanted her to be happy. Beth thought maybe she had at last reached
some sort of pinnacle and this was the point from which she might live happily
ever after.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Her mom must have threatened something epic
when Beth's youngest sister was about to be married. Her father was sober and charming - someone
unknown to all of them - that day.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
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****</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
After
Beth's dad retired, he started using the two shots of Scotch to chase a few
tablets of Valium several times a day.
Beth and Tim lived in a duplex a few miles away and the other kids had
all moved out by then, each of them anxious to try to live life without the
thundercloud of their alcoholic father and increasingly inappropriate mother
looming over them. On the uncommon
occasions they were all together, their mother now talked openly in front of
their dad about what a waste of space he was.
He was usually too far-gone to respond. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
“You are just like your father,” was still the
most gut-wrenching insult their mother could throw at any of them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
When
Beth's mother died one sun-drenched May morning after a brutal three-month
illness, her father came unraveled.
Engulfed by long overdue guilt he spent most of each of the following days
drinking, crying and relating horrifying events to whichever one of them was
with him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Tear soaked tales of a pregnant red head sent
away by train, injuries incurred while escaping from married women's bedrooms
and grocery money spent on a platinum blonde with big breasts. It was all too tawdry and too much. They began to stay away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Her
dad died in his sleep the day before Thanksgiving that same year. The siblings felt only relief.
The memories of the shame and humiliation Beth had experienced
throughout the years were a constant distraction as she now tried to live her
life alone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Although
he tried to be patient and understanding, Beth had made her husband feel like
he was coming unhinged with her groundless accusations of infidelity and her
insistence that she would not live with a drunk like her father when he’d
stopped for a beer with his friends after work.
He became frustrated and demoralized and he left her on the day he
realized there was no way for him to save her, but knew he had to make an
effort to save himself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
She was divorced after less than three years
of marriage. <i>Another notch on the belt of my endless failures</i>, Beth thought.
She had not the faintest idea how to live with a loving man in a normal relationship.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Beth
had enough put by from her share of her parents’ house that she was certain if
she was just able to finish her business classes and find a job as a
receptionist or a secretary she would be okay.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
A week or two went by before the tapes in her
head got so deafening that she sometimes missed what the teacher was
saying. The following week a student who
had spoken to Beth on occasion mentioned how thin Beth was getting and hoped
she was eating properly. Her papers that
had been, without exception, returned to her marked with an A were now coming
back with a B- or C and the noise in her head caused Beth to cry out or moan
without even being aware she was doing so.
The instructor stopped her after class one night and asked if Beth had
thought about seeing a doctor. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
As
Beth soaked in the cooling bath water she could hear her parents’ voices becoming
louder again. She was so tired, but she
did feel better. She decided she would
lay in the bath and rest until she found the energy to climb out of the tub,
dry off and have something to eat. She
was hungry. She closed her eyes and
began to drift. The voices were getting
much louder again. “Not good enough,
never will be, never amount to anything, I told you so.” At least they can’t say “just like your
father” thought Beth as the voices boomed in her head. She watched the lavender scented bath water
around her blush geranium red. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-33177806408958569162012-06-16T10:05:00.000-04:002012-06-16T10:05:08.300-04:00A Fresh, Compelling, New Voice With An Old Soul: An Interview With Tupelo HassmanThanks to Melissa at Her Circle Ezine <a href="http://www.hercircleezine.com/2012/06/15/19998/">http://www.hercircleezine.com/2012/06/15/19998/</a><br />
<h1 class="entry-title" style="clear: both; color: #ff6600; font-family: arial, sans-serif; letter-spacing: -1px; line-height: 24px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 5px;">
<em style="background-color: #f0f1e9; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 20px;"><span style="font-size: small;">A startling debut that is unsettling, curious and heart-winning. In <strong>Girlchild: a novel</strong>, Tupelo Hassman’s account of Rory Dawn Hendrix’s youth is complete with trauma, redacted diary pages and endearing prose.</span></em>
</h1>MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-85141433519708306682012-06-15T07:26:00.001-04:002012-06-15T07:26:51.749-04:00JUST DESSERTSMany thanks to Meg and the crew at Connotation Press for publishing this one!<div>
<a href="http://connotationpress.com/fiction/1436-maryanne-kolton-fiction">http://connotationpress.com/fiction/1436-maryanne-kolton-fiction</a>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Joellyn started fingering
portions of the desserts into her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears.
The thick, blue-black mascara on her lashes threatened to trail down her
all too rosy cheeks. She ate the sweets, shoving each portion in her
mouth and forcing herself to swallow. . .</span></div>MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-70983436756094843812012-06-12T00:32:00.000-04:002012-06-12T00:32:06.323-04:00AN INTERVIEW WITH KATHRYN HARRISON<i>Many thanks to Tom Lutz and the staff at the Los Angeles Review Of Books!</i><br />
<a href="http://lareviewofbooks.org/article.php?id=689">http://lareviewofbooks.org/article.php?id=689</a>MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-32982868668402296922012-05-27T10:34:00.000-04:002012-05-27T10:34:41.720-04:00Through the Woven DoorThanks to Tim Lepczyk at the gorgeous new Scintilla Magazine for understanding and publishing this story. <span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;"> </span><a href="http://magazine.scintillapress.com/through-the-woven-door.html" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #1155cc; font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;" target="_blank">http://magazine.<wbr></wbr>scintillapress.com/through-<wbr></wbr>the-woven-door.html</a><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
by MaryAnne Kolton</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
As she wakes Linka feels the
hopeless weight of failure at the discovery of another month’s flow seeping
from her body. The flush glazed her
thighs and stained the snow-white linen of her nightgown a fierce geranium
red. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Linka has longed for a child since <i>she</i> was a child. Even her daydreams are filled with vivid
images of a brass-brown, woven reed basket, overstuffed with a plump, peach–skinned
infant whose chubby arms reach to claim her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Erek believes she has become bewitched by the constant cooing of babies,
heard only in her head, to the point where she will never conceive. He knows he has become the unhusband, useful
to Linka for one purpose only. They have
been married for four years and he has yet to give Linka the one gift she
craves above all</div>
<a name='more'></a>.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He agrees to travel with her from
their small village to a nearby town. Linka wishes to seek the advice of a midwife
with many more years of experience than the wife of the local sheepherder, who
delivers the village babies when called upon.
The woman examines Linka and discovers she is quite capable of conceiving a child. The couple returns in silence to their home. Erek feels silver-black clouds of guilt hovering
above him. He allows himself to assume
an unspoken culpability for their childlessness. His blameworthiness exists without
understanding. He finds himself muddled and sorrowful on Linka’s behalf. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Her heart-rending melancholy
increases each day until Erek can no longer frame a way to live within its
depths. He feels Linka has become not his
wife, but rather, a featureless womb which he is incapable of filling with the
child she weeps for. After a week Erek
leaves their home forever. He takes only
a rough cloth sack containing his clothes and his tools. He cannot bear to hold Linka even one last
time, let alone whisper his feelings of woeful inadequacy to her again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Linka’s behavior becomes evermore
exotic after Erek’s departure. Awash in
shame, she seeks out one of the young, unmarried men in the village whom she
has known since they were childhood playmates.
Confronting him, Linka bows her
head and is unable to meet his startled eyes. After swearing him to secrecy, she explains
what she wants from him. He cries an
emphatic <i>No!</i> <i>This is
madness!</i> The act she requests would
require a duty on his part to assist with the raising and support of such a
child. He is not ready to assume an
obligation of this magnitude. In
addition, he asks her how he would speak of this situation to any woman at a
time when he is ready to marry.<i> No, Linka.
I cannot</i>. <i>I will not</i>. He leaves her, shaking his head in wonderment
about the lunacy of such a request.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
As is wont to happen in a small village where
everyone soon enough knows everyone else’s business, the women of the village begin
to gossip ceaselessly about Linka. While
they feel a certain pity for her, they hurry past her cottage and cross the
road to avoid speaking with her. They
cannot bear to look upon her pale, blotched face with eyes reddened from
constant weeping. Her sanity is now being
questioned.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
A woman who, in the past, was friendly to Linka, tells a friend from a
nearby town the tale of Linka’s obsession.
The friend, upon hearing the meddler’s anecdote, repeats a story she once
overheard of an elder who has passed more than one hundred years in age. A woman who might be of some help to Linka.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Linka soon hears the story and determines the way
to the village of the elder. She knows
that a fee must be paid. So she weaves
and sells shawls as delicate as angels’ breath in soft, muted shades of
foxglove, spring green, aster and buttercup yellow throughout the warm months
in order to earn the required payment. She also knits baby sweaters, caps and
blankets on needles as fine as human hair until the wee hours of the morning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When the leaves begin to turn the
golden color of hope, Linka sets off on the journey to the faraway village of
the aged woman. She sings lullabies and
children’s songs and makes plans for the life of the child she believes soon
will be hers. Linka stops only to eat a
few berries from the bushes at the side of the road and drink water from nearby,
fast-running streams. She sleeps in the
woods on soft beds of pine needles, but only for an hour or two at a time. Her whole being thrums with the energy of
coming motherhood. She carries the clothing
for the baby in a bundle tied with speckled brown twine. As she walks, her heartbeat becomes the words,
<i>a baby a baby a baby, </i>as she steps
briskly along.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
After three days of travel, Linka
approaches the wooded village where the old woman resides. Linka’s whole being swells with the hope that
she will finally know fulfillment. The
accounting of how she might come to possess the child that she cannot now
envision living without. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
A cottage built of reeds, moss, and
fallen branches sits in a clearing at the edge of the woods. Linka’s heart is racing and her breath comes
in short, eager bursts. She summons the
courage to tap at the cottage door, woven of curly willow stems, grasses and
trailing vines.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
A tiny, bird-like woman opens the door and bids her enter. Her head is wreathed in a luminous aura of
pure white hair. Her wizened face is
pleated with the wrinkles of many decades.
The cottage is quite small and the furnishings are spare. Linka explains why she has come and the elder
nods and pats at Linka’s arm as she speaks.
Tears collect in Linka’s eyes like crushed crystals, then overflow as
she tells of her desperate wish for a child of her own.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The semi-darkness of the single room
competes with the last golden rays of the setting sun. They strike through the open spaces in the
branches and green growth woven together to shelter the elderly woman. An amber glow fills the room and Linka could
swear she feels a quickening in her belly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Linka is to call her Meena. They have a meal of coarse-grain bread, goat cheese,
and a fennel and leek soup. After eating,
the fee is exchanged. Linka is then
instructed to sleep on a pallet of blankets assembled for her. She is close by the glowing, orange coals of
a fire laid with meticulous care in the center of the cottage. Before she closes her eyes, the old woman
gives her a cup of tea brewed from herbs selected to soften her sleep. Linka travels deep into tunnels of
dreamlessness.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Meena wakes Linka long before the sun rises. She has prepared a bowl of warm milk and
bread which she urges Linka to eat. She
also brews another cup of tea and tells Linka this one will lessen the fierce pangs
of expectation and prepare her for the experience to come.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Linka listens as Meena tells her to
go quickly through the woods to the other side. There she will come upon
several rocky paths, any one of which will lead her to the dark sea below. Linka is to make her way to the shore of grey
sand and wait for her baby to come to her. Meena holds Linka close and wishes her much
happiness with her little one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
After thanking Meena, Linka runs through the dark woods. She trips several times over protruding roots
and fallen logs. She takes care not to
allow her bundle of baby swaddling to become lost when she falls. Linka reaches the edge of the woods opposite
Meena’s cottage just as the sky is beginning to lighten. She bolts down the first rocky path she comes
upon. When she reaches the shoreline,
Linka sits, settles her heavy skirts around her, and confronts the murky,
white-capped sea. She waits. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Although she longs to lay her head
upon her bundle and rest, she sits upright as the first fine beads of sun slant
over the horizon. She thinks she
observes a scarce bit of color amidst the few clouds floating inland on a brisk
wind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The clouds reach out toward the warming sand like gauzy fingertips. Linka is astonished by the awareness that the
wisps of color she imagined present in the sunrise are, in fact, a parade of splendid
kites. The different shapes and sizes, dip
and dive on the drafts of cool eastern winds.
All are fashioned from sumptuous materials, in resplendent hues and
exquisite configurations. Here, a
cesious, blue heron shaped kite, followed by a faded, almond parchment butterfly. A rose-colored, silken, half-moon lofts to
the right. An extravagant lavender star floats
high above the others.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Linka jumps
to her feet, discards her shoes and woolen stockings, and runs toward the
incoming tide. She sees that each kite
is tailed by a long length of pale, lemon-hued linen. Clutching each length of linen are the two
shell-shaped hands of a newborn babe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Linka screams with joy, ties her shawl around her heavy woolen skirts,
and clambers into the icy waters so she might catch one of these rosy-cheeked
babies to her breast.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Are
you my baby, Are you mine, little one? </i>Linka
calls out as the kites float overhead, just out of reach. As she struggles against the incoming tide,
she watches the kites glide closer to shore.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She wades into waist deep waves,
arms outstretched, so she might snatch her child into her arms. The wind shifts a bit and the kites drift
away, then back again. Linka strides farther
into the sea, arms straining upward, trying to swim in place. The freezing water lashes her bare legs and
catches hold of her upper body and raised arms . The babes are almost within her grasp.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Stunned
by the sight of a falling baby, she pushes deeper into the sea. Her sodden skirts drag her down, as the star
baby’s fingers slip from the kite tail, and the wee one falls swiftly into the
ocean. Linka shrieks in terror. She fights the frightening waves and screams
aloud as yet another baby loses its grasp, and sinks beneath a watery curl.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Sea-salted water splashes in and out of her
mouth as she paddles in place, directly under a russet-haired baby attached to
the butterfly kite. She has no doubt she
can catch this child if it begins to fall.
The baby lets go and vanishes through Linka’s waiting hands, lost to the
water. <i>No! My baby! Mine! </i>She
panics as more and more babies fall from their kites to the sea.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The rough waves lap over her head and she tries to swim toward the last remaining
child who clings to one of the bird kites.
<i>Are you my baby? </i>She screams as the little one with wisps
of pale yellow hair disappears beneath
the water. Taking a frenzied breath, Linka
dives far below the wave, searching for the child. Her heavy woolen skirts pull her deeper into
the grey-green depths of the icy sea. She
feels slight chafings and scratchings at her frozen bare feet and legs. As she peers through shadowed waters, she sees
tiny baby fingers clutching at her legs, ankles, and the hem of her skirts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Linka strains to hold her breath as her lungs burn with unbearable pain.
She is overtaken by the intense need for
air. With amazing strength, the gathered
babies are pulling her deeper and deeper.
When her lungs feel as if they
will burst, Linka gasps. Her mouth fills
at once with dirty seawater. She swallows,
strangles and relents, following the determined little ones down and down and
down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
</div>MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-69980447729902696692012-05-26T20:09:00.000-04:002012-05-26T20:09:17.136-04:00THIS GAME REQUIRES TWO PLAYERS<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Many thanks to Sara at Orion headless - <a href="http://orionheadless.com/this-game-requires-two-players" style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;" target="_blank">http://orionheadless.com/this-<wbr></wbr>game-requires-two-players</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;">by MaryAnne Kolton</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">He drove too fast,
weaving in and out of traffic.</span><span style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">He
flashed his brights again and again when a car ahead of him wouldn’t move
over.</span><span style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">Dark veins, like worms pulsing
blue-red, stood out on the side of his head.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
She
watched the speedometer climb steadily toward ninety. <i>Slow
down!</i> she screamed silently. “Could you just slow down?” she said. The muscles in his jaw tensed. He hit the steering wheel with the flat of
his hand, jerked into the right lane and slowed to the minimum speed limit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
He
travelled a great deal on business. She
lulled herself to sleep when he was gone, with half-dreams that the police had
come to the door to tell her he was dead.
Killed in a car accident, shot through the heart by a stray bullet in a
drive by or the only fatality in a plane crash.
She tried to summon the emotion she would feel when they told her. The best she could come up with was relief.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
They almost always tried to wedge reluctant
friends into the ever-expanding void that had become their marriage - using
them to buffer the anger always arcing in that void. Smoldering, electric anger: hate on hold. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .1in; margin-right: 9.0pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
This trip to the <st1:place w:st="on">Cape</st1:place>
was an anomaly. They would be alone for
a week. Starting out with a ten hour car
trip on a day so hot that the air-conditioning felt like a warm tropic
breeze. The perfect incubator for the many
unresolved issues between them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
By the time they
got to the house in South Wellfleet on the Cape, a gunmetal grey darkness
obscured any view of the <st1:place w:st="on">Atlantic</st1:place>. Sheets of driving rain flailed at her skin as
they unloaded the car. Soaking wet and
exhausted, they shared a quick, silent meal.
She let herself think about the times they’d sat at this table for an
hour or two, after dinner, drinking port and saying silly, loving things to
each other.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Where were those people?</i> She wondered. It was as if they’d fallen into some great,
black hole. Eaten alive by years of
marriage, children and not bothering to adjust to the changes in each other. <i>Lack of
communication. Clichéd, but true</i>. The two who had taken their places were far
too sad too be silly and much too bitter to be loving. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
That
night, like every night, they slept clutching opposite sides of the bed,
separated by a wide, perilous expanse of sheets and blankets – a bleak marital
desert neither one of them dared to cross.
Sex was out of the question - too easy to wound and be wounded that way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
In
the morning the rain continued to pound the dunes around them. He was sitting at the table when she came out
of the bedroom. He appeared to be
reading a book of poems. He said
nothing. The tension in the room grabbed
her and willed her to confront him. Eyes
closed, she rested her head against the splintered edge of the open shelf in
the kitchen. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m
not sure I want to stay here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
She
had not meant to say those words out loud, had she? Yet, there they were suspended in the humid
air between them. He looked up from his
book puzzled, his eyes narrowing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
“What
does that mean? Are you saying you want
to go home?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m
not sure. . .” The thought came to her
that she was way past wanting to work this out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well,
when you decide, why don’t you let me know,”
he mocked her. “We’ve played this
game for years now. You have no idea
what you want, and yet you expect me know instinctively, to guess.” He stared at a page of verse as he spoke. Tiny sweat bubbles formed on his upper lip
and his hands trembled. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“If I had even some vague notion of what it
is you do want, what you do expect from me, maybe things might be different.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Liar!”
she shouted at him. “I’ve tried a
hundred times to tell you what’s wrong.”
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
He
turned in the chair so he faced her. “Right,” his voice was iced with sarcasm, “Now
we come to the part where you tell me that this,” he flings his long arms wide
open, “this is all my fault.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
Painful
spasms cramped her stomach<i>. She was angry now. She could say anything.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Okay.
I do know what I want!” She said, coming quite close to the edge of
the hole where the people they used to be fell in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well
good,” he smirked. “At least now we’re
getting somewhere.” She hated him for
real then. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I <i>want</i>. . .not to live with <i>you</i> any more,” she hissed, moving around the back of his
chair.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
He stood up and slapped the book on the
table. When he threw the wooden chair
across the room, it hit the pine wall hard leaving a deep gouge before it broke
apart. He started toward the bedroom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Wait a minute. Don’t you dare walk away. I want to explain.” <i>Too</i>
<i>far, she’d pushed him too far this time.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
He turned from the bedroom doorway and came
at her. “No! No explaining! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Enraged, he grabbed her wrist, twisting her
arm behind her back and pushed her into the kitchen where he pinned her against
the edge of the counter. The metal edge
of the Formica cut a welt into her midsection.
<i>Way too far</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Listen,” she said, forcing her voice to soften, “maybe we
just need some time apart. To sort
things out.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
He
pressed up against her back. “I’m not
sorting anything out!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
He
spun her around. He opened his mouth and
bared his teeth, a menacing growl starting deep in his throat. Hands grabbing her upper arms now, he pulled
her to him, closer. Strong fingers
tightened and bruised - her face so close to his she could smell the anger on
his breath. Horrified, she thought for a
second he meant to bite her. She pushed
at him, kicked, tried to free herself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
“Get
away from me! I hate you! Let me go!”
She spat into his face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
He
shook her once, a hard, abrupt movement that snapped her head and neck. He released her and staggered backward. His long body crumpled, folded inward. His glazed eyes stared up at her. His mouth open, his eyes focused on her face,
he stuttered and gasped - tried to say the
words she would never allow him say.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
Frightened
and confused by pity, she moved toward him. “Let’s sit down. I’ll listen,” she cried. He shook his head. “Too late,” he whispered. “Too late.” He backed away from her, and lunged out the
door into the rain. She vomited into the
kitchen sink. <i>Let him go. That’s what she
really wanted – wasn’t it? <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
Through
the window over the sink she watched the rain and wind plaster his shorts and
tee shirt against his back and upper legs.
He shook as he stumbled through wet sand toward the car he had parked at the back of the cottage. He grappled with the car door, realized it was locked and banged his head against the
doorframe. He started up the hill toward
the road. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
She
fought to open the window over the sink, swollen shut by days of rain. She pounded on it and called his name. She pounded again, harder, too hard. Her fist smashed through glass. Shocked, she yanked her hand back through the
ragged hole. Pointed shards shredded her
hand and wrist. Blood seeped everywhere
as she crawled up on the counter and forced her mouth against the serrated
edges of the opening she’d created.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
Sobs
raked her throat and small slivers of glass chewed at her face. She screamed his name.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
He
was getting away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .1in; text-indent: .5in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Verdana;">MaryAnne Kolton’s
fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous literary publications
including the Lost Children Charity Anthology, The Toucan Magazine, Lost In
Thought Literary Magazine, Anatomy, Her Circle, and Connotation Press among
others. </span></i><i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Verdana;">Her story “A Perfect Family House” was shortlisted for The 2011 Glass
Woman Prize</span></i><i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana;">. </span></i><i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Verdana;">Author
Interviews have appeared most recently in Her Circle, The Literarian/City
Center and January Magazine. MaryAnne’s
public email is maryannekolton@gmail.com. She can also be found on Facebook and Twitter.<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-31115979195366028432012-05-15T14:22:00.001-04:002012-05-15T14:22:18.031-04:00AN INTERVIEW WITH DAN CHAONThanks to Linda at January Magazine and many thanks to Dan for his thoughtful answers and for making me laugh!<br />
<a href="http://www.januarymagazine.com/profiles/chaon.html">http://www.januarymagazine.com/profiles/chaon.html</a>MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-65675446073626915182012-05-01T10:26:00.000-04:002012-05-01T10:26:46.459-04:00OUTSTANDING STORYTELLER & GIFTED PAINTER: AN INTERVIEW WITH CAROL ANSHAWMany thanks to Her Circle Zine for publishing this interview with Carol!<br />
<a href="http://www.hercircleezine.com/2012/05/01/standout-stpryteller-gifted-painer-an-interview-with-carol-anshaw/">http://www.hercircleezine.com/2012/05/01/standout-stpryteller-gifted-painer-an-interview-with-carol-anshaw/</a>
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In her latest novel, Carol Anshaw presents us with a sizable group of friends, and an unforgiveable accident. She ensnares us and them in a net of gut-wrenching guilt, twisted families, fierce addictions, love, lust and everyday life. <em>Carry the One</em> then proceeds to lure us into closely following these people for thirty years. What an amazing ride…</div>
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<strong>MaryAnne Kolton: First off, I have to tell you I think <em>Carry the One</em> is certainly one of the best books I’ve read this year. The characters are so finely etched and layered. I ended up lost in their lives and loving each and every one of them—despite their many flaws, or maybe because of them. Your writing voice is incredibly knowing and easy to listen to. What a great story this is.</strong></div>
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<strong>Will you tell us if your childhood and/or family experiences encouraged you to write? What books were your favorites early on?</strong></div>
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Carol Anshaw: First, thank you for your praise.
My early love of books was a lonely pursuit. My parents were not educated; they had no way of knowing what to recommend. My father did take me to the public library and waited while I picked a pile of books, whatever the limit was. Also, I was in Catholic school with 40 or 50 kids per class, all reading together. Very slowly. I read those books upside down just to give myself something to escape the boredom. High school was more boredom, so I stayed up through the night smoking and reading novels. I didn’t have a way of knowing what was good. I didn’t know there were classics. When we moved into a new house, my parents bought some books by the pound to fill the shelves in the den. I read all those books. They were mostly terrible. Mysteries like <em>Another Mug for the Bier</em>. I read books from the library like the Hardy Boys mysteries, but also books from Bob’s Drugs, which would sell anything to you. I picked up a lot of Harold Robbins there. <em>The Carpetbaggers. The Adventurers.</em> Big, sexy stuff. When I babysat, I’d reach around behind the books on the bookshelves. That’s where I found <em>Peyton Place</em>, and a couple of marriage manuals—illustrating sexual positions like “while dancing” and “while sitting in a chair”. I was a little explorer. And I think what my early reading gave me was a much bigger sense of the world that lay past the lawns and deadly conventions of the suburb where I was growing up.</div>
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<strong>MAK: Who did encourage you to begin writing and when? </strong> </div>
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CA: My mother says I tried to write a novel when I was six, but had to ask her how to spell so many words that she finally told me I wasn’t ready; I’d have to wait. My parents got me a desk for my bedroom so I’d have a place to write. They got me a typewriter. One nun in high school took an interest in my writing and entered a couple of stories in contests for young writers. In college I was too busy being depressed and playing pinochle and smoking pot and skipping classes to write. As soon as I was out, though, I began writing fiction in earnest.</div>
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<strong>MAK: I’ve read that you cosseted several of the characters from <em>Carry the One</em> in your head for many years. I can’t say I’m surprised. They are all so absorbing. Which ones were they?</strong></div>
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CA: I first wrote a story about Carmen (and Rob and Heather]), in the<em>hammam</em>. Later on I wrote a story about Alice (and Jean and Tom Ferris) called “Elvis Has Left the Building.” Both of these made it into <em>Best American</em>. I was writing other books then, but in the background, I had in mind a novel that covered a long stretch of time, to show how time both makes a great deal of difference, and no difference at all. I wanted it crammed with people, the way a city is. When I rode the el past the backs of houses and apartments with their lights on inside, I felt euphoric with the idea of making this book. I wanted to call it ”In a Taxi, Honey,” from the old song. Here is a good example of how something can be dazzling in your mind, then you see what reaches the page and you have to get serious.</div>
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When my brother was going down, I told him I wanted to write a character who wasn’t him, but had his addictions and he said to go ahead, the more the stories get out there, the better. And that’s how Nick came into being.</div>
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<strong>MAK: We should probably explain here that a <em>hamman</em> is a traditional Moroccan “bathing retreat.” A spa or steam bath.</strong></div>
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<strong>Since you mentioned your brother, I’m wondering what you think about the theory that family of origin is somehow the jumping off place for most writers? A base from which to build?</strong><br />
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CA: My family was not a base from which it would have been possible to build anything. By the time my brother and I were teenagers, our parents hated us. They were contemptuous of everything about us. That seems harsh to say, but it was true. It was us against them. The best we could hope for was staying under their radar. I remember telling my brother that I’d been to friends’ houses and they were nothing like ours. I told him that I would get out, then get him out. I did get out, but could never entirely extricate him. He had Stockholm Syndrome; he was in thrall to his captors. The father in <em>Carry the One</em> is the only character I’ve written who even has aspects of my father. I guess because life under their rule was such a terrible experience, I haven’t wanted to relive it by writing autobiographically.</div>
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<strong>MAK: Unfortunately, yours is a story not unlike those we’ve heard from so many writers. And yet, you seem to weave a delicious, wry, sense of humor into the doings in <em>Carry the One</em>. It plays off the serious issues your characters live with—a perfect counterpoint. Here are two examples:</strong></div>
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<strong>(Rob)<br /><em>His politics were not that great. He wasn’t a Republican, nothing out-and-out repulsive, but he was shifty on certain issues—like welfare and the death penalty. He thought people ought to work harder, the way he did. He thought it was okay to fry certain criminals. He picked the least sympathetic examples. Guys who chopped up their victims and served them in stews. That sort of thing.</em></strong></div>
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<strong>(Carmen and Matt)<br /><em>“How’s it going?” she said.<br />“Big doings here.” He was talking not in a whisper exactly, more like a TV golf announcer during an important putt. “The twins started a fire in a new house going up on the next block over. Then they stuck around to watch their handiwork. The cops picked them out of the crowd right away. The toes of their sneakers were melted and charred…Those girls are so sweet looking but they are total criminals.”</em></strong></div>
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<strong>Is this just you, Carol, or a dedicated effort to mix sweet and sour, tragedy and comedy?</strong></div>
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CA: This is just how my mind works, in writing, also in life.</div>
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<strong>MAK: How do you feel about the birth of the eBook, especially when coupled with more and more publishers’ reluctance to fund tours. Who knew authors would have to be masters of self-promotion with degrees in marketing…</strong></div>
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CA: As someone who has a cabinet full of cd’s and a stack of LPs in the basement—all unplayable on any device I still own—I worry about the impermanence of the eBook. If my work was only to be available as a data file, I don’t think I would write anymore. But as long as there are still also physical books, I’m okay with eBooks. So many of my friends love their eReaders, particularly those who travel a lot, or live in remote places.
As for promotion, Simon & Schuster has done so much for <em>Carry the One</em> that I am just hugely grateful, and try to do my part whenever they ask. I’ve never had this sort of treatment, and know I’m lucky to be getting it now.</div>
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<strong>MAK: <em>Carry the One</em> feels like a book that would make an intelligent, engrossing film. Has anyone expressed an interest in optioning it for that purpose? If that were to happen, how would you be affected emotionally and intellectually.</strong></div>
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CA: Yes, I think it could make an excellent movie, but both good and bad movies have been made from good books so it’s nervous-making. One of the best aspects of novel writing is the nearly complete control of your work. Sell the movie rights and you can kiss that goodbye.</div>
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<strong>MAK: One of the most compelling characters in your book lives an openly, so-called, alternative lifestyle. Isn’t it glorious that no longer means that bookstores won’t put it on the shelves, people will whisper about it, but not read it, and haters will make placards about it and ban the book from the library. Thrills me to death.</strong></div>
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CA: Oh yes, the landscape is much prettier; no fires in the hills. I am queer and have always had queer characters in my books, and I think at first that limited my readership and sales. When I started out, I read at a women’s bookshop that had a back room with all the lesbian books. So no one passing by would see your interest. Those days are gone. We’re ho-hum now. Only one of the reviews of <em>Carry the One</em> even took note of the lesbian stuff, and that was a queer reviewer praising it.</div>
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<strong>MAK: And look how it all happened overnight! Final question. Questions. Are you working on something new? Still decompressing from <em>Carry the One</em>? Will we hear more from the endearing, eclectic characters in this book?</strong></div>
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CA: I am working on a novel called <em>The Map of Allowed Wandering</em>. I also have a story coming out in the <em>2012 Best American</em>. I think it’s the best story I’ve written. It’s called “The Last Speaker of the Language.” I am also closing the gap on a painting project—a series of paintings of Vita Sackville-West. You can see some of these at my <a href="http://carolanshaw.wordpress.com/" style="color: #964904; text-decoration: none;">website</a>, if you like. I’m making a biography in paint. And funny you ask about the characters in <em>Carry The One</em>. I might need to check in on Carmen and Alice later.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQwTBpCOXthNyeEvyMXrPRKU5eFfILUUdjGKm6BCsdfj7hFQh8bvVn9ulrDMdnt_2RXT2UoguQnAAwt7jMEltOH8GnUijwwAoH58AY5FlSP83btjSWBN5K6Q5dypyliIio6sth001yat4/s1600/152158540.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQwTBpCOXthNyeEvyMXrPRKU5eFfILUUdjGKm6BCsdfj7hFQh8bvVn9ulrDMdnt_2RXT2UoguQnAAwt7jMEltOH8GnUijwwAoH58AY5FlSP83btjSWBN5K6Q5dypyliIio6sth001yat4/s320/152158540.JPG" width="210" /></a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 20px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<a href="http://www.hercircleezine.com/2012/05/01/standout-stpryteller-gifted-painer-an-interview-with-carol-anshaw/120501_carol_anshaw/" rel="attachment wp-att-18474" style="color: #964904; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-18474" height="299" src="http://www.hercircleezine.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/120501_Carol_Anshaw.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 0px; max-width: none;" title="120501_Carol_Anshaw" width="214" /></a><strong>Carol Anshaw</strong> is the author of the novels <em>Seven Moves</em>, <em>Aquamarine</em>and <em>Lucky in the Corner</em>. She has won the Carl Sandburg, Society of Midland Authors, and Ferro-Grumley awards for fiction, and has been a finalist for the Lambda Literary Award three times. Her latest novel is <em>Carry the One</em>, from Simon & Schuster. Her short fiction has been anthologized and published in various periodicals including <em>VLS</em>, <em>Story</em> and <em>Tin House</em>. Her stories, “Hammam” and “Elvis Has Left the Building” were chosen for inclusion in <em>Best American Short Stories</em> of 1994 and 1998 respectively. “Hammam” was read on NPR’s “Selected Shorts” series. Her latest story, “The Last Speaker of the Language,” has been chosen for inclusion in <em>The Best American Short Stories 2012</em>, to be released in October of 2012. Anshaw is a past fellow of the Illinois Arts Council and the National Endowment for the Arts. She teaches in the MFA in Writing program at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. She lives in Chicago and Amsterdam with her partner, Jessie Ewing.</div>MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-21578394267204682062012-04-04T17:21:00.000-04:002012-04-04T17:21:29.244-04:00Writer, Educator and Generous Mentor: An Interview With Charles BaxterHere is the link to my interview with Charles Baxter, posted today at the Literarian/For Writers.<br />
<i><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">MaryAnne Kolton, met Charles Baxter at a book signing in Chicago, many
years ago when she boldly handed him an envelope containing a short story she
had written, a note asking for his critique, and a stamped, return envelope.
She recently reminded him of that meeting and asked if he might take time out
of his busy schedule to answer a few questions. He graciously consented and
prefers to be called Charlie... </span></i><br />
<a href="http://www.centerforfiction.org/forwriters/">http://www.centerforfiction.org/forwriters/</a> <br />
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-27376308315872110022012-04-01T14:31:00.000-04:002012-04-01T14:31:15.199-04:00CASTING HER SPELL: AN INTERVIEW WITH ALICE HOFFMANHere is the link to my interview with Alice Hoffman. Please feel free to comment!<br />
<a href="http://www.hercircleezine.com/2012/04/01/casting-a-spell-an-interview-with-alice-hoffman/">http://www.hercircleezine.com/2012/04/01/casting-a-spell-an-interview-with-alice-hoffman/</a>MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-30542276885944164592012-03-23T17:06:00.003-04:002012-03-25T01:23:31.900-04:00THE CHESS TEACHERThanks so much to Nikki and Katelyn for publishing The Chess Teacher at The Vehicle!<br />
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<a href="http://www.thevehiclemagazine.com/?page_id=435">http://www.thevehiclemagazine.com/?page_id=435</a> </div>
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<b> The Chess Teacher<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<b> </b>by MaryAnne Kolton<b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Lisa lay on the sofa, crying for a long time. Was
this her fault? Had she given him some sign? Encouraged him in some
way?</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">It was true she had thought he was
cute. Did he somehow </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">sense that
and take it as some kind of an invitation to do what he did?</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"> ****<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
No one had asked Lisa if she wanted
to go to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Utica</st1:city></st1:place>
and live with complete strangers for the summer. Her mother had sold her to the D’Angelo
family. Three hundred dollars for the
entire summer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
One of her mom’s best friends’ daughters. A mother’s helper job. Some babysitting, some keeping the kids busy
when their mom, Sharon, was otherwise occupied.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
No one stopped to consider that it was to have been a special summer for
Lisa and <i>her </i>friends since they would be starting high school in
the fall, splintering a group that had maintained an affinity since first
grade. Lisa pulled her long blonde
ponytail to the front of her neck and examined a few split ends as they drove
the last few boring miles to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Utica</st1:place></st1:city>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When they pulled into the apartment
complex where the D’Angelos lived, Lisa tried again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Mom, I could take the bus home on
the weekends. What would be wrong with
that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Sharon and Gino might need you to
babysit on the weekends. That’s what’s
wrong with that, plus there is no way you are taking a seventy-mile bus trip by
yourself. You’re fourteen years old. It’s not like you’re doing this for free,
Lisa. Think of all the money you’ll have
to spend on whatever you want when summer is over.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Yeah, three hundred dollars for my
entire summer. Big deal.”<br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, you said you would do this
and you can’t back out now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“No, Mom<i>, you</i> said I would do this, without even asking me if I wanted to.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Listen to me, Lisa. <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>
is having a hard time right now. She’s
young, only eight years older than you. Her mother is worried about her. Three little ones under four – she has her
hands full. This is a good thing you can
do. You help her out and earn some money
at the same time. It’ll be fine. Kids love you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“What about her husband? He doesn’t help her?” Lisa asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Gino works with his father in the
real estate development business.
Apparently, a very busy young man,” said her mother, her words trailing
off at the end. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lisa could tell by her tone of
voice that her mother didn’t approve of a man who spent more time at his
business than he did with his family. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
They pulled into a parking space in
front of a two story, red brick building.
Wrought iron railings enclosed a small patio space in front of sliding
glass doors outside the second floor apartments. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Okay, this is it. Let’s get your things out of the car and I’ll
help you get settled.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Just as her mom popped the trunk, a
dark-haired, heavy-set, young woman came bustling out the entrance door to the
building. She was barefooted, wearing gym
shorts that had seen better days and a not quite white tank top.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, you’re here already. How was your trip? Let me help.”
She grabbed a suitcase and kept talking.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Lisa, aren’t you pretty! I’m <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>,
you can just call me Sharon or Shar, okay?
I am so happy you’re here! Things
are kind of in chaos mode upstairs, so just ignore the mess. And Mrs. Taylor. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. Don’t even look at me. I haven’t showered yet today and I know my
hair’s a disaster.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She led the way up the stairs to
the second floor apartment on the right. The door across the hall was propped open and
Lisa glanced inside. An older man sat at
a table in what looked like a library. Walls
of books surrounded him. On the table
was a chess set. The man looked up. Lisa was embarrassed to be caught peering
into his apartment. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Sorry,” she muttered, turning to
follow her mom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“No, wait,” said the man, “my name
is Thomas O’Hara. And who might you be?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m Lisa Taylor. I’m living with the D’Angelos for the
summer.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Mr. O’Hara looked over the tops of
his glasses at Lisa. “Then you and I
will have a chance to become good friends, Lisa.” he said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Maybe,” she said and hurried into <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>’s apartment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lisa was surprised. It was bigger than it looked from outside,
but <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>
hadn’t been kidding about the mess. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Children’s toys and books and <i>stuff</i> covered almost every inch of floor
space in the living room. There was a
large playpen in one corner containing three small children clambering all over
each other. On the sofa, chairs, and
tables were stacks and mountains of folded and unfolded clothes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“As you can see things have gotten
out of hand here.” <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city> said.
Then she grabbed Lisa and gave her a huge bear hug. “I am so glad you’re here to help me. Gino is constantly telling me I need to pick up – get organized. <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>
started piling some stacks of folded clothes into a basket and transferring
them from the furniture to the kitchen table so they could all sit down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“The kids.” She jumped up and pulled them out of the pen,
one at a time like puppies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Vincent. He’s three and a half,” she said plopping him
down in front of Lisa. Dark eyes, plump
cheeks and shy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“And this is Maria, who’s two and a
half.” She balanced Maria on her right
hip. A tiny version of her mother with a
mouth like a perfect valentine heart.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“And Bella, one year old, last
week. Bella she handed off to Lisa. Precious and half-asleep.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lisa’s mother stood up, smiled and
touched the cheek of each of the children, saying, “<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>, they are so beautiful!” She got down on the floor and put her arms
around the older children. Vincent escaped
her embrace to bring her a book and ask her to read to him “Oh honey, I’d love to,” she said, “but it’s
going to take longer getting back, what with the traffic and all, so I’d better
get on the road.” He looked at her as if
he understood every word. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Besides, Lisa is here to play with
you now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Just as <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city> began thanking Lisa’s mother, for what
seemed like the tenth time, the apartment door opened and Gino was home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Mrs. T,” he said, giving her a big
hug, “good to see you. Not since the
wedding, huh?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He was dressed immaculately in a
dark summer suit, pale pink shirt and geometric patterned tie in shades of
lavender, blue and fuchsia. Gino was
tanned and muscled, more like someone who worked out and spent a lot of time
outdoors. When he looked toward Lisa and
smiled, she felt her stomach turn into a cage full of butterflies.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“And Lisa? I don’t think we’ve ever met.” Gino gave Lisa, still holding the baby, a hug
as well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Nice to meet you, Mr. D’Angelo.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“No, no, stop right now with the
Mr. D’Angelo. It’s Gino. We’re gonna be family this summer.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He tossed a careless “Hey, babe,”
over his shoulder to his wife, apparently saving his smiles for his children
and company. He hefted Vincent up in the
air, and whirled him around. Gino
kissed his son on the forehead and sat him on the sofa. Then he reached down and tousled Maria’s dark
curly hair – she had attached herself to his right leg – and leaned over to
give her a noisy kiss on the cheek. He
reached for Bella just as Lisa was about to hand her to him. Their hands brushed briefly during the
exchange and the contact made Lisa blush.
<i>He’s so cute</i>, she thought,
then blushed again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Lisa,” said her mom, “come with me
to the car, okay?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Her mom took her hand as they
started down the stairs. Mr. O’Hara
looked up and Lisa nodded and smiled. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lisa introduced her mother to Mr.
O’Hara.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Do you play?” He asked Lisa, passing his hand over the
board in front of him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“No, I don’t know anyone who does,”
said Lisa.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well now
you know me,” he said, smiling at Lisa’s mom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“He seems nice enough,” she said as
they walked away. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When they got to the car, Lisa’s
eyes were tearing up and she wrapped her arms around her mother.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Just behave yourself, sweetie, be
a good girl and help <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>
as much as you can. You are the most
organized young person I know. It’s
fate. It’ll be fine. You’ll call me every Saturday, right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, Mom, I’m not sure I want to do
this. I’m gonna miss you guys so much.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Don’t be silly. Everything will be fine. I love you.
Now go.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lisa went to the door and watched
her mom drive around the circular flowerbed in the center of the parking lot
and out to the road. She was homesick
already.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When she got back upstairs, Gino
was still playing with the children. <i>He sure loves his kids</i>, Lisa thought and
smiled to see Gino down on his hands and knees with little Vincent struggling
to stay seated on his dad’s back. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Sharon</st1:city></st1:place> was washing dishes. Lisa offered, “I can do that if you want to
take your shower or something.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, I don’t know, Lisa. Housework was not supposed to be part of the
deal.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“No, I want to help you. And I know how dumb it sounds, but I like
doing housework” said Lisa.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Yeah, go take a shower and do
something with your hair,” Gino said.
“I’ve got the kids, so go.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city> smiled at Lisa and went through the
dining room to the hallway. Lisa loaded
the dishwasher and when it was full, she bent down, looked under the sink and
found the liquid detergent. When she
stood up she turned toward the living room.
Gino was watching her. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Why don’t you come over here and
tell me a little about yourself?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Um, if it’s okay I’d like to
finish here first,” she said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Gino smiled a lazy smile at her and
said, “Sure it’s okay. What ever you
wanna do, Lisa, is okay with me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lisa turned back to the sink,
filled it with hot water, and started washing the dishes that wouldn’t fit in the
dishwasher. For some reason she felt
uncomfortable. Her khaki shorts felt too
short and her smooth, tanned legs too long.
She kept her back to Gino and worked until all the dishes were washed,
the sinks scrubbed and the counters wiped down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Hey Lisa, c’mere a minute, will
you?” called <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>. “I didn’t even show you your room.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lisa walked through the dining room
and into the hallway as she had seen <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>
do. <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city> was there in the wide hall. Her short, dark, curly hair, still damp,
looked so pretty. She wore a flowered
summer sundress and sandals. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She took both of Lisa’s hands in
hers and said, “Thank you so much. It’s
good that I get to fix myself up a little for when Gino is home. C’mon let me show you the bedrooms.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Vincent and Maria shared a good size room that
looked much like the living room. Wall
to wall toys. Lisa would be across the
hall with Bella. Her room was picked up and recently vacuumed. A twin size bed with what looked like a new
comforter had been placed against one wall.
There was still plenty of room for Bella’s crib, a changing table, a
dresser and an old-fashioned rocking chair painted a soft sunset yellow.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I hope this will be alright,” said
<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>. She showed Lisa where Bella’s diapers and
clothes were kept. As they walked down
the hallway, she pointed to the room next to Bella’s. “This is Gino’s and my room. Lisa caught a glimpse of a king size bed,
ornate, expensive-looking furniture and clothes left scattered on the
floor. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“We’ll plan things out
tomorrow. I really have to start dinner
now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
They went back to the kitchen where
Lisa insisted on helping. She wasn’t
much of cook, but she made the salad while <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city> made sausage, potatoes, peppers and
onions for the adults. Gino changed out of
his work clothes into jeans and a tee shirt in the time it took Sharon and Lisa
to get the kids and their food settled at the table. <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>
reached for the hand of the child on either side of her and Gino took Vincent’s
hand in his and reached for Lisa’s right hand.
As she put her hand in his he gave it a slight squeeze and winked at
her. His hand was warm. As they said Grace, Lisa knew she was
blushing yet again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
After dinner, Gino put her bags in
Bella’s room while Lisa helped <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>
clean up. He and Sharon got the kids
ready for bed so Lisa could unpack and put things in the dresser and closet she
shared with the baby. <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city> came in to tell Lisa if she wanted to
shower or take a bath before bed, the bathroom was all hers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“There’s only the one bathroom, but
I’m sure we’ll manage,” said <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>. “The towels are in the linen closet in the
hall and if you need anything just holler.”
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>She
looks so tired</i>, thought Lisa. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“What time do you get up?” Lisa asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, I’m always up by five-thirty
at the latest. I make breakfast for Gino
and try to have a cup of coffee before the kids wake up around six.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I’ll set the alarm for six then,”
said Lisa yawning at the thought.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
As she was trying to fall asleep in the
strange room in an unfamiliar bed, she could hear Gino talking loud. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“A house for God’s sake? Don’t start with the house again. This place is free. Why should we get a house? So you can have more rooms to make messes
in?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The next morning Lisa woke to
bright sun shining in through the windows in the baby’s room. She jumped out of bed. There was no clock in her room so she hadn’t
set an alarm. She assumed that Bella’s
cries would wake her. Lisa pulled on her
shorts and peeked out the door. She
could hear <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>
in the kitchen with the kids.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>, I am so sorry,” she said. “There is no clock in Bella’s room.” <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>
looked up from the floor where she had corralled the kids. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Stop. I wanted you to sleep in today. I know yesterday was hard with the trip and
everything being so new. Grab some toast
or cereal or whatever. Just make your
self at home and we’ll talk. Do you
drink coffee? There’s some in the pot or
we can make fresh.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lisa collected a bowl, a spoon,
cereal, milk and orange juice and brought it to the table.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Thanks, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>, but is there an alarm I can use while
I’m here?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city> was giving Bella a bottle. Vincent was coloring on a big piece of paper
and Maria was sucking her thumb and
clutching a blanket. Lisa looked at the
rooster clock over the sink and saw that it was almost nine o’clock. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Where should I start?” Lisa asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“You know, Lis, I’ve been thinking
about that,” <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city> answered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She looked around as she said, “This kitchen has never been cleaner. I hate doing housework. Can you tell?
I’d much rather spend my day with the kids, so I wondered how you’d feel
about getting this place organized for me and keeping it clean. I’ll take care of the kids. We’ll just work together and figure out who
does what as we go along. Do you hate
the idea?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lisa thought about what she had
heard last night. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Not at all. I’m a freak, I know, but I love to clean and
sort and put things in order. You can
ask my mom. But you need to show me
about the kids so I can watch them when you’re shopping or out with friends.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“That’s a laugh. I don’t know if I have any friends left and I
haven’t been shopping in forever.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lisa felt bad for her then. She was too nice and so young to be so tied
down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I
could start in the living room, if you want. I’ll make a list of things we need, like bins
for toys and stuff. Can we go out later
and get them? Or wait. I’ll make the list and you can go out by
yourself and get what we need. How’s
that?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Out by myself? Sounds like heaven!” <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>
crawled over to the table, dragged Lisa out of her chair to the floor and
hugged her hard. “We are going to be
such good friends,” she said. “I just
know we are.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She took Bella to her room to put
her down for a nap and then called Vincent and Maria so she could dress them. They held hands as they toddled toward their
room.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lisa looked over at the mess in the
living room and mentally put things in baskets and plastic bins. She pulled a piece of paper from a notepad on
the fridge and looked in kitchen drawers until she found a pencil. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
While <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city> was out getting groceries and the
things on Lisa’s list, Maria fell asleep on</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the carpet and Vincent “helped” Lisa clean the kitchen. Then they folded laundry and put it away. He was a good little boy and had the longest
eyelashes and most beautiful eyes she had ever seen. <i>He
looks just like his dad</i>, Lisa thought.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
When <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city> came home, she
gave Maria and Vincent lunch and put them down for naps. Lisa brought the groceries upstairs and then started
sorting toys and books into containers. Bella
woke up and her mom went to get her changed, bathed and dressed. Lisa dusted and vacuumed the now well-ordered
living room. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Is one person really supposed to
be able to do all this by herself?” Lisa
asked <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I guess so, but I’ve never been
able to. That’s why it’s so great you’re
here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Sharon and Lisa both got cleaned up
and then took the kids for a walk.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Mr. O’Hara, the man across from
you? He seems nice,” said Lisa.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Yeah, he is. I feel sorry for him though,” said <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>. “He spends so much time alone. His wife died almost five years ago. They never had any children and most of his
friends have either moved away or died.
Sometimes I make extra for dinner and take it to him. He’s really nice to talk to,” she said, eyes
lowered, looking down at the top of Bella’s head. “He used to be a teacher. He reads to the kids when I bring them over. They love him.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“But then who does he play chess
with?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, that’s the funny thing,”
said <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>, as
she pulled Bella’s sunbonnet down toward her face, “He and his wife traveled a
lot during the summers and after he retired.
He knows people all over the world.
He plays chess with some of them by mail. No one ever comes by, that I’ve seen.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
As they crossed a busy street, Lisa
made sure she held Vincent’s small hand tightly in hers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“He could just play with them on
the computer,” said Lisa.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I know, but he says this is the
way they’ve always played. He makes a
move then mails it to whoever he’s playing with and waits for them to mail
their next move to him. Sometimes he’s
got three or four games going at once. Why? Do you know how to play?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“No, I don’t think I could sit still long
enough to play a game of chess. It takes
like hours, doesn’t it? I like to keep
busy.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“He’s kind of quiet, Lis, but if
you ever need anything when we’re not around, don’t be afraid to ask him. He’s almost always home and his door is
usually open.” Here her voice dropped
almost to a whisper, “But listen, please don’t say anything to Gino about me
taking the kids to Mr. O’Hara’s, okay?
Gino says he doesn’t trust him.
He thinks the kids and I should stay away from him.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Why? He seems okay.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“That’s just Gino. He’s very protective of me and the kids.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
They walked the children through
the park on the way back to the apartment, taking turns carrying Maria. <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Sharon</st1:city></st1:place>
asked Lisa if she missed having her friends around. Lisa explained they were keeping in touch by
texting, tweeting and emails, but she stilled missed seeing them and was
jealous of all the time they were spending together.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“We’ll have to see about getting
you home a couple weekends this summer,”
said <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Sharon</st1:city></st1:place>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“That would be great!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“This is such a gift, Lisa, that
you said you’d come help me. Look at all
you got done in one day. Gino will be so
happy when he sees the living room. He
hates to come home to a messy house. You
should see his parent’s house. It’s like
nobody lives there,” she laughed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The kids were tired and cranky by
the time they got back. Lisa suggested
that she feed them and get them ready for bed so Gino and Sharon could have
dinner alone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I don’t know, he likes the kids to
be around when he comes home,” said <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>. “And what about you, you have to eat.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I’ll eat with the kids. If you just tell me what to make for them, I
can feed them. Bella already had a bath
today, right? So it’s just Vincent and
Maria. I can do them, easy. Then Gino can play with them while you finish
making dinner. I’ll put them to bed and
you guys can eat.” <i>God, thought Lisa, how does she do this every day by herself? </i>If Gino wanted<i> </i>to spend time with his children when he came home, he could give
them a bath and help <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>
out. Of course, Lisa would never say
this to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>
and for sure not to Gino.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Everything went just as they’d
planned. <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city> was glowing about the spur of the
moment, romantic dinner for two<i>. </i>Although Gino had not been thrilled that
the kids weren’t going to eat with them, he calmed down when he saw the living
room. He put his arm around Lisa’s shoulders
like he was going to give her a hug, but Lisa stepped away, saying she wanted
to give Bella her bottle and put her to bed.
<i>He isn’t very nice to his wife. It’s like he ignores her most of the time, </i>thought
Lisa<i>.</i> <i> </i>She was in Bella’s room, rocking
the baby to sleep, when she heard Gino say, “I want my children at the table
from now on! We eat as a family in this
house.”<i> </i> Poor <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The next morning Lisa woke at six
when the clock radio <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>
got for her went off. She was on her way
to the bathroom when she bumped into Gino in the hall. He was dressed for work and smelled really good.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he
whispered to her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Hi,” she said and ducked into the
bathroom and locked the door. She took
her shower and dressed for the day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He was still there when she went
into the kitchen. She had thought about
asking <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>
if she could work on Gino’s and her bedroom and do some more laundry for her
today, but Gino was at the table. She didn’t like to ask in front of him. He was
reading the paper and feeding Cheerios to Maria and Vincent. <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Sharon</st1:city></st1:place>
wore an old tee shirt and sweat pants and was making breakfast for her
husband. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Hey, Lisa. There is really no reason for you to get up
this early, babe. Are you gonna stay up
or do you want to climb back in bed for a while?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lisa said she’d stay up and got
herself a cup of coffee, which she drank standing in the doorway.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I was thinking I might go clothes
shopping while the kids take their naps this afternoon. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What do you say?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Great. I was just gonna do some cleaning and laundry
today.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Okay then. We’re all set. Want some breakfast?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Not just yet,” said Lisa. How ‘bout if I go and get Bella and give her
a bath?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Perfect, then you and I can have
breakfast when Gino leaves.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city> turned back to the stove and Gino
looked over the paper at Lisa and gave her a big smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“So you girls got this all worked
out, huh?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Mostly,” said Lisa. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Hey, that living room looks
fantastic.” he said. “Now if only my
wife here can keep it that way.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It was on the tip of Lisa’s tongue
to tell him he could pick up the toys once in awhile, but instead she said,
“I’m gonna get Bella.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lisa and Sharon lingered over
breakfast after Gino left. Lisa had
started a load of towels and was playing
with the children while <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>
showered and got ready to go out. Lisa
asked <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>
about cleaning and organizing the master bedroom and she had agreed it could
use some work. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Just don’t touch anything of
Gino’s, okay? He doesn’t like anybody
messing with his things.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city> warmed leftover pasta for the two
older children, while Lisa gave Bella some baby applesauce and her bottle. <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>
left and Lisa put all the kids down for their nap.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She gathered the cleaning supplies
and the vacuum and started in on Sharon and Gino’s room. She stripped the sheets off the bed, remade
it with clean sheets from the linen closet and had just started dusting when
she heard the front door open. It was
way too soon for <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>
to be back. Lisa stepped into the
hallway just as Gino appeared. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Hey, Lisa, I thought I’d stop by
and see how things were going,” he smiled, coming close to her. Lisa backed away from him but he grabbed her
arm before she could get to her room. He
ran his fingers through her hair and let his fingers trace around her neck to
the top of her breasts. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lisa was stunned by his actions. She pushed his hand away and said, “<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city> should be back any
minute and I’ve got stuff to do.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Gino laughed. He grabbed her upper arms and pulled her to
him, attempting to kiss her as she twisted her head away from him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“No, Gino. No way.
Please leave me alone.” Lisa was
terrified and her eyes filled with tears.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“You’re a little tease, you know
that don’t you, Lisa?” He held her away
from him, at arm length, letting his eyes play over her body. His face was ugly now, dark eyes hard with
anger. “You prance around in those
shorts and tight tee shirts and expect me not to notice?” He grabbed her wrists.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lisa was crying now and fighting to
pull away from him, but he had hold of her and was forcing her toward his bedroom. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Daddy? Are you home from work?” Vincent was standing in the doorway of his room.
Gino stepped quickly away from Lisa.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Yeah, buddy. Just for a minute. I forgot some papers I need for work. Come give me a hug and get back in bed.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Gino leaned toward Lisa and
whispered fiercely in her ear, “Not a word about this. Do you hear me?” Lisa nodded her frightened assent. “No one will believe you anyway,” he said
grinning at her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He leaned over Vincent, hugged him
once, patted him on the bottom and said, “Go finish your nap, son. I’ll see you at dinner.” The little boy did as he was told.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Gino turned and left and Lisa went
into the living room, threw herself on the sofa and sobbed. She so wanted to call her mom and tell her
what happened and ask her to come and get her.
And yet she was afraid to. What
if he was right and no one did believe her? What if <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city>
thought she did tease Gino into coming after her? She couldn’t go back in the bedroom. She was afraid to be by herself. She opened the door to the hall and there was
Mr. O’Hara sitting at his chess table.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Lisa,” he said without looking up,
“I’ve been thinking. Would you like to
learn how to play chess?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh yes,” she said, sobs catching
in her throat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“You should come every day for a
bit. I don’t think <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sharon</st1:place></st1:city> would mind. We could leave both doors open so you can
listen for the children. This is a good
time for you when they are taking their
naps, yes?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lisa looked back toward the
D’Angelos’ bedroom. “Yes,” she murmured.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Well then, why don’t you have a
seat and we can have our first lesson.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lisa was so grateful for the older man’s
company she was afraid she might cry again.
She crossed the hall and sat down at the chess table.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Mr. O’Hara looked for a long moment
through his open doorway, across the hallway and into the D’Angelos’ apartment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“The King, of course, appears to be
the most important piece, Lisa, but he is also the weakest. Do you understand?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lisa looked up at him and
whispered, “I think so. Maybe”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Not to worry. We will talk more about his shortcomings as
we progress. Let’s begin."<br />
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> Mr. O’Hara said not a word about her swollen
red eyes and her messy hair. He started
by naming the individual pieces on the board for her and telling her how each
one moved.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
</div>MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-72766422462364890592012-03-19T14:12:00.001-04:002012-03-25T01:25:17.968-04:00Cycles Of Waiting: An Interview With Siobhan FallonMany thanks to Shana at Her Circle for her swift publication if this interview! I love Siobhan. How can you not? <a href="http://www.hercircleezine.com/2012/03/19/cycles-of-waiting-an-interview-with-siobhan-fallon/">http://www.hercircleezine.com/2012/03/19/cycles-of-waiting-an-interview-with-siobhan-fallon/</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>CYCLES OF WAITING: </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>AN INTERVIEW WITH SIOBHAN
FALLON<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<i>Siobhan Fallon is a remarkable
writer and mother, who also happens to be a military wife. She survived several
difficult years of living on insulated Army bases while her husband was
deployed. Most recently she capably dealt with a move from the Middle East to
Falls Church, Virginia during Christmas week - while battling a killer sinus
infection, caring for a sick child and looking for a rental house. Her first
novel, </i><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/you-know-when-the-men-are-gone-siobhan-fallon/1100170405?ean=9780451234391"><i><span style="color: red; text-decoration: none;">You</span></i></a><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/you-know-when-the-men-are-gone-siobhan-fallon/1100170405?ean=9780451234391"><i><span style="color: red; text-decoration: none;"> </span></i></a><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/you-know-when-the-men-are-gone-siobhan-fallon/1100170405?ean=9780451234391"><i><span style="color: red; text-decoration: none;">Know</span></i></a><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/you-know-when-the-men-are-gone-siobhan-fallon/1100170405?ean=9780451234391"><i><span style="color: red; text-decoration: none;"> </span></i></a><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/you-know-when-the-men-are-gone-siobhan-fallon/1100170405?ean=9780451234391"><i><span style="color: red; text-decoration: none;">When</span></i></a><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/you-know-when-the-men-are-gone-siobhan-fallon/1100170405?ean=9780451234391"><i><span style="color: red; text-decoration: none;"> </span></i></a><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/you-know-when-the-men-are-gone-siobhan-fallon/1100170405?ean=9780451234391"><i><span style="color: red; text-decoration: none;">The</span></i></a><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/you-know-when-the-men-are-gone-siobhan-fallon/1100170405?ean=9780451234391"><i><span style="color: red; text-decoration: none;"> </span></i></a><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/you-know-when-the-men-are-gone-siobhan-fallon/1100170405?ean=9780451234391"><i><span style="color: red; text-decoration: none;">Men</span></i></a><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/you-know-when-the-men-are-gone-siobhan-fallon/1100170405?ean=9780451234391"><i><span style="color: red; text-decoration: none;"> </span></i></a><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/you-know-when-the-men-are-gone-siobhan-fallon/1100170405?ean=9780451234391"><i><span style="color: red; text-decoration: none;">Are</span></i></a><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/you-know-when-the-men-are-gone-siobhan-fallon/1100170405?ean=9780451234391"><i><span style="color: red; text-decoration: none;"> </span></i></a><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/you-know-when-the-men-are-gone-siobhan-fallon/1100170405?ean=9780451234391"><i><span style="color: red; text-decoration: none;">Gone</span></i></a><i><span style="color: red;"> </span>(Amy Einhorn Books/Putnam) is a collection of
intelligent, heart-wrenching, unforgettable stories. </i>(<b><i>MaryAnne
Kolton</i>)<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b><i>MaryAnne</i></b><i> </i> <i>My first question is going to be a compound
one. Who are you? Where did you grow up?
Brothers and sisters? What was your family like? What drew you to
reading as a child? Please let us know a bit about the "you" before
you became the wife of a soldier.<b><o:p></o:p></b></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>Siobhan </b> I come
from a family of bartenders. My father was born in Ireland and came over to New
York at sixteen, working his way through high school in Queens, doing a stint
in the Army during Vietnam, then settling down when he married my mother. They
chose to live in the small town of Highland Falls, about an hour north of New
York City, because my father fell in love and purchased a bar/restaurant there,
the South Gate Tavern. Part of this particular Irish pub’s charm is that it
stands right outside of the front, or south, gate of the United States Military
Academy at West Point. And in a small town like ours, where everyone has gone
to school with everyone else, the South Gate Tavern has become a large part of
my family’s identity.</div>
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<o:p> </o:p>I credit bartending with teaching me as much about story
writing as my MFA. There’s a tradition in my family of sitting around the
kitchen table with hot cups of tea and sharing whatever wild happenings
unfolded at the bar the night before, and we had to vie for the best hook to
get our listeners’ attention, the best delivery and story arc.There are the
mundane moments to bartending — handing people their pints as they watch Army
football games, refilling the hand soap in the ladies room, washing glasses
until your knuckles ache from the hot water. But there are a lot of
transformations as well, from the shift of a mellow after-work-crowd to the
take-it-to-the-face college kids or soldiers, to the fellow in the bar stool in
front of you slowly changing from sober to drunk. People of course have a
tendency to reveal secrets, to say and do incredible things when they have been
freed by a touch of alcohol. The bartender is the observer, the person who
tries to keep things easy, handing out vodka or conversation or music on the
jukebox, but she is never truly part of the party, she is outside of it all,
aware and ready.<br />
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<br /></div>
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Bartending taught me to examine both the small gestures and
the life-changing ones, to take note of the careful beat of human emotions, to
watch and listen and remember.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i>MaryAnne </i></b><i>Such great links and connections
here. The family bar, a small community in<b><o:p></o:p></b></i></div>
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<i>its own way, the military base, also a community within a
confined space, followed by<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>your collected, interconnected stories, <u>You Know When
the Men Are Gone.</u><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Sounds like you’ve been collecting and compiling for a
long time. When did you first<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>decide you wanted to write these narratives?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<b>Siobhan</b> I
began writing these stories when I was living at Fort Hood, Texas. My<b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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husband had already deployed to Iraq and was getting ready
to deploy again when I</div>
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began the title story “You Know When the Men Are Gone.”
During his first deployment out</div>
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of Hood, I found myself alone in an empty house with
unpacked boxes, not knowing my</div>
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way around the base or how to navigate the intricacies of
military spouse life. Less than</div>
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a year and a half after my husband returned, he deployed to
Iraq again. By the time that</div>
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tour rolled around, I was more connected with the Army
community, had made incredible</div>
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friends I could depend on, and had given birth to our
daughter. In the course of those</div>
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deployments, I went from being a shy and somewhat misplaced
wife to being a spouse</div>
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who could handle a deployment with knowledge and confidence.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And, yes, you are so right, a military base is a confined
community, much like living in a</div>
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very, VERY small town. The soldiers work together on base,
or, more intimately, spend an</div>
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entire year deployed together, while the spouses attend
company picnics and meetings,</div>
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shop at the PX or Commissary, go to the same military
doctors, perhaps live in the same</div>
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on-base housing development. So there tends to be a great
deal of overlap in the</div>
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professional and personal. You can’t help but learn details
about peoples’ lives that you</div>
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wouldn’t necessarily hear in the civilian world. The Army
also tries to instill a collective</div>
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feeling of soldiers, as well as spouses, taking care of each
other and “watching each</div>
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other’s backs.” This blurring between friendship and
responsibility can make it difficult to</div>
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draw the line between being helpful and being downright
nosy.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Add the detail that Army housing is notorious for having
thin walls, and, well, of course I</div>
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had to write a story about eavesdropping, about knowing too
much about your neighbor.</div>
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Eavesdropping comes up again and again in my collection, it
is something I am fascinated</div>
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with, how an eavesdropper, at best, will only get bits and
pieces of the life they are</div>
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trying to listen in on. There will be countless inaccuracies
and the eavesdropper can’t help</div>
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but unconsciously supply what they want, or don’t want, to
hear. It seems like an allegory</div>
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of loved ones separated by deployments.</div>
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<br /></div>
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With such a chasm of distance and time, a spouse can never
get the whole story of what their mate is going through. No matter how much a
couple tries to communicate, moments and memories will be lost. You can’t fill
in all the details of twelve or fifteen months apart with dropped calls or
sporadic email or Skype sessions. And with this nebulous unknown growing
between two people, each person can’t help but imagine what might be happening
to the person they love. Sometimes these
imaginings will be right, sometimes they will be wildly wrong.</div>
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<b><i>MaryAnne</i></b><i> </i> <i>Having been known to eavesdrop - on rare
occasions - I do agree that most often details important to the whole remain
unknown. Moving back to <u>You Know When
the Men Are Gone</u>, the story “Inside The Break” is a perfect example of how
strong a woman can become given a certain situation. I admired Kailani so much
for her bravery in not questioning her husband.
I didn’t think much of Natalya in the title story at first, but found
her endearing and courageous when she did what she had to do to save her self.
All of the characters in these stories seem to be making decisions outside of
real time. Does that make sense to you?<b><o:p></o:p></b></i></div>
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<b>Siobhan</b> I am
so relieved that you found Kailani brave. I do too, and she is the character
that seems to bother readers the most. I have read reviews and blogs that take
issue with her acceptance of the possibility of Manny straying, and I am often
asked during book club discussions if Manny indeed committed adultery. When I
say an apologetic “yes,” people react strongly, some readers sigh and say to
their friends, “I told you so,”<b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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and others have said to me, “Well, I don’t think he did.” So
the story has a tendency to</div>
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touch a nerve. For me as the writer, it wasn’t really a tale
of adultery, it was, as you</div>
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point out, another example of a character having to do
something to save himself. Kailani</div>
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comes to the realization that her husband may have seen and
done things when he was</div>
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deployed that he would never do when he was safe at home
with his family, and she</div>
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forgives all of it, accepts him, moves forward.</div>
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<br /></div>
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In regard to making decisions outside of real time, I guess
I didn’t want the characters’</div>
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decision making process to be completely translucent.
Especially in the title story, when</div>
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everything about Natalya is filtered through Meg’s slightly
skewed vision. And Kailani’s</div>
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dedication to allowing Manny to keep his secrets, well, I
think she surprises herself there.</div>
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Her first reaction when she finds out about his affair is
indignation, grief, determination</div>
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to leave him—the rational reactions I think most American
women would have in her</div>
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shoes. Kailani doesn’t count on her suave husband returning
haggard and a bit broken,</div>
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doesn’t realize that she will swerve from wanting the truth
to unthinkingly and fiercely</div>
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wanting to protect him, wanting to keep him and her family
intact above all else. I think</div>
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people make emotional choices like this all the time, and
they aren’t necessarily wrong.</div>
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But they may be something we live with for a lifetime.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i>MaryAnne</i></b>
<i>What did your friends on the base think about the book? Is it possible any of<b><o:p></o:p></b></i></div>
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<i>them will recognize their experiences in your stories?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>Siobhan</b> To
tell you the truth, I was a little worried about what friends at Fort Hood,<b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Texas, would say. We
moved from Fort Hood to the Defense Language Institute of</div>
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Monterey, CA, in July of 2009 and the hardcover came out in
January of 2011. Some close</div>
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military friends in California had read the galleys of the
book and, the way friends ought</div>
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to, spoke positively and said the stories resonated with
them. But, really, what else could</div>
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they say?</div>
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<br /></div>
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The first stop on my national tour was at a huge Barnes and
Noble bookstore just outside</div>
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of Fort Hood. I was scared to death. Scared because I am
always terrified when I show up</div>
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at a bookstore 1) because I get quite nervous speaking in
public and 2) I have no idea if</div>
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anyone will come to hear me read. But that night was a full
house, no empty chairs,</div>
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people were standing in the aisles with their
baby-strollers, and afterwards it took me an</div>
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hour to sign books for those waiting. But best of all,
everyone seemed to like it, so many</div>
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people came up and thanked me, nobody threw rotten tomatoes
or hissed.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Members of my Family Readiness Group were there, as well as
old neighbors, so it really felt like an extraordinary moment of having both
friends and the Fort Hood community behind me.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And, to specifically answer your question, no one has ever
asked me if a particular story</div>
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was written about them. I would have been devastated if my
craft wasn’t strong enough</div>
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to weave truths into fiction. Of course I was inspired by
issues that seemed to come up</div>
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again and again when soldiers deploy. I’ve seen quite a few
soldiers with the sort of</div>
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boot/cast that my character Kit Murphy wears, and I would
often wonder what had</div>
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happened to them. My husband, when he was a Company
Commander at Fort Hood while</div>
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I was writing the stories, had soldiers in his unit who had
sustained serious injuries due</div>
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to IEDs. And, unfortunately, I would occasionally hear
rumors about spouses having</div>
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affairs while their soldiers were away, or, more rarely, I’d
learn of a spouse who was</div>
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afraid her deployed soldier was carrying-on with another
soldier. So while I wanted the</div>
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stories to feel as real as possible, I also very carefully
constructed the backgrounds</div>
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and love lives and experiences of my characters so that they
were very different from the</div>
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people we knew.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i>MaryAnne</i></b><i>
<b><o:p></o:p></b></i></div>
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<i>From “Leave” <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>“Nick held on to his knife all
through dinner, listening to<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>another man tease his daughter,
listening to another man chew and eat his wife’s<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i>food....opening beer bottles and
quenching his thirst with all that Nick loved.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>From “Gold Star” - <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>“It was the moments in between
that she (Josie) was the most afraid<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>of forgetting, the small moments
that were too ordinary for photographs.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>While I loved all the stories in the collection, “Leave
and “Gold Star” were the hardest for<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>me to read. Two
completely opposite characters, both emotionally victimized by a war<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>beyond their control. I so wanted for Nick and Josie just
to be “normal” again with no<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>memories of the past. Can you tell me a little about how
they affected you?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>Siobhan </b> An IED
explosion is mentioned in the third story of the collection. That attack<b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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reverberates throughout the book, dominating some of the
stories. One of the characters</div>
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most affected by the attack is the spouse who is made a
widow, Josie Schaeffer, the</div>
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protagonist of “Gold Star.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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This final story is a military spouse’s worst nightmare, so,
yes, it was difficult to write. I</div>
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had a very clear mental image of a woman surrounded by
photos of her soldier husband,</div>
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and how those static pictures might begin to alter her
memory of him, reduce him to</div>
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posed, flat images devoid of the moments that create a life.
I am not, thankfully, a war</div>
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widow, but when my husband was deployed, it was the small
moments that I found most</div>
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devastating. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Sure, it was tough when he missed my birthday, an
anniversary, or Christmas, but I could be prepared for the holidays. The times
that snuck up on me were harder to control: seeing the food he loved at the
grocery store, glimpsing his winter coats hanging in the closet, seeing men
playing soccer and for a moment thinking my husband was running across the
field with them. Those moments seemed the most laden with grief for me
separated from my spouse for a year at a time, and, I imagined, for a new
widow.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I also wanted to give readers more than the stereotypical
image of a widow holding a</div>
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folded flag at a military funeral, I wanted to show all of
her mixed emotions: rage, grief, confusion, regret. It was important for me to
demonstrate that Josie has a future ahead</div>
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of her, which is why I brought in a character who appears
earlier, Kit Murphy. Kit was hurt</div>
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in the same IED explosion that killed Josie’s husband, and
his own life has been</div>
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irrevocably changed by the injuries he sustained. Kit and
Josie’s friendship seemed like a</div>
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way to offer redemption to both of them, and also to end the
book on a hopeful note.</div>
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I’ll admit that I still tear up reading the last paragraph
of “Gold Star,” because I know</div>
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what my husband’s camouflage uniform feels like against my
cheek, and I can’t imagine</div>
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what life would be like if I was never able to rest my cheek
there again.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Writing “Leave” was a bit of a departure. There is a
fantastical, almost ghost story</div>
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element to it, so it felt more separate from my own military
spouse experience. And it</div>
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was almost fun to indulge in the spooky elements of a
stranger lurking in the basement</div>
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while a woman and child ignorantly go about their lives
above. Nick is the husband and</div>
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father, and yet his deployment, the constant uncertainties
of his time in Iraq, have</div>
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transformed him.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I originally wrote it with a very different ending. I don’t
want to spoil anything for those</div>
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who haven’t read the collection, but earlier drafts had Nick
walking out of the house and</div>
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heading back to Iraq instead of standing over his wife’s bed
in the middle of the night.</div>
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But my literary agent, Lorin Rees, as well as my husband,
told me that this</div>
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bomb-diffused kind of ending would never work with the
character I had created, that if</div>
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Nick had gone to these lengths to hide and spy on his
family, he would never be able to</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
meekly disappear. That’s when the story became a lot less
“fun” for me, with many, many</div>
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rewrites. Like you, I cared too much for Nick and didn’t
want things to go off the deep</div>
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end. But ultimately I had to be true to the story rather
than make my character do</div>
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something that wasn’t in his nature.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i>MaryAnne </i></b><i> I love ambiguous endings because they force
the reader to become more invested in the outcome. . .I hear you are working on
a new book and can’t wait to read it.
Any hints as to content?<b><o:p></o:p></b></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>Siobhan<i> </i></b> Yes, I am working on a novel. My family and I
were recently stationed in Amman, Jordan, while my husband helped train
Jordanian soldiers in multi-national operations. It was obviously a very
exciting time to be living and traveling in the Middle East, waiting to see
where the Arab Spring would take root next. My daughter and I were lucky enough
to be able to join my husband on his trips to the Sultanate of Oman, Saudi
Arabia, and the United Arab Emirates. So naturally a large part of the novel is
about an American family trying to make sense of an Arab world very different
than their own.<b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And thank you, MaryAnne, this has
been a really lovely interview with insightful questions no one has asked
before! So good of you to take the time to chat with me.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i>MaryAnne</i></b><i> Siobhan, it was absolutely my pleasure. You
are so generous and forthcoming. I am looking forward to reading the new book.<b><o:p></o:p></b></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 8pt;">Siobhan
Fallon is a military spouse and writer whose husband has deployed three times
to the Middle East, including two tours to Iraq out of Fort Hood. She and her
family have recently moved from Amman, Jordan, to Falls Church, Virginia, where
her husband remains an active duty Army officer. Her stories and essays have
appeared in <i>Publishers’ Weekly, Women’s Day, Good Housekeeping, New Letters
and Salamander</i>, among others. <i>You Know When The Men Are Gone </i>earned
a spot on several Best of 2011 Lists including</span><span style="color: #5e5927; font-size: 8pt;"> </span><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/25/books/janet-maslins-recommendations.html?_r=3"><i><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">New</span></i></a><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/25/books/janet-maslins-recommendations.html?_r=3"><i><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">
</span></i></a><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/25/books/janet-maslins-recommendations.html?_r=3"><i><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">York</span></i></a><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/25/books/janet-maslins-recommendations.html?_r=3"><i><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">
</span></i></a><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/25/books/janet-maslins-recommendations.html?_r=3"><i><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">Times</span></i></a><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/25/books/janet-maslins-recommendations.html?_r=3"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">
</span></a><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/25/books/janet-maslins-recommendations.html?_r=3"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">Janet</span></a><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/25/books/janet-maslins-recommendations.html?_r=3"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">
</span></a><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/25/books/janet-maslins-recommendations.html?_r=3"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">Maslin</span></a><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/25/books/janet-maslins-recommendations.html?_r=3"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">
</span></a><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/25/books/janet-maslins-recommendations.html?_r=3"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">Book</span></a><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/25/books/janet-maslins-recommendations.html?_r=3"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">
</span></a><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/25/books/janet-maslins-recommendations.html?_r=3"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">Picks</span></a><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/25/books/janet-maslins-recommendations.html?_r=3"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">
</span></a><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/25/books/janet-maslins-recommendations.html?_r=3"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">of</span></a><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/25/books/janet-maslins-recommendations.html?_r=3"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">
2011</span></a><span style="font-size: 8pt;"> and </span><a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2011/12/23/RVOV1MF9LM.DTL&ao=all"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">The</span></a><a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2011/12/23/RVOV1MF9LM.DTL&ao=all"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">
</span></a><a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2011/12/23/RVOV1MF9LM.DTL&ao=all"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">San</span></a><a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2011/12/23/RVOV1MF9LM.DTL&ao=all"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">
</span></a><a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2011/12/23/RVOV1MF9LM.DTL&ao=all"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">Francisco</span></a><a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2011/12/23/RVOV1MF9LM.DTL&ao=all"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">
</span></a><a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2011/12/23/RVOV1MF9LM.DTL&ao=all"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">Chronicle</span></a><span style="font-size: 8pt;"> . It is now
available in paperback. Siobhan is currently working on a novel and writing a
monthly fiction series for</span><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt;"> </span><a href="http://www.milspouse.com/"><i><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">Military</span></i></a><a href="http://www.milspouse.com/"><i><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;"> </span></i></a><a href="http://www.milspouse.com/"><i><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">Spouse</span></i></a><a href="http://www.milspouse.com/"><i><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;"> </span></i></a><a href="http://www.milspouse.com/"><i><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">Magazine</span></i></a><a href="http://www.milspouse.com/"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 8pt;">.</span></a><span style="font-size: 8pt;"> She earned her MFA from the New School in New York
City. She can be found at facebook and </span><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt;"> </span><a href="http://siobhanfallon.com/author.html"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">http</span></a><a href="http://siobhanfallon.com/author.html"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">://</span></a><a href="http://siobhanfallon.com/author.html"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">siobhanfallon</span></a><a href="http://siobhanfallon.com/author.html"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">.</span></a><a href="http://siobhanfallon.com/author.html"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">com</span></a><a href="http://siobhanfallon.com/author.html"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">/</span></a><a href="http://siobhanfallon.com/author.html"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">author</span></a><a href="http://siobhanfallon.com/author.html"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">.</span></a><a href="http://siobhanfallon.com/author.html"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">html</span></a><span style="font-size: 8pt;"> and</span><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt;">
</span><a href="http://siobhanfallon.com/blog/"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">http</span></a><a href="http://siobhanfallon.com/blog/"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">://</span></a><a href="http://siobhanfallon.com/blog/"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">siobhanfallon</span></a><a href="http://siobhanfallon.com/blog/"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">.</span></a><a href="http://siobhanfallon.com/blog/"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">com</span></a><a href="http://siobhanfallon.com/blog/"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">/</span></a><a href="http://siobhanfallon.com/blog/"><span style="color: #d40000; font-size: 8pt; text-decoration: none;">blog</span></a><span style="font-size: 8pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8pt;">Author
Photo: <b>Creative Images Photography</b> -
<b>Larry Nordwick</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<br /></div>MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-33341316834609204202012-03-10T12:00:00.000-05:002012-03-10T12:00:58.468-05:00Lost In Thought Issue 2<span style="font-size: large;">This is stunning! JLD and I both have stories in this issue. Thank you Kyle Schuder.</span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="issue preview" src="http://s3.amazonaws.com/storage5.magcloud.com/image/2df336f690fa2f41a6e8b078c64a17a3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><ul class="share group" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #383131; font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<li style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; display: inline-block; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><a href="http://www.magcloud.com/browse/issue/345833">Show Preview</a></li>
</ul>
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</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: #383131; font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Each issue of Lost in Thought pairs a writer with either a photographer or illustrator. The result is 84 pages of great fiction, photography and illustration.</span>
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</div>MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-13503858560100466302012-03-01T13:15:00.002-05:002012-03-02T12:12:29.916-05:00A Perfect Family House<i>Many thanks to Shana at Her Circle Magazine for publishing this story. "Kate" is my friend.</i><br />
<a href="http://www.hercircleezine.com/2012/03/01/a-perfect-family-house-by-maryanne-kolton/">http://www.hercircleezine.com/2012/03/01/a-perfect-family-house-by-maryanne-kolton/</a>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>A Perfect Family House</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
by MaryAnne Kolton</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Kate begged off
carpooling that day and cancelled a dentist appointment. She waited until her two oldest, Michael, age
six, and Amanda, age four, had been picked up by an obliging neighbor, to be delivered
to the grade school and pre-kindergarten.
At nine o’clock, she gave Lyssa, her eleven-month-old daughter, a bottle
laced with two-milligrams of crushed Xanax, held her over her shoulder smoothing
her back until she slept. As she carried
her up the stairs, Kate sang softly into the sweet smelling spot on her baby’s
neck just below her seashell ear,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Pack up all your
care and woe, here we go, night, night Lyssa.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
She placed her in
her crib, laying her carefully on her back and then, with just a moment’s hesitation,
placed the palm of one hand over the baby’s mouth and held her nose closed with
the other. Lyssa squirmed for a second
or two and lay still. Kate covered her,
brushed a few silky, dark hairs back from her baby’s forehead and walked from
the nursery down the back staircase to the kitchen.</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Bill saw the young
Patrolman, Jason Testa, at the corner of the house, head down, kicking up snow,
struggling to keep from loosing it. He
covered the space between them in long strides.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Jason?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Not really a question, more of an acknowledgement. The younger man looked up, his face twisted
with anguish and began to sob. Bill Ackerman
locked his arm around the younger cop’s muscled shoulders and walked him away
from the crowd of photographers that gathered like a swarm of wasps. Ackerman tightened his grip while the young
man tried to deal with the sight of three body bags containing very small
children being carried from the house and gently loaded into waiting vans as
though they were still fragile.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“ Babies,” Jason choked out. “I
have kids and . . .” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Jason, I have kids and grandkids too. I know this sucks, but it’s gonna be a long
day and I need to be able to count on you,”
Bill said quietly, leaning in toward the young cop. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Jason swiped at his face with his gloves. His leather jacket creaked as he straightened
his back, popped his neck once and headed toward the house. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Taking the bottle
of Xanax from her sweater pocket and drawing the medium-sized marble mortar and
pestle across the granite work counter, Kate counted out twelve more tabs. Disconnected and trembling, she crushed these
into powder and covered the bowl with plastic wrap. She did two loads of laundry and cleaned the
wood floors in the front of the house, trying to keep busy, while she waited
for Amanda.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
When Sergeant Bill
Ackerman first arrived at the scene he was momentarily blinded by all the
lights. Powerful floods lit the front of
the house like a stage set. Forensic
lights, camera flashes, video mounts and the red and blue pulsing interval
lights of over a dozen squad cars fought for his attention. He strained to focus against the super bright
coronas circling all the different crime scene illumination. Paramedics paced back and forth between their
vehicles or sat inside trying to stay warm.
The seasoned drivers from the Coroner’s Office stood by their vans,
smoked and waited for someone to tell them when they could pack up the
bodies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Sometimes it was
easy to be jealous of these new kids who came equipped with six packs instead
of paunches. Not tonight. This was the kind of night when more than a
few years of seeing the worst that human beings do to each other has taught you
to compartmentalize so you can do your job and not become enmeshed in rage,
emotional attachments and grief. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Bill had the
advantage of working most of his career in a big city and then had come out
here to work in a relatively crime free suburb.
He’d seen it all. Jason was still
new on the job and had not yet learned how to step outside himself and just get
on with it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
The State Police and news helicopters hovering above the leafless trees,
strafing the adjacent snow filled yards with their searchlights, signaled a
tragedy of major proportions. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Pendley was a small college town and the house was located in a tight-knit
neighborhood of century old, carefully restored or redone Victorians. It was populated mostly by younger couples with
growing children. All lured by its <i>Best
Place In The USA To Raise A Family</i> fame. The community was safe, conservative and
affluent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Josh and Kate Quinty decided if they were
going to start a family they would need a bigger house. One of the over-large Victorian homes near
the private college in the center of town would be perfect. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m thinking a
place big enough to have an office and a small conference room,” he told me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
His current position
as a hedge fund manager in a city twenty miles from Pendley was a job he could
do from home. They were not afraid of a
fixer upper. Her salary as CFO of a prominent marketing firm combined with his
would allow them to hire excellent contractors.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“It’s important
that the work be done to Josh’s strict specifications,” Kate explained to me as
she plied me for names of local contractors.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
The same exacting traits that allowed him to
excel in the business world would define the quality of work done on their home,
and I had no doubt that applied to their marriage as well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
My husband and I
lived in the same neighborhood they were attracted to and the house they ended
up buying was only two blocks from ours.
When the enormous, one hundred and twelve year old, four-story home of
the first college president came on the market, Kate and Josh quickly made an
offer. I helped them negotiate a price
for the house which Josh felt they could live with. Josh designed and oversaw the creation of the
spaces important to them. Their home was
the showpiece of the neighborhood.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
When three
children arrived within five years, Kate resigned from the firm and
concentrated on being a full-time mother.
Although they had a succession of au pairs - each one speaking a
different language so the children would be multi-lingual - Kate was present
every day. She walked their oldest son
to and from the private school three short blocks from the house, waved at
friends while running through town with the jogging stroller or arranged play
dates for the kids in the fourth floor ballroom they had converted to the
ultimate children’s playroom/sleep-over area.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Everyone loved
Kate. She volunteered for everything,
neighborhood picnics, band uniform bake sales, and field trips to the planetarium. She was warm and outgoing, yet still a bit
shy when you first met her. We became
more friends than Realtor and client. Our
kids played together and we tried to have lunch at least twice a month. My husband and I were invited to all their
parties including the annual, all day, Sunday before Christmas Open House at
which most of the town appeared.
Everyone thought of them as the perfect young family. Even me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Shortly after
noon, Kerry Lindahl knocked once on the Quinty’s kitchen door and gave it a
push. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Hi Mom, we’re
home,” she called to Kate. Amanda,
bundled against the cold and snow, stomped into the room, her furry, pink boots
trailing sleet. She yawned and sat down
on the floor.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’d love to stay
and chat,” Kerry smiled, but it’s getting worse out there. I best head on home, okay?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No problem,” Kate
replied. “Manda Panda here needs some lunch
and she looks like she could use a nap.
Go slow, Kerry, and thanks again for taking my day.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Did you get a
chance to sleep some? You look so pale. You know the flu is going around. Maybe you can lay down when this little one
goes in for her nap.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Kate put her arm through Kerry’s and walked
her to the door.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’ll be fine.”
she said. “Be safe and don’t worry. I just put Lyssa down and if I can get this
one settled I’ll have an hour or two before Michael gets home.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, call me if
you need me, promise?” Kerry pointed at
Kate. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I promise,” said
Kate, closing and locking the door as Kerry hurried through the snow to her
car.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
During the next
few years as my business grew and tasks like room mother, car-pool organizer
and costume maker occupied more and more of Kate’s time our lunch dates
decreased to once a month and then to whenever we both had a free hour or two. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Each time I saw
her she looked thinner and more harried.
I had heard rumors that Josh was seen more and more often at night in
the local restaurants and bars with a variety of young, attractive women. I was never as close to him as I was to
Kate. In my opinion he suffered from
typical short man syndrome. Obnoxious,
egotistical, knowing whatever there was to know about everything. When we were house hunting, he was definitely
the one who was calling the shots. On
more than one occasion he talked right over his wife when she was trying to
tell me her thoughts about the places we were looking at. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Once in the
summer, when I stopped to pick up Kate for lunch and he was there, she laid
down specific rules for naps, snacks and playtime while she was out. Josh rolled his eyes mocking her, his way of
letting the children know they would be doing things his way when she was
gone. I can’t say I was surprised when I
heard she’d asked him to leave.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Thoughts about
Kate and the children lingered with me through the better part of each day after
she asked Josh to move out. According to
the people who still socialized with him, Josh seemed happy enough on his own,
but why shouldn’t he? His life had
changed hardly at all. When he wasn’t
working, he raced his vintage Porsche and nurtured his affairs with first one
and then another young woman he met at local bars. He stopped at the old house several mornings a
week to have breakfast with the kids and continued to undermine Kate’s
disciplining of the children, playing the part of the ‘fun’ parent to her more
grounded, conservative example, belittling her rules at every opportunity. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
His engagement to
his most recent girlfriend (even though he and Kate had yet to finalize their
divorce) coupled with his talk about his fiancé’s interest in a television job
offer on the west coast appeared to be the cruelest prompts. The shocking blows that pushed Kate’s constant
fear that he would try to take the children from her into terror.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Hungry, Mama,” said Amanda, rubbing her eyes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I know baby girl,
but let’s get these boots off first,” said Kate, pulling them off, one in each
hand, “and then we’ll hang up your coat and then we’ll wash our hands and
then,” Kate tugged on her daughter’s pony tail, “and then I’ll make you a peanut
butter and jelly sandwich. How’s that
sound?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No crust.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No crust for you,
my angel.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Kate got Amanda
seated in her booster seat at the kitchen table, pulled a jar of peanut butter
from the pantry and strawberry jam and milk from the refrigerator, closing the
door as she and Amanda both said, “Whoosh,” mimicking the sound that the door
made as it sealed itself. Her hands
shook as she spread peanut butter on one slice of bread. Standing close to the work island she
uncovered the bowl of crushed medication and sprinkled a little less than half
over the top. She scooped jam onto the
peanut butter and smoothed the mixture together, adding the second slice of
bread and booking the sandwich neatly.
She poured milk from a half gallon plastic jug into a glass, put the
sandwich on a paper towel and set Amanda’s lunch on the table in front of her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No crust, Mama,”
Amanda said, her head resting on her upturned palms.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Silly Mama, I
forgot,” said Kate returning the sandwich to the counter, cutting the crusts
off and halving it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Amanda was tired. She nibbled at the sandwich for what seemed
like forever to Kate. Finally she gave
up and fell asleep with her head on the table.
Kate put her arms around her daughter and plucked her from the booster
seat. Her heart was pounding as she carried
her up the stairs. She started into the
child’s room, papered in latticework and flowers and stopped. She turned and walked down the hall to the
master bedroom and placed Amanda on what used to be her father’s side of the
bed. Amanda was snoring little cat
snores. Kate held the child’s nose and
covered her mouth exerting the slightest
pressure until Amanda was no longer breathing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Careful not to
look in the tall corner mirror that reflected the bed, she felt as if she might
faint as she walked from the room, closed the door and returned to the kitchen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I was late picking
up the boys from soccer practice. The
snow was making driving treacherous, there was an accident at the main
intersection near the school and even the usual “need for speed” drivers were
barely crawling along. My twins, Lucas
and Jackson, both yelling “Shotgun!” barreled down the steps from the gym
entrance as soon as they saw my car.
Michael scuffed after them, head down, plodding through the snow. He’d been quiet and moody since his parents
separated, but then he’d always been a cautious little old soul, so the other
kids just ignored him as usual.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Everyone in the
back today, seatbelts on,” I ordered. “It’s
really slippery.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
The habitual
pushing and shoving between the twins started immediately, but Michael crouched
in the corner, not saying a word. I
pulled out into the line of cars waiting to exit the parking lot. We were less than three blocks from the Quinty’s
corner house.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Josh had rented a
smaller house right across the street and three doors down. It added exponentially to Kate’s heartache
each time he pulled in the driveway late at night with his new girlfriend, both
of them getting out and leaning against the car for five minutes or so, her
coat falling open to reveal the barely visible baby bump - making out like
teenagers - before going inside. Josh
said he rented the house so he could be close to his children. The Kate I knew and loved started to
disintegrate before my eyes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
We were having
lunch one day at the tearoom in town when she said, “You know, Jen, I’m not a
very good mother.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You? You are the best mother I know,” I answered
honestly. “Where did this come from?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Joshua says I’m
not,” she replied, eyes down, scraping fuzz from the linen tablecloth with her
knife.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, he’s wrong,
Kate. Absolutely wrong.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
From then on I
tried to keep a much closer watch on my friend.
I touched base with her every day, either stopping in or calling. I arranged for us to shop or lunch or work
out together at the gym. Kate was like
me, she tended to isolate when she got down, so I kept trying to lure her from
the<span style="color: red;"> </span>house.
Sometimes it worked. I think she
came with me because she lived in fear that Josh would learn how depressed she
really was, afraid he might try to take the children from her. Any suggestion I made that she get some help,
talk to a professional, made her stiffen in panic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No, please, no,
Jen. If he even found out about the
Xanax I take to sleep, he would find some way to use that against me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
When we finally
pulled within sight of the Quinty’s four story, immaculately redesigned
Victorian manse, I loosened my grip on the steering wheel slightly. I pulled left into the oncoming lane so I
wouldn’t have to brave the unplowed driveway – it would be just my luck to get
stuck while backing out. Michael opened
the car door, mumbled “Thanks Mrs. Corey” and was heading toward the kitchen
door when I buzzed the window down and yelled to him, “Tell your Mom I’ll call
her later, okay?” He kept going but I
was sure he heard me so I moved back onto the right side of the street and slid
toward our house, two short blocks away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
As I skidded to a
halt at the stop sign at the end of the first block, I sat for a few seconds
and thought, <i>I should have gone in if even for a minute or two just to give Kate a
hug and see how she is doing today</i>.
I could still go around the block and run in, but the boys saw me
hesitate and chanted “We’re starving!
C’mon Mom,” so I drove the last
block, pulled into the garage and was soon lost in an evening of dinner,
homework, baths, a phone discussion with my out-of-town husband about his day
and at last, my own quick preparations for bed.
I learned later that Michael had remained alive for approximately
seventy minutes after I dropped him off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i> Sullen</i>,
thought Kate as Michael came through the back door. He looks just like his father when he pulls
that expression out of his pocket and plasters it across his face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What’s up buddy?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Nothing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Kate knew to wait
for Michael to sort out what to tell her and what to keep to himself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Coach made some
of us run laps after practice.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Kate looked at his
skinny little frame and wondered, laps for six and a half years olds?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Why did you have
to run laps?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“He said we were
lazy players.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Leaving it for
now, Kate asked, “Are you hungry? How
about some peanut butter and jelly?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“No.
Mini-pizza.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well, first there
should be a thank you and a please in there somewhere, and second, there are no
more pizzas left.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Michael, still
standing at the door, kicked one of Amanda’s pink Uggs from the boot mat to a
spot beneath the table.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“There’s never
anything I like to eat here. Never.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Okay, Michael. Hang up your coat and we’ll come up with
something else.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
A few minutes later, now sitting at the table,
bouncing the heel of his sneaker against the leg of his chair, Michael
demanded, “A banana and chocolate milk.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
He knew the
chocolate milk was usually reserved for a treat and knew he didn’t deserve a
treat, so he was surprised when his mother took the milk and chocolate syrup
from the fridge. He watched as she
poured a healthy glob of chocolate in a tall glass, added the milk and stirred
it together. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Wash your hands,
please.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
While her son was
in the small powder room in the hallway, Kate gently fingered the rest of the
powdered Xanax into the milk.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
When he was once
again seated at the table, she grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl on the
counter and placed the fruit and milk in front of him. He gripped the tall glass with both hands,
took a big gulp, and set it down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“This tastes
wrong, Mom.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Wrong,
Michael? How does it taste wrong? You mean like the milk is spoiled?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Michael pushed the
glass across the table. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Kate opened the
frig, made a pretense of smelling the milk and said, “Nope, it’s fine.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Then she retrieved
the glass, took it to the counter and with her back to her son, added a
tablespoon of sugar and more chocolate syrup.
<i>The pills are bitter</i>, she
mused. Returning the drink to her son,
she suddenly felt the shock of exhaustion she’d been closeting all day. Her hands were shaking and she had the mother
of all headaches.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Listen, Mikes,
your sisters are not feeling well.
They’re sleeping and I’m not feeling so hot myself. I think we might be getting the flu, so drink
up and you and I are going to take a rest as well.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m not tired and I have homework.” He finished the milk in two gulps.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Kate felt herself tense up. She pushed her hands into her sweater pocket,
gripping the prescription bottle with her right hand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Upstairs.
Now, Michael.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Her son kicked Amanda’s boot that lay under
the table back toward the kitchen door. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Now!”
Kate felt the first little stabs of impatience. <i>Why was
he behaving this way?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Michael stood up, grabbed his backpack and
slumped through the hallway to the foot of the staircase. Kate gave him a shove to start him up the
stairs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What’s wrong, Mom. Why are you acting this way?” He was edging toward tears. She could hear them in his voice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Hush, Michael.” Don’t wake your sisters.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
He stopped at the door to his room. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Maybe we should call Dad if everybody’s
sick.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Kate froze.
“No!” We’ll be fine. We just all need to rest,” she said, putting
her hands on her son’s shoulders and marching him toward his bed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I told you I’m
not tired, Mom,” Michael whined.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>God, why
was he making this so hard? </i> Kate’s
stomach felt like something was scratching to get out. She put her arm around her son trying to
summon the patience to calm him. He had
to be getting sleepy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“C’mon, Mikes,
just lay down for a little while.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Crawling onto his
bed, her son lay down on his side, his face turned to the wall. Kate sat down next to him and rubbed soft,
small circles into his back, whispering, “There you go, there you go.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
She didn’t wait
long enough and when she tried to roll him over on his back, he slapped her
hand away. Kate didn’t think she could
generate the energy to start all over again with him. It was too late. She grabbed him by the shoulders. Michael struggled to roll farther away from
her. She snatched the pillow from under
his head. Her son pulled hard, trying to
get it back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
When he finally
let go, he was yelling, “No! No!” and
crying, “Mom, Mom, stop it!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Kate took the pillow in both hands and pushed
it down hard over his slim, wild-eyed, child’s face. He twisted his body, kicked his feet and
clawed at her hands with his fingers.
She saw that he had bitten his nails almost to the cuticles, and the
thought crossed her mind that she should try to find out what was bothering him
to the point where he would do such a thing.
At last he was still. She left
the pillow on his head. Looking at him
was unthinkable. She dropped to the
floor in exhaustion.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Kate crawled on
her hands and knees into the master bedroom.
First, keeping her head down and averting her eyes so as not to look
directly at the bed, she reached into her pocket, opened the bottle of pills
and swallowed those that remained, drinking from a glass of water on the
nightstand. Next, she eased a family
portrait from the top drawer. She
slammed the picture against the corner of the nightstand until the glass broke
and used a piece to carve a crude X from corner to corner on the face of the
photograph. She lay down on the plush carpet and began
slicing at her wrists with a another piece of broken glass. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
It was still dark
when Kate opened her eyes. She was
confused and seemed to be sliding in and out of unconsciousness. She reached for the phone by the
bedside. Squinting through the pain in
her arms, she pushed 911.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
A voice said
something Kate couldn’t understand, but she replied, “I killed my children and
tried to kill myself, but it didn’t work.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You did what?”
said the voice on the phone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“My husband didn’t
want us anymore,” Kate murmured. She dropped the phone and either slept or
passed out. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I heard the phone
ringing and the helicopters at the same time, but it was the annoying sound of
the rotor blades - whap, whap, whap - and the floodlights whipping in and out
of the windows that woke me. I looked at
the clock. Four–thirty. The cordless handset fell on the floor as I
grabbed for it. I could hear a voice
saying, “Jen, are you awake? Did you
hear what happened?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I left the caller
on the floor, grabbed my robe, tied it around me and slid into my slippers,
running down the stairs for the front door.
My slippers were flipping fresh snow up the backs of my legs as I ran
the two blocks. Each footfall was a
word. Please. God.
No. Please. God.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
As I reached the
side of the corner house, I saw an older, bulky, bald cop comforting a younger
officer, arm around his shoulder, standing in the snow by the screened
porch. My legs failed me as I reached
the front of the house, lit by huge klieg lights, and fenced by yellow
tape. The whole street was lined with
squad cars and ambulances.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
As they brought
the small bodies out, I fell face down beneath the tape, wailing and grabbing
at dead grass through snow as I tried to parse what was lost and what I might
have done to change the outcome.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<o:p> ***</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Author’s
note: This work of fiction is based, in
part, on a real life incident. All names
and places have been changed. All
accounts of actual events and conversations are fictional. “Kate” was found guilty of three counts of
first-degree murder and will spend the rest of her life in solitary confinement
without possibility of parole. She was
in a catatonic state when arrested and remained so throughout most of her
trial. Once imprisoned, she began to
receive the proper medical and psychological care she denied herself for fear
of losing her children. She is described
as a model prisoner.</div>MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-66232731795550133472012-02-27T01:10:00.000-05:002012-02-27T01:10:00.830-05:00Robert Vaughan Interviews MaryAnne Kolton for Some Unknown Reason<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Remember this, Robert? </span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Verdana;"><br />
</span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background: white; color: blue; font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">RV</span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Verdana;"> Name
one food you have not eaten since childhood, and why?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: green; font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">MAK</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Verdana;"> <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Campbell</st1:city></st1:place>'s Chicken Noodle
Soup. My father was out of work and
money was tight. My mother found
an unbelievable deal on the above, so she bought three cases! We lived a half a block from the school and
came home for lunch every day. For
almost a year we arrived in the kitchen to face a steaming hot bowl of ( makes
my stomach roll just to think about this) <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Campbell</st1:place></st1:city>'s Chicken Noodle soup. Yuck.</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Verdana;"><br />
</span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background: white; color: blue; font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">RV</span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Verdana;"> Is
there one person you can think of whose writing makes you want to write
immediately. If so, who, and why?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: green; font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">MAK </span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Verdana;">Aargh! I hate being confined to a
choice from a group consisting of one. I'm
not a very decisive person. You know me,
I'm the one at the restaurant where all my friends are starting on the third
course, and menu still in hand, I'm musing, "Um, maybe the salmon, but
I don't really feel like fish."</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Verdana;">Getting back to your
question, I get so much inspiration from so many writers. A theme, a word, a phrase, or even an author's
note can make me run to the computer. That's not one person, though, is
it? Okay. I can't pick one,
however, I will say that writers whose fiction easily transitions to prose
always makes me think,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Now
that’s how I want to write. </i>Kazuo
Ishiguro, Leah Hager Cohen, Karen Alvtegen and Alice Hoffman are just a few
examples. Recently, I wrote a fairy tale
that I thought came pretty close. It’s been
accepted and due to be published at some point. Links will be everywhere. I've considered hiring a skywriter. . .</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background: white; color: blue; font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">RV</span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Verdana;"> Any animal that terrifies you? Why?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: green; font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">MAK</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Verdana;"> No. I
am such an over the top animal lover. I
suppose I wouldn't be enamored of an out of control orangutan with a
face-eating compulsion or any animal with a face-eating compulsion for that
matter, but overall I'm not afraid of much of anything. I do have one
sister that . . .well, never mind about her.</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background: white; color: blue; font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">RV</span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Verdana;"> First
draft-Paper and Pen? Or Computer and
keypad? Describe your first draft
process.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: green; font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">MAK</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Verdana;"> Computer and keypad, even though
I am the world's worst typist. For a first draft I just write all the
thoughts I have about the story any old which way - just to get ideas on paper.
Sometimes, the main character<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>tells<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>me the story, but that's rare.
Then I go back again, clean it up, look for better words. You know the
drill. It's not unusual for JLD and I to be in the kitchen getting coffee
and I’m saying "Don't talk to me. I'm
writing in my head." God forbid
that I lose the perfect phrase. My memory is not what it used to be, for
sure.</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background: white; color: blue; font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">RV</span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Verdana;"> What matters more: expensive thread-count bed
sheets? Or fancy anniversary
celebrations? Why</span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Arial; font-size: 8pt;">?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: green; font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">MAK</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Verdana;"> Twelve hundred thread count all the way. JLD says I'm a hedonist at heart.
I have a luxe king size bed, down pillows and comforter and twelve sets
of sheets. Six for summer and six for
winter. Sleeping comfortably is more
important to me than breathing. Almost.
One of the stories I wrote, <i>The Love Tap,</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>is pretty much about me and sleeping.</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Verdana;">Wow! I
really rambled on here, didn't I? Sorry to be so wordy but you know how
it goes. . .</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Verdana;">Thanks Robert. This was fun!</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><i>Robert Vaughan is a brilliant writer, a notoriously kind and handsome man, and happily, my friend. For his full bio see</i> </span></span><a href="http://www.fictionaut.com/users/robert-vaughan">http://www.fictionaut.com/users/robert-vaughan</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-3788648349870959282012-02-10T22:19:00.001-05:002012-02-11T12:36:41.268-05:00insignificant compared to a tornado touch down<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Thank you Liz (ahem) and Laura at <a href="http://thetoucanonline.blogspot.com/2012/02/insignificant-compared-to-tornado.html">The Toucan</a></span></span></h2>
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Friday, February 10, 2012</h2>
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<span style="color: #555544; font-family: tahoma, 'Trebuchet MS', lucida, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=5932202517416349818&postID=378864834987095928" name="6451875070782967613"></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><span style="color: purple;">We find it very ironic that this narrator's name is Liz, and that's all we're saying.</span></span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: tahoma, 'Trebuchet MS', lucida, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Now enjoy this whirlwind of a piece by one of our favorite contributors, MaryAnne Kolton. And just be happy you aren't this Liz. Or Editrice Liz. We know Editrice Liz is fabulous and rocks a mustache pretty hard, but you don't want to read the amount of things she has to read right now.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: tahoma, 'Trebuchet MS', lucida, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><strong><br /></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: tahoma, 'Trebuchet MS', lucida, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">insignificant compared to a tornado touchdown<b><o:p></o:p></b></span><br />
<strong style="font-family: tahoma, 'Trebuchet MS', lucida, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">by MaryAnne Kolton</strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: tahoma, 'Trebuchet MS', lucida, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Liz huddled against the wall in the small space between the angled fireplace and the sliding glass door.</span><br />
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“Answer the door, bitch. I know you’re in there!” He was pounding and shouting now.</div>
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She was shaking. Afraid of real violence.</div>
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Liz started out on a somewhat even keel. Good job as a Real Estate Broker, big house, two lovely, intelligent (or so she thought) teenager daughters and a so-so marriage. </div>
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<b>Boom!</b> Her oldest daughter is forced into rehab at fifteen, where she thinks she’s there as a counselor rather than a fuck-up like everybody else. </div>
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<b>Pow!</b> The thirteen year old resents all the attention her big sister is getting and begins to act out by doing things like going into the city with older friends to see the Smashing Pumpkins. After asking permission and being told no. </div>
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<b>Bang!</b> Liz discovers her often-absent spouse has been seeing a wealthy, younger woman in Boston. It <i>had </i>crossed her mind that he was spending a lot of time in Boston. She files for divorce. The thirteen year old goes to live with her father because he’s “so not such a pain in the ass”.</div>
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<b>Splat!</b> She falls in lust with a married man who promises to take care of her forever or at least for the eighteen months they are together. She neglects her buyers and sellers so she can be at her lover’s beck and cell phone call. Her successful real estate business becomes less so.</div>
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<b>Ouch!</b> His wife wants him back. </div>
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The market turns, she sells her house collecting eight thousand dollars at the closing table.</div>
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<b>Duh!</b> She tries her damndest to fit all the furniture from her eleven-room house into a two-bedroom apartment and ends up selling or giving away most of her life’s possessions. Most of her life.</div>
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Liz finds a job as a corporate salesperson hustling “connectivity” devices. Read Blackberries and iPods. She soon discovers that all the other corporate sales reps are twenty-two, blonde, and wear skirts that are eight inches long and shoes with six-inch heels. She could arrive at eight o’clock for a ten o’clock appointment and still be the last one seen. Her knees are too plump and noisy for short skirts. </div>
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<b>Ugh!</b> She tries a three-inch, semi-stiletto heel, but the right heel gets caught in the decorative brickwork surrounding the entrance to an office complex. The fall breaks her ankle in three places.</div>
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<b>Whack!</b> Jobless, broke and four months behind on her rent, an off-duty sheriff’s deputy is trying to serve her an eviction notice for about the seventh time. Her life has become a reality show. A train wreck.</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">As she trembles and crouches, she wonders what could possibly be next.</span></div>
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</div>MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-31262413583356581562012-01-31T23:05:00.000-05:002012-01-31T23:05:02.075-05:00Thank you, Sara, at Orion headless<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://orionheadless.com/the-babys-name-is-kerry/">http://orionheadless.com/the-babys-name-is-kerry/</a>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Baby's Name Is Kerry</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
by MaryAnne Kolton</div>
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Right
now, balanced against the right front side of an APC, eyes focused on a
curtained front window in a first floor apartment, Siobhan McEaney could feel
the thrum of adrenaline in her gut. She
wiped the sweat from her face and leaned into her Sig Sauer 516 aimed at the
window. Some dumb ass, named Chris Stett,
had barricaded himself in the apartment with his wife and child.</div>
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Her unit attempted to pick him up on an
outstanding warrant, prompted by an incident at a local bus stop two weeks
ago. Stett flashed a knife at a senior
citizen and told her he’d cut her when she tried to board the bus before he
did. When they assembled this morning, a
neighbor assured them he was in the apartment, but so were his wife and
daughter. </div>
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It looked as if Joe Stickley, “<st1:place w:st="on">Styx</st1:place>”, the soft-spoken negotiator, had finally gotten
Stett to respond to the pleas that he let his wife and daughter come out. It had taken more than two hours of loud
hailer persuasion, but the door was easing open. The woman slipped through, running toward
them, screaming and waving her arms.</div>
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“He’s got the baby! He wouldn’t give her to me. He’s still got the baby.” She crumpled to the ground in front of
Siobhan. A local cop hustled the mother
into the APC.</div>
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“He said to tell you he’d slit her throat if
you try to come in.” The mother sobbed
and clutched at the officer. “Please do
something!”</div>
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The team leader fired questions at
her, eyes screwed to her face as she answered. “How old is your daughter? Where is your husband in the house? What kind of a knife does he have? Does he have any guns in there? Any one else beside the child with him?” Once they established the location of the
father – the right rear of the first floor living room, the ten-month-old child
with him - and the fact that the wife had never seen any guns in the house,
they began to forge a plan.</div>
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The
husband was off his meds and high on something, the mother wasn’t sure what,
and second, there was a baby to consider.
The child’s presence meant no use of less lethal control tactics. No gas, no pepper spray, no rubber bullets or
beanbag rounds. Chris Stett was not
answering the phone. So, for now, it was
going to be up to <st1:place w:st="on">Styx</st1:place> to keep trying to talk
him out.</div>
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Siobhan could hear <st1:place w:st="on">Styx</st1:place>’s
continued appeals to the man to come out, but her eyes remained glued on the front
window. She didn’t even bother to ask
herself what kind of father holds his child hostage. She knew the answer to that one. But something <i>was</i> chafing at her. She
glanced for a millisecond at the entryway: roof over small concrete pad, closed
front door. At that same moment, she
glimpsed movement at the window. </div>
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<st1:place w:st="on">Styx</st1:place> had asked Stett to show them the baby, setting up
the possibility of a one shot take down.
“Show us the baby, Chris. We just
want to make sure she’s okay.” </div>
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Stett must have started to move the curtain
aside then changed his mind. The motion
at the window ceased.</div>
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The
negotiator went back at the father again. He’d been trying to find some way to get to
him for almost four hours now. </div>
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“Chris,
we’re not going anywhere. This place is
surrounded and you got no place to go.
That little girl is your daughter.
None of us want any harm to come to her.
You know you love her, so lay the baby on the floor and come on out the
front door. No one will hurt you. I can promise you that.”</div>
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Six minutes passed. Siobhan was half expecting the command to
enter the house and take the guy down. </div>
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Without
preamble, the front door flew open.
Chris Stett was standing just inside, an idiotic grin on his face. His left hand grasped his daughter’s
waist. He held her upright in front of
his chest. She was crying, arms and legs
moving all over the place, wearing only a diaper. </div>
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The
father adjusted the child in his arm. With
no time to react, Siobhan and the rest of the team watched him snatch a gun
from the back of her diaper, raise it to the right side of his head and pull
the trigger. </div>
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She
did not breathe as she watched the baby fall, head first, from Chris Stett’s arm
toward the concrete.</div>
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<br /></div>MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5932202517416349818.post-22717931234394813392012-01-14T16:19:00.000-05:002012-01-14T16:19:32.362-05:00<a href="http://www.thepetitionsite.com/95/Protect-the-rare-breed-Coton-de-Tulear/">http://www.thepetitionsite.com/95/Protect-the-rare-breed-Coton-de-Tulear/</a>
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<h1 style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 30px; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
Save the Coton de Tulear from AKC and puppy mills!</h1>
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<li class="digg" style="border-left-color: rgb(217, 217, 217); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; float: left; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.care2.com/share/doshare.html?url=http://www.thepetitionsite.com%2F95%2FProtect-the-rare-breed-Coton-de-Tulear%2F&title=Save%20the%20Coton%20de%20Tulear%20from%20AKC%20and%20puppy%20mills%21&service=digg" style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: url(http://dingo.care2.com/causes/v2/blog_sprite_v3.gif); background-origin: initial; background-position: -344px -271px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; color: #0c739e; float: left; height: 0px; overflow-x: hidden; overflow-y: hidden; padding-top: 25px; text-decoration: none; width: 25px;">Digg</a></li>
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<div class="about_petition" style="background-color: white; display: inline; float: left; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 0px; width: 200px;">
<div class="thumbnail" style="margin-bottom: 1em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<img alt="Save the Coton de Tulear from AKC and puppy mills!" src="http://dingo.care2.com/pictures/petition_images/petition/381/143630-1290956907-main.jpg" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; border-right-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 1px; border-style: initial; border-top-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; height: 158px; overflow-x: hidden; overflow-y: hidden; width: 198px;" /></div>
<ul class="petition_stats" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<li id="petition_num_sigs" style="color: #595959; font-size: 19px; font-weight: bold; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">signatures: <span style="font-size: 19px; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 10px;">1,381</span></li>
<li class="progress_bar" style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: url(http://dingo.care2.com/petitions/v1/sign_sprite.png); background-origin: initial; background-position: -479px -50px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; color: #595959; font-size: 14px; height: 19px; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; position: relative; width: 194px;"><div id="sigcont_goalbar" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: url(http://dingo.care2.com/petitions/v1/sign_sprite.png); background-origin: initial; background-position: -479px -73px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; font-size: 14px; height: 19px; left: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; position: absolute; top: 0px; width: 89px;">
</div>
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<li id="petition_sigs_goal" style="color: #595959; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;">signature goal: <span style="font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 10px;">3,000</span></li>
</ul>
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<li class="tellafriend" style="clear: both; float: left; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a class="social-media-tellafriend" href="http://www.thepetitionsite.com/95/Protect-the-rare-breed-Coton-de-Tulear/#" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: url(http://dingo.care2.com/common/social-media-80x61.gif); background-origin: initial; background-position: 0px -183px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; color: #0c739e; display: block; height: 0px; margin-left: 5px; overflow-x: hidden; overflow-y: hidden; padding-top: 61px; text-decoration: none; width: 80px;">email your friends</a></li>
<li class="getthewidget" style="float: left; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a class="social-media-getthewidget" href="http://www.thepetitionsite.com/95/Protect-the-rare-breed-Coton-de-Tulear/#" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: url(http://dingo.care2.com/common/social-media-80x61.gif); background-origin: initial; background-position: 0px -61px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; color: #0c739e; display: block; height: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 5px; overflow-x: hidden; overflow-y: hidden; padding-top: 61px; text-decoration: none; width: 80px;">get the widget</a></li>
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<div class="petition_description" style="background-color: white; display: inline; float: left; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; width: 355px;">
<ul class="description_nav" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(217, 217, 217); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; height: 22px; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 15px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<li class="active" style="display: inline; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a class="overview" href="http://www.thepetitionsite.com/95/Protect-the-rare-breed-Coton-de-Tulear/#overview" id="desc_nav_overview" style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: url(http://dingo.care2.com/petitions/v1/sign_sprite.png); background-origin: initial; background-position: -479px 0px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; color: #0c739e; display: inline; float: left; height: 0px; margin-right: 5px; overflow-x: hidden; overflow-y: hidden; padding-top: 23px; text-decoration: none; width: 110px;">overview</a></li>
<li style="display: inline; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a class="petition" href="http://www.thepetitionsite.com/95/Protect-the-rare-breed-Coton-de-Tulear/#letter" id="desc_nav_letter" style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: url(http://dingo.care2.com/petitions/v1/sign_sprite.png); background-origin: initial; background-position: -699px -23px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; color: #0c739e; display: inline; float: left; height: 0px; margin-right: 5px; overflow-x: hidden; overflow-y: hidden; padding-top: 23px; text-decoration: none; width: 110px;">petition</a></li>
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<div id="tab_overview" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 17px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<ul class="description_stats" style="margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<li style="list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong>Target:</strong> AKC-FSS</li>
<li style="list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong>Sponsored by:</strong> <a href="http://www.care2.com/petitions/feedback/143630381" style="color: black;">The American Coton Club, the Coton de Tulear Club of America and all Coton lovers concerned about the welfare of the rare breed Coton de Tulear</a></li>
</ul>
<span id="overview_trunc">The Coton de Tulear is a rare breed with amazing qualities and a healthy gene pool not yet spoiled by poor breeding practices and over breeding.<br />Thousands of companion owners cherish this breed and want it to remain a rare breed and not in the hands of AKC.<br />Help save the Rare Breed Coton de Tulear!!!<br />Please join the American Coton Club, the Coton de Tulear Club of America, Coton breeders, exhibitors, companion owners and the Coton community at large, who all wish to protect the Rare Breed Coton de Tulear. Help preserve the health, well-being, and genetic integrity of this wonderful breed. Please take action and sign this petition.<br />Tell the AKC that the Coton de Tulear is healthy and safe as a Rare Breed.<br />The future of this wonderful breed is in your hands. Let your voice be heard. Say No To AKC!!<br />The results of this petition will be forwarded to AKC.<br />We urge you to call, e-mail, and write letters to AKC expressing your objection to AKC recognition of the Coton de Tulear.<br />Please C... <span class="care2_more_link" style="font-size: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: right;"><a href="http://www.thepetitionsite.com/95/Protect-the-rare-breed-Coton-de-Tulear/#show more content" style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: url(http://dingo.care2.com/c2/arrows.gif); background-origin: initial; background-position: 100% 3px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; color: #0c739e; padding-right: 8px; text-decoration: none;">more</a></span></span></div>
</div>MaryAnne Koltonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06975523400838194323noreply@blogger.com0