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Thanksgiving Behind the Bamboo Fence, excerpt from Beyond Paradise

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  Thanksgiving Behind the Bamboo Fence A million years ago I wrote a book. I send the manuscript to an editor. It was pulled from the slush pile and said editor called me. She liked it! There were changes. First it needed to go from a diary format to a prose narrative. That took re-working. After that I waited. Then MY editor sent a 10-page editorial letter with all kinds of comments and suggestions. Of course. I re-worked the novel. Then there were more changes. I waited. Finally, we had a book. I was so excited when I saw the cover. Then I saw galleys. Then there were advanced copies! After that I got a carton of books shipped to me. I was an author! Reviews came in. They were pretty good. I did readings and signed copies at bookstores. Then a bigger publishing house bought my publisher, and 6 months after the book was launched it was remaindered. But for some reason the house never optioned electronic rights and those reverted to me. Here is an excerpt from my historical YA novel. I
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The Good Ally

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At work our DEI person was moderating a book study using The Good Ally by Nova Reid. From the cover: A guided anti-racism journey from bystander to changemaker. As if social media is not fraught enough—it drove me crazy during the pandemic and the George Floyd protests all the grandstanding by white people. I get it, I wanted to see things change too, yes, it was all so horrible and senseless—but I didn’t feel the need to put everything out there online. I was busy holding doors for people. Sort of a lie. I was busy riding my bike through Iowa on my cross-country bike trip. Politics and the politics of living/dying had compelled me to hop on my bike and embark on a 43-day, 2,400-mile bike trip. I needed to excise the pain out of my body and head. When Kamala lost I had the same sensation. The need to get n my bike. I rode to a bridge on the Lansing River trail where I met Lillian, where we cried and ate stale cookies. Back to being an ally. I’m not even sure what this word mean
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Rodham, a book review

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Rodham Curtis Sittenfeld Random House, 2020 My first introduction to Curtis Sittenfeld and their work was at the Festival of Faith & Writing at Calvin University in April. There are times I wish I could turn back the clock—before this year’s election. Sittenfeld’s novel does just that—providing a parallel universe in which to dwell, if only in our dreams. Again, in this sideways/circular moment in history, Rodham can perhaps be read as satire, a mesmerizing what-if. The premise of the book is that Hillary Rodham never marries Bill Clinton. The first third of the novel is devoted to Hillary meeting Bill Clinton at Yale Law School and their early courtship and sex life. A bit of this reads rather cringey—but I think that might have been intentional. I filed it under Too Much Information—at the same time trying to keep in mind this is all a made up story. But it’s hard to separate fact from fiction in this first part. Then comes their break up. Bill eventually marries, divo
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Early days, already

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It is early days—of what? We don’t know. My soul senses some impending doom. It hovers above the migraine and my twitching eye. I have no words, it seems, as I continue to write, type, fill up the page. First there was the build up to Halloween, trick or treat night, then baby’s birthday—now 1 year old—then my birthday, 66 (I’ll be 70 the next presidential election). And the aftermath of this election. The trees are mostly bare. First there were the colors, latent and sparing this year, then the latter rain (after a dry September and October), then the wind, which brought down the last of the leaves. After the hype, the string of busyness, the frenetic running here to there—is over; we tuck into shorter days, longer nights, and learn to love . . . these November days.   Fall, leaves, fall Emily Brontë   Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day; Every leaf speaks bliss to me Fluttering from the autumn tree. I shall smile when wre
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We Welcome Returning Darkness

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It is strange this time around. My circumstances have changed. I live in a tiny house in a different state. A state of being and the state of Michigan. There’s no going back, but yet history seems to circle, around and around, and I shake my head at the irony and wonder: Will things ever change. Back to the darkness. It comes early—especially these last couple of days with low clouds and dreary skies.   When I leave work, I walk home in beneath street lights and the occasional light from someone’s window, past the little playground, the spooky abandoned house, and the weird triangle bordered by towering pines. There is a stretch with no lights at all—yet home is not so far. Tonight I’ll remember to put my headlamp into my bag. And, when I get home to my tiny house, I’ll switch on the overhead and flip a button on the kettle and light a candle in my window and sit in a warmish glow of my own making, and welcome in my November guest. My November Guest Robert Frost   My sorr
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