The Gift of Listening

There is something pretty wonderful, nay, essential about being read to. As a child, my mother, Australian, read to me nightly from all sorts of books I may never have encountered without her. My favorite amongst the many she offered was "Snugglepot and Cuddlepie," by May Gibbs, a surprisingly ahead of its time, beloved Aussie tale of two "gumnut babies," little cherubs that live in Eucalyptus acorns. In all this time, the book has never once gone out of print.  Perhaps incidentally, it was a very environmentally conscious tale of all the creatures in the bush and the evil Banksia men (humans?) who invade their idyllic life. "Environmentally conscious" was a term that did not exist in 1918 when the book was first published, but how rapt I was imagining a world where there were seahorse races, art made on Eucalyptus leaves,  and small creatures with their own magic in Nature.
When I read from my own novel last night at Mrs. Dalloways bookstore in Berkeley, in order to be relaxed and banter more, I reminded myself: EVERYBODY likes to be read to. What a treat to sit back, open your ears and have someone read you a story. Do we ever outgrow this? When I lived in New Mexico, I had a long commute between Santa Fe and Albuquerque to work at my antique booth, and I started checking out books on c.d. from the library. If the reader was a good one, the words would come alive and the hour's drive passed in no time. Note to whoever read the Dickens classics: thank-you.You are a very talented reader.
Last night was a successful event: full seats, attentive audience of old and new faces, and some books sold. That old adage we writers hear that: "You can't tell if something is working unless you read it aloud" is never more striking than when you're at a podium reading your own words!  Thanks to all who came for opening their ears to my words.

Pineapple Dreams

Tonight, a chilly night in January, I carefully carved a pineapple into bite-sized triangles and stood over the sink and ate so many of them that I got a sore on my tongue. I was dreaming about Hawaii, my "happy place." Every year for five years I spent my birthday on one of the islands and was extraordinarily content. There is something about getting up before dawn and heading to a portion of reef that is teeming with colorful life and starting one's day by snorkeling for three hours that for me is pretty much the definition of bliss. That, plus Plumeria blossoms just waiting to be sniffed then tucked behind one's ear, drinking fresh young coconuts, listening to the laugh of geckos, well, the list goes on. I can see why Hawaii is also called paradise. Unless I win lotto (or my book becomes a runaway bestseller) I will not be going this February, but as long as there is pineapple, I can dream....

Jump For Joy

I grew up in the Midwest. One of the most formative, precious objects in my life there was my trampoline. I would have lived out on my trampoline if I could have. Before I left for school,  I would go and jump. On a balmy summer night, I would go out in my PJs and jump. When I got home from school, I would jump. It was a thin black mat and sometimes my brothers would jump and I would lay underneath and they would land heavily on the mat and jump high and it would almost hit me what with their weight. When my parents fought, I would sometimes head outside and just sleep out on the mat, with the crickets and cicadas calling out and the dew and the many stars. I forgot there was a world beyond "my tramp." I had a routine that went like this: "Seat-to-Doggie-to-Knee-to-Back Drop-to-swivel hips-to-prone-to-Turntable-to-Back Drop-to-Roundabout-to-knee-flip-to prone-flip-to-back-flip-to-Double-and so on....
I always did my routine in the same order and would keep trying to add one more feat to the drill. Jumping on my trampoline made me incredibly happy.

A Reading January 17th at 7:30

I will be reading from my novel Phoebe & The Ghost of Chagall at 7:30 pm at Mrs. Dalloways Bookstore (2904 College Avenue in the lovely Elmwood District of Berkeley) on Thursday January 17th. Come one, come all!

AHH, The Eiffel Tower

"Ray was herded into a bus that took such an exhilarating route from the airport into the city that a hush actually fell over all the passengers, and people pressed against the windows and made those little spontaneous “ahh” sounds one hears after a great poem at a poetry reading. There was the Eiffel Tower, flashing its diamonds in the night, and then all the magnificent statues illuminated along the Champs-Élysées." 
Phoebe & The Ghost of Chagall, Chapter Nineteen

"Forming A Rainbow With Her Own Body"

"There were acrobats walking on air, and a contortionist with her head set upside down upon her neck, smiling right at him, her feet arched way over her head as if she was forming a rainbow with her own body."

 —Phoebe & the Ghost of Chagall, Chapter Five