The Paris Review - A Literary Wonderland
From one of the most classic literary journals of all time, famous for its author interviews (among other things), comes the PR feed. Grab your coffee and conjure your most literary mindset cause you're going to need it. Academics and shut-ins will wet their pants over this. Ya gotta love it!
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From the afternoon of March 13 into the early hours of March 15, 2022— Journals are more a nervous habit for me than anything else. I tend to copy out passages of whatever I’m reading, less because that passage is particularly important and more as a way of taking a photograph of a time and place and line of thought. Starts with a quote from Jung’s The Undiscovered Self, which I was borrowing from my dear friend and (at the time) traveling companion in Mexico, Sara, a.k.a SR. This pair of thoughts is funny to me: // Is the point of company in partnership to escape the self or to deepen it // I think I’m disturbed by how happy I am // Then some analysis of a few l…
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Photo: © isman rohimly ibrahim/EyeEm / Adobe Stock. I first read the Uruguayan writer Juan Carlos Onetti in December 2007, when I spent three weeks in the hospital due to an appendectomy gone wrong. Between doses of antibiotics, I asked my father to bring me a book that had just been published, of Onetti’s complete short stories. Before long, I came to one entitled “Convalescence,” which seemed appropriate given my situation. A woman is recovering from an illness in a hotel by the sea. Onetti doesn’t tell us what the illness is. A man keeps calling her on the phone, making threats, insisting she return to the city. I knew it might not be the best idea to read Onetti whil…
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Benjamin Shaw, Aberdeen Quayside, 2003, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons. The man I was meeting worked on the Brent Field. He was a kind of Typhoid Mary, having worked on the site of several accidents, always escaping unscathed. He was staying in a large, anonymous hotel behind Holburn Junction. The lobby was a columnar space several floors high. Its windows were covered in a kind of mesh, which muted the daylight and cast everything in a cool, neutral gloom. I took a booth, upholstered the same indeterminate shade, and waited for him to appear. There was some splashy abstract art on the walls, and a long, curved reception desk at the back of the room. People were mov…
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Russell Patterson, “Where there’s smoke there’s fire.” Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. I’d never heard of Ursula Parrott when McNally Editions introduced me to Ex-Wife, the author’s 1929 novel about a young woman who suddenly finds herself suspended in the caliginous space between matrimony and divorce. The first thing I wondered was where it had been all my life. Ex-Wife rattles with ghosts and loss and lonely New York apartments, with men who change their minds and change them again, with people and places that assert their permanence by the very fact that they’re gone and they’re never coming back. Originally published anonymously, Ex-Wife stirred immediate co…
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Elif Batuman in 2019. Photo: Valentyn Kuzan. In September 1852, when he was twenty-three, Tolstoy published his first piece of writing, in a Saint Petersburg monthly. Although it garnered praise, he was upset that the magazine had changed the title to “The History of My Childhood.” “The alteration is especially disagreeable,” he complained to the editor, “because as I wrote to you, I meant ‘Childhood’ to form the first part of a novel.” Like Tolstoy, Elif Batuman always intended to write fiction. One of the essays in her first book, The Possessed: Adventures with Russian Books and the People Who Read Them, a collection based on her experiences as a grad student in the S…
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learza (Alex North) from Australia, Aibos at RoboCop, 2005, CC BY-SA 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons. When my husband arrived home, he stared at the dog for a long time, then pronounced it “creepy.” At first I took this to mean uncanny, something so close to reality it disturbs our most basic ontological assumptions. But it soon became clear he saw the dog as an interloper. I demonstrated all the tricks I had taught Aibo, determined to impress him. By that point the dog could roll over, shake, and dance. “What is that red light in his nose?” he said. “Is that a camera?” Unlike me, my husband is a dog lover. Before we met, he owned a rescue dog who had been abused by its for…
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Detail from Sleep (2020–2021), 2021. Taryn Simon. When we take pictures of our children, do we really know what we are doing, or why? The contemporary parent records their child’s image with great frequency, often to the maximum degree afforded by technology. Inasmuch as the baby or child is an extension or externalization of the parent’s own self, these images might be seen as attempts to equate the production of a child with an artistic act. The task of the artist is to externalize his or her own self, to re-create that self in object form. A parent, presented with the object of the baby, might mistake the baby for an authored work. Equally, he or she might find their …
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Billy Sullivan’s studio. Photograph by Lauren Kane. Billy Sullivan’s studio, a fifth-floor walk-up on the Bowery, has a comfortable, elegant dishevelment. Hanging all around the space are some of the brightly colored figurative paintings he has been making since the seventies: portraits of his friends, lovers, and other long-term muses, rendered in loose, dynamic brushstrokes and from close, pointedly subjective angles. A still life of a bouquet and two coffee cups is an outlier among the faces. Near a work in progress on the wall is a table with a color-coded array of pastels, each wrapped in its paper label (mostly the artisan Diane Townsend, with a few older sticks fr…
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Donnetta Lavinia Grays. Photo: Beowulf Sheehan. Donnetta Lavinia Grays is a Brooklyn-based playwright who proudly hails from Columbia, SC. Her plays include Where We Stand, Warriors Don’t Cry, Last Night and the Night Before, Laid to Rest, The Review of How to Eat Your Opposition, The New Normal, and The Cowboy is Dying. Donnetta is a Lucille Lortel, Drama League, and AUDELCO Award Nominee. She is the recipient of the Helen Merrill Playwright Award, National Theater Conference Barrie and Bernice Stavis Playwright Award, the Lilly Award, Todd McNerney National Playwriting Award, and is the inaugural recipient of the Doric Wilson Independent Playwright Award. She is curren…
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Still from accompanying video (below), edited by Miles Lagoze and Eric Schuman. A few weeks before our unit’s operation started, Lance Corporal Loya and I stood over a wadi, waiting for each other to throw our cameras down into its dusty, hollow trench. Wadis—the streams or natural ravines that farmers in the region often used as irrigation canals—were our generation’s rice paddies; they were everywhere in Helmand Province. When they weren’t wet, it was comforting to climb inside them—womblike slits in the ground to curl up in and shoot out of. They were the last thing some of us would see before dying. Like feudal tendrils etched across the fields, the wadis in the Sang…
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<em>Krazy Kat </em> by George Herriman. In 1910, a mouse named Ignatz first beaned Krazy Kat with a brick. The plot of this comic strip, centered on a “heppy go lucky kat,” is simple. Krazy Kat loves Ignatz Mouse. Officer Pup loves Krazy Kat. Ignatz Mouse hits Krazy over the head with a brick; Officer Pup pursues and usually arrests Ignatz Mouse; Krazy, to whom the brick seems to be a sign of love, is ecstatic. A small heart pops up above his head. The cartoonist, George Herriman, twisted and tangled the three-lover triad and cat-mouse-dog triad and spent thirty-one years retying the same surreal knot. You know what will happen in any strip of Krazy Kat—the s…
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The following photographs are taken from the archives of Lester Sloan, who was a photojournalist for Newsweek, where he documented the 1967 uprising in Detroit, the fall of the Berlin Wall, the kidnapping of Patty Hearst, and the O. J. Simpson trial, from the late sixties until the mid-nineties. The captions are transcribed conversations between Lester and his daughter, the writer Aisha Sabatini Sloan. They have been edited for concision. They are offered here in the spirit of an eavesdropped conversation. While this is a work of nonfiction, the stories relayed here are recollections, prone to the vicissitudes of memory over time. Aisha’s questions and prompts to her fath…
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Leonora Carrington. Photo: Emerico “Chiki” Weisz. Courtesy of New York Review Books. The first time I read Leonora Carrington’s The Hearing Trumpet, I knew nothing about its author, so I had the incredible experience of coming to this short novel in a state of innocence. I was wholly unaware, for instance, that Carrington had been a painter, that she spent most of her life as an expat in Mexico, and that in her youth she had been in a relationship with Max Ernst, one of the greatest surrealists. But the anarchic tone and perverse nature of this little book made a powerful impression, one that has never left me. There are two qualities in fiction that I find particularly…
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Edvard Munch, Vampire or Love and Pain, 1895, oil on canvas. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. When we first met, I was a child, and she had been dead for centuries. Look: I am eleven, a girl who is terrible at sums and at sports, a girl given to staring out windows, a girl whose only real gift lies in daydreaming. The teacher snaps my name, startling me back to the flimsy prefab. Her voice makes it a fine day in 1773, and sets English soldiers crouching in ambush. I add ditchwater to drench their knees. Their muskets point toward a young man who is tumbling from his saddle now, in slow, slow motion. A woman rides in to kneel over him, her voice rising in an antique…
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In an undated note bequeathed to the Tate Archive in 1992, Eileen Agar (1899–1991) writes of her admiration for the author of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland: “Lewis Carroll is a mysterious master of time and imagination, the Herald of Sur-Realism and freedom, a prophet of the Future and an uprooter of the Past, with a literary and visual sense of the Present.” The same could be said of Agar, whose long career as an artist spanned most of the twentieth century and intersected with some of the prevailing movements of the time, including Cubism and surrealism. Her timeless work—including the oil painting Alice with Lewis Carroll—will be on view through August 29 at the Whi…
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Photograph by makeshiftlove, via Wikimedia Commons. Licensed under CC BY 2.0, This week, we bring you reviews from three of our issue no. 240 contributors. The documentary Rocco, which follows the Italian porn actor and director Rocco Siffredi, feels like a hundred perfect short stories. We learn that Rocco carries around a photo of his mother at all times. We watch Rocco and his teenage sons chat in their cavernous and starkly lit climbing gym/weight room in Croatia. We discover that Rocco’s hapless cameraman of many decades, Gabriel, is actually his cousin, a thwarted porn star. During one virtuosic shoot (Rocco Siffredi Anal Threesome with Abella Danger) Gabriel acci…
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Fred Bchx from Tournai, Belgique, 2010, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons. It is not incorrect to say that, for years, the way my family grieved my mother was to avoid acknowledging her altogether. It is not incorrect to say that we hardly invoked her name or told stories about her. Shortly after college, my father, Caroline, and Steph descended upon my cleared-out group house in Washington, D.C., for Thanksgiving. In my childhood home, my father’s stacks of clutter multiplied until they overtook the space that my mother had so carefully cultivated; it crowded my sisters and me out. I reacted efficiently, diligently, which is to say that I pretended that trips to Steph’s…
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Victorian spirit photograph. Preus museum, no restrictions, via Wikimedia Commons. One Monday evening some five years ago, I walked into my first Spiritualist service. In those days, the New York Spiritualist Church held services roughly once a month in a broad-minded white-marble Methodist structure designed to hold some thousand parishioners. But the Spiritualists only filled the first few rows. It was dim, churchy-smelling, and vast. I’d thought about what to wear. It was, after all, a church; it was also seven in the evening in late November. In the end, I changed out of my jeans and wore a high-necked Laura Ashley dress and a tweed jacket and my least ironic glasse…
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Max © Reinbert Tabbert Biography is always a matter of joining holes together, like a net, for reasons that W. G. Sebald’s own work explores: the fallibility of memory, the death or disappearance of witnesses, the dubious role of the narrator. All these reasons must exercise any biographer. But Sebald’s biographer more than most. For the holes in the net of this story are many. The central absence is his family life, because his widow wishes to keep this private. Without her permission, his words from privately held sources, such as certain letters, cannot be quoted, only paraphrased. Even his published words, in books and interviews, can be quoted only within the limit…
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Episode 23, our Season 3 finale, opens with “The Trick Is to Pretend,” a poem by Natalie Scenters-Zapico, read by the singer-songwriter Phoebe Bridgers: “I climb knowing the only way down / is by falling.” The actor Jessica Hecht plays Joan Didion in a reenactment of her classic Art of Fiction interview with Linda Kuehl. Jericho Brown reads his poem “Hero”: “my brothers and I grew up fighting / Over our mother’s mind.” The actor, comedian, and podcaster Connor Ratliff reads Bud Smith’s story “Violets,” about a couple who makes a suicide pact but then turns to arson instead. The episode closes with Bridgers performing “Garden Song.” To celebrate this last episode of the s…
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As a child, the Queens-born photographer Dawoud Bey marveled at the vibrancy of midcentury Harlem, where his parents had met and many of their friends and family members still lived. “Driving through the crowded streets, I was amazed by what appeared to be the many people on vacation,” he has written. “It seemed to me that no matter what the day, everyday was Saturday in Harlem.” In 1975, equipped with a camera, he began paying weekly visits to the neighborhood, walking the streets and capturing pictures. This approach—on the ground, studied, empathetic—led to his first series of photographs, “Harlem, USA,” and would inform his practice in the ensuing decades of his caree…
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On April 12, The Paris Review announced N. Scott Momaday as the recipient of the 2021 Hadada Award, presented each year to a “distinguished member of the writing community who has made a strong and unique contribution to literature.” In the coming weeks, the Daily will publish a series of short essays honoring the multifariousness of Momaday’s achievements. Today, in an excerpt from her forthcoming memoir Poet Warrior, Joy Harjo recalls how Momaday’s poem “The Delight Song of Tsoai-Talee” inspired her to begin writing poetry. N. Scott Momaday. Photo: Darren Vigil Gray. Though I loved poetry all of my life, it wasn’t until poems like “The Delight Song of Tsoai-Talee” by …
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Katherine Dunn. Photograph courtesy of Eli Dapolonia. Katherine Dunn didn’t really make a living from her fiction until 1987, when, at forty-two, she sold Geek Love, her third published novel, to Sonny Mehta at Knopf for twenty-five thousand dollars—a windfall that briefly swept away her persistent financial concerns. Dunn had relied on all sorts of ways to make ends meet while she was coming up as a writer. At eighteen years old, in 1963, she sold fake magazine subscriptions door-to-door in the Midwest until she was arrested in Missouri for trying to cash a client’s fraudulent check. As a college student, first at Portland State and later at Reed, she worked as a toples…
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Black Thought. Photo: Erica Génécé. In 2016, wearing a white shirt with tiny embroidered roses, Black Thought centered himself in front of a whispering audience at the Harvard Innovation Labs. He had just finished a conversation with host Michael Keohane about the hand-painted clothing he’d made as a young artist, his rise within rap music, and his eventual aspirations as an actor. To the delight of the campus crowd, he asked, “I can kick a rhyme?” Nudging up his glasses, he then unleashed five minutes of complex stanzas, double entendres, and expository verses. Somewhere within the burst of sentences, he veered into the biographical. “I got to see how gangstas played…
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An illustration by the painter Natalie Frank for The Island of Happiness. One of Frank’s favorite tales is ‘The Green Serpent,” in which the prince is a snake, though only literally. “I love the image where you have to get into bed with this creature but you can’t look at him, and of course you look at him.” Marie-Catherine Le Jumel de Barneville was born into a rich family in the fall of 1652. At thirteen, she was wed by her mother to the middle-aged Baron d’Aulnoy, who had purchased his title. Three months pregnant that same year, in the summer of 1666, she inked a jinx in the margins of a fifteenth-century religious play from their library: It has been almost 200 ye…
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Abomination - First Chapter (Aida Brings Home the Meat)
Aida Pemble was an abomination, but there were worse things to be. A turtle-murderer, for example. She was definitely better than a turtle-murderer. Or that guy in the city who fondled his willy while he walked around, Priest Saint Donahue or something like that. Oh, and definitely any bastard who felt the need to whistle. She fucking hated whistling. Sing or don’t sing, play an instrument or don’t, but to try and pretend curling your tongue and eschewing spit was anything more than an insult to those around you was absurd. Gods, she hated whistling. She hated it especially right now, as she wrestled with the stubborn wheelbarrow over the tangled brush. The bad wheel always snagged at this stretch of the woods. Everytime she made this trip home with the splintered wheelbarrow, she would curse herself for being paranoid and swear to take the main road next time. It was unpaved, but at least it existed. But even as she struggled to free the ensnarled wheel, she knew it wasn’t true. She would always take the backwoods home on these trips. Even at one in the morning, it was too risky. One in the morning didn’t mean the same thing in a rural town that it did in the city. One in the morning here might get’ya a boozehound with bloodlust and a broken bottle in their hand. They would be yelling, of course. “I’ma getcha!” they would cry, shaking the bottle so that droplets of black liquid speckled their shirt. Usually, except for maybe once or twice, they were as full of shit as their eyes were brown. The next day that same drunkard would be stopping by your porch to trade town gossip, or warmly welcoming you to chapel. There was just something about priests and their drinking. Maybe the gods let them in on something that required copious, sloppy amounts of booze to forget about. She might just ask, except she wasn’t fully allowed at chapel. They wouldn’t kick her out but they would all sit and stare at her in silence, which was worse. At least a boot to her ass would save everyone some time. But no violence shall be made in the Big’Uns’ house, the priest liked to remind. Save it for outside. There’s plenty o’ room in the courtyard. Aida squinted as a bead of sweat ran into her eye. Just another…. “Aha!” she cried in triumph as the wheel at last groaned forward. “Almost there,” her voice came out between pants. Now if only she could forget the gods-damned horrid tune stuck in her head. Ever since her night’s selection, his name had been Thomas, began whistling some tune on their way to his place, she’d known she made the wrong pick. It would take ages to forget the annoying whistle. It’s not like musicians were scrambling over lute and limb to introduce new music to her town. “Come on,” she hissed to herself. “Almost….So….close…” It was dark as the devil’s asshole but she could just make out a pale yellow light ahead. Her porch light. Her beacon calling her tired muscles home. She longed for the bed inside, even if it left splinters in her cheek and had to be supported in spots by a growing pile of lingerie, courtesy of the men who thought it strange to buy their date a pillow, but would gladly splurge on a chiffon unitard. The trick was to ask for the really gaudy ones lined with feathers. Those made the best pillows. The woods receded as she neared the dimly lit porch, as if sucking in its gut to allow the small clearing behind her home. It was here that she finally dropped the wheelbarrow. “I am too old for this,” she huffed, hands on knees that ached too much for twenty-four. The air was crisp. It chilled the sweat on her skin and drew up tiny bumps across her arms. Hen-flesh, she was pretty sure it was called. It was one of those things that you were supposed to learn the word for while still young, and she had only a rusty memory to go off. Once she had remarked on a boy’s hen-flesh and the look on his face made her wonder if she remembered wrong. He hadn’t corrected her though. Once she caught her breath, Aida grabbed the heavy burlap bag from the wheelbarrow and heaved. It moved begrudgingly, falling onto the grass with an annoyed plop. It was dinner time. Aida stepped back until her right heel scraped the porch step. She grabbed for the railing with one hand and raised the other to her lips. “Mom,” she called, then cleared her throat. “Mom! Dad! Dinners here!” She expected to wait a few minutes. Her heart did an odd little jump when almost at once, the brush moved. She heard them first, smelled them next and finally, as they crept from the thick brush into the watery porch light, saw them. They advanced in tandem, their wide, blob-like bodies contorting with the movement. She again thought, despite her best efforts, that slapping their gray skin would feel slapping a bowl of jello. Then they opened their mouths, their jaws sagging down to reveal a black pit broken by three rows of pointed yellow teeth. Their eyes were round and black. If you were unlucky, you could catch the ink ripple in them as they took in whatever it was they could see. “I picked the best of the crop,” she said, sitting down on the porch step as they approached the burlap sack. “Not too much fat this time.” Last time she had settled on a more substantial cut of meat, it had taken until almost dawn to push the damned wheelbarrow home and her arms ached for days. She told herself it would be worth it, that her parents would be thrilled by the extra food. Instead they consumed the bones, the flesh, the muscle and all those other tasty morsels, like the brain or fibula. They’d somehow avoided the fat, though she couldn’t imagine how with the way they ate. But when she went out the next morning, the air smelled like a washing factory on sweaty sock day. There had been strings of fat, pale and corded, strung around the yard and stinking in the sunrise. There was nothing to be done that would make the cleaning any easier or more tolerable, but she could at least drown some of the memory, and the lingering smell, with a few drinks or five afterwards. Her mom scuttled closer to the sack and grabbed the ends with taloned arms that morphed from her soft body. Her eyes stared forward, centered on Aida as black talons picked the opening wider and reached inside. There was a subtle, wet glimmer in her eyes as she pulled the corpse out. “His name is Thomas,” Aida cupped her chin in one palm and watched her dad pluck at bits and pieces of Thomas. “He was very nice, even took me to dinner and—Oh!” She reached towards her neck and grabbed the beautiful necklace that rested there, holding it so the green gem caught in the porchlight. “He bought me this? Isn’t it pretty? I thought it was.” She smiled as she remembered the way the dentist had held out the pretty piece. “For you,” he said, his smile revealing a half-row of perfect teeth. The other half was only pink gum. He was not a rich dentist, which she found odd until she noticed the large sign on his shop that read: TOM’S TOOTHERY We’ll Pull Your Tooth For Free* *In Exchange For One Good Tooth “What if they don’t want to give up a good tooth?” she asked, stretched on the dental bed, spreading her knees apart as he stared. “What?” he asked, clearly distracted. “What do you charge them then?” She sat up so he’d pay attention. She was curious how a dentist in the big city could live in the backroom of his dental shop, sleeping on what appeared to be a crusted piled of newspaper scams and threadworn pants. “I don’t.” “You do it for free?” “No.” She hated the puzzled look on his face, like she was the odd one for asking such a question. “So you only accept teeth?” “Well, yeah.” He still had that stupid, puzzled look on his face. “But what about money?” “I have money.” She stood now, almost angry from the confusion. “So you have money, but you sleep on the floor of your shop and only pluck teeth if they will give you a good one in return?” “Exactly! You’ve got it now.” He smiled kindly, as if she were a child just figuring out which way to pull her nappy on correctly. “But why?” “I like teeth.” The way he said it, it had been so genuine and disarming. Before she could think of what to say next, he produced a small copper tin. The rattling gave away its contents even as he opened the lid and plucked a tooth out. It looked a little like a dried bit of cow patty, pushed into a squarish shape. Thomas proceeded to stick the brown tooth into an empty gap in his gums. She actually gasped at the squelching noise it made as it pressed against the gum. “What do you think?” he asked. Nothing about his face told her he was joking. In fact, his brow lowered in a way she did not like. He took a step forward and unbuttoned the top button of his blouse. “Do you….think it suits me?” he purred. Actually purred, like a fucking cat shoved up the ass of a man’s body and trying to make the best of the situation. “That’s…Can I have a drink of water?” “Of course, you wait right there.” She killed him the moment he returned. Sometimes she liked to have a good romp before she saw to business, either for their sake or just because she was bored. Sometimes she even waited a date or two so they would buy her some trinket if she asked for it. But Aida Pemble, abomination or no, was not about to fuck a man who stuck rotten teeth in his gums and purred at her like a cat in heat. It gave her some pleasure now when she saw her parents had eaten every last bit of bone and grit that had once been a deranged dentist with an unfortunate habit of whistling and wearing other’s teeth. Honestly, it was almost as though she’d done his patients a favor. Or at least any future romantic endeavors. There might have been some man or woman who was either too bewildered or polite to properly react. Now they never need worry about getting necked by Thomas the Tooth Taker. They were fucking welcome. “All I do…” she murmured into her cupped palm. Her eyes felt heavy. The muscles in her arms were beginning to pulsate from the long day’s activities. She climbed to her feet just as her parents absorbed the last bit of meat. They stared at her, or at least in her direction, as they dissolved the remains of Thomas. Then without any fanfare or hesitation, they turned and scuttled into the trees. The thick forestry concealed them within moments. “Goodnight!” Aida called. “Goodnight mom! Goodnight dad! Don’t eat the neighbors!” They didn’t respond, but again, they almost never did. Aida stretched her tired muscles and watched the dark forest for a few seconds more, then went inside to get some much needed sleep. Her parents were fed and satisfied for now. Which meant they most likely wouldn’t eat the neighbors. And if they did, well, that was a problem for later. For now, Aida the Abomination was ready for sleep. Tomorrow would bring problems enough. -
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Chasing Shiny Objects - Opening Scene
CHASING SHINY OBJECTS CHAPTER 1 With no time to waste, I sat at my desk and opened the document that was currently the only thing keeping me, and my freshly pedicured toes, from the sunny, sparkling shores and divine lemon drop cocktails of Bayshore Island Beach. My weekend with the girls soaking up the sun and dancing my worries away was going to be so much better than my perfectly planned, no expense spared, black-tie wedding weekend would have been. I was completely over my ex unexpectedly calling off our wedding at the last minute. Fine with all that. But I was not about to be trapped in the office for one more second. I hit “accept all” for the dozens of ridiculous, red track changes in the settlement agreement my boss, the most incompetent partner at Devonshire & Dowling, sent the night before. At the last-minute Paul caved and gave the other side an extra million just to make the case disappear. He also added in nonsensical grammatical edits—both for extra billing and to make me miserable. But for Paul’s amateur negotiating skills, I would’ve already been at the beach, not stuck at the office cleaning up another one of his messes. My head still pounded from cosmos the night before as I skipped over fifty-five rambling pages of legal jargon. I had already wasted countless hours of my life painstakingly reading each boring word and went straight to the end of the agreement. With two clicks I inserted my electronic signature, “Jacqueline Leah Rudd,” on an empty line reserved for Paul and sent the “signed” document to my adversary who had spent months torturing me. Such was life in the law firm world—months, strike that, years, of trading thousands of pages of paper until one side caved. In this case, not unlike all my others, our client, Liberty Pizza, had no choice but to be the first to wave the white flag. A swift end to Paul’s latest fiasco! The Liberty Pizza case was officially done. I maneuvered my hand around stacks of jumbled papers and neon sticky notes that covered my white, L-shaped desk searching for the hidden phone to call for a D&D car. Smooth jazz played as I waited to connect to the dispatcher. From behind a teetering pile of stuffed manila folders and yellow legal notebooks I grabbed a picture of my dad. His arm was wrapped around me as we stood on Bayshore boardwalk with melting ice cream cones in our hands and smiles on our tanned, young faces. My dad never managed to get the coveted title he always wanted of D&D partner, but in a few months I would. Brighter, happier times were within my grasp. I placed the shiny, silver frame on a shelf above my desk to block a face down picture of me and Blake, my ex, drunk and carefree on a yacht he had rented in Mykonos. Finally, the dispatcher connected. “We’ve got no cars for you this morning, Ms. Rudd.” “I took one here. Of course, there’s a car.” “Sorry, just sent the entire fleet to shuttle the lawyers to Mr. Richardson’s party. I didn’t see your name on the list.” The summer associates behind me in line at the salad bar in the D&D cafeteria the day before had been gossiping about the legendary party at Mike’s five-acre estate on the ocean. The swanky Hamptons party was the hottest summer invite. At least until the private lecture with some trending artist followed by dinner prepared by a Michelin starred chef on the MoMA rooftop the following week. If I had gotten my ass out of bed and joined the 5 am treadmill crew that raced daily in D&D’s attorneys only gym on the twentieth floor, I could’ve scored an invite to Mike’s party. But Bayshore was so going to be so much better! “I just need a car back to Jersey,” I said. “Can’t help you until later this afternoon when folks start returning. Cars are staying out on the Island all day.” “The afternoon?” “There’s an accident in the tunnel anyway. It’ll take you hours by car. You’re better off on the train.” As I pulled up the traffic on my phone, I swiveled around in my white leather chair to face the windows behind my desk. From my forty-fifth-floor office, ant-sized specks poured into Central Park to celebrate the unofficial start of summer. Instead of promoting me to partner in January, the chairman gave me an extra-large, recently renovated office with bright blue walls, glossy furniture, and the best view. A consolation prize. Like on the boardwalk when you came up short knocking down pins to win the giant-sized stuffed bear and walked away with a quarter-sized rubber bouncy ball. Enough consolation prizes. I needed the giant stuffed bear! The deep red lines on the map confirmed the dispatcher was right, two hours to get across the river! The gross, hot, slow train that I avoided at all costs was my best bet. Before that crazy vice-president from Liberty Pizza called and again berated me for what were entirely Paul’s gaffes, I shut down my laptop. No ball-and-chain this weekend. Now that this trainwreck of a case had come to an end, I was free. For three sweet, lemon-drop doused days at least. Time to toast a final farewell to Blake, the lying, cheating, sleazeball who didn’t want to marry me. I was better off without him and had my sights on snagging a hot guy on the dance floor at Haven. I grabbed my tote—a “cheer me up” purchase and one that screamed dancing down the shore all summer: Louboutin, red patent-leather, snakeskin detailing with hard lacquer handles that said “I dare you to try it” with their chrome metal spikes. It couldn’t have looked more out of place in the stuffy office than the flowing Pucci caftan and enormous floppy sun hat covering my long, wavy, brown hair, but here we were. On a Saturday morning. Memorial Day weekend. A fake-rose and menthol scent filled the air. I sneezed and turned around, surprised to find my legal assistant, Diana, lurking in my office doorway. “Where do you think you’re going, Jackie?” Diana asked. Her husky, thick Brooklyn accent grated on my throbbing head. “Where do you think I’m going?” I twirled around to show off my new beach attire and added oversized crystal rimmed sunglasses for emphasis. Thanks to my wedding diet when I refused to eat, followed by my breakup diet when I couldn’t stop crying long enough to eat, I was down ten pounds and looking good. Even Diana had to agree. “Not to your wedding.” Diana flashed a smile at her own dig and her bright red lips parted revealing yellow, crooked teeth. The comment stung more than I wanted to admit. My freshly polished fists clenched, and my glossy, pink lips pursed. “Isn’t it time for a cigarette break?” I asked. Diana invited herself into my office and tapped her blue, plastic nails on my desk. “Did you see Paul’s email?” I gave her the look we all give each other when, yes, of course, we saw the email. “And I’m sure you saw I made the edits and sent the signed agreement.” “And now you’re leaving?” “Is there something else I should be doing?” Diana shrugged and looked at her phone. “Time for my cigarette break.” “What are you doing here, anyway?” I yelled down the hall. Diana pushed the button for the elevator and didn’t turn around. She prided herself on making me miserable and doing whatever it took to make Paul happy. What was she up to this time? With my right thumb and index finger I rolled around my diamond stud earring, an eighteenth birthday gift from my dad. The last gift he gave me. Uncovering Diana’s latest plot would wait until Tuesday. I couldn’t miss another second of that glorious, perfect beach day! I grabbed my tote and stealthily maneuvered through the packed midtown streets under the shadow of towering skyscrapers only for the sign on the platform to reveal I had just missed a train that would bring me back to the Jersey side of the Hudson River. “Where are you?” a text message from my friend Hannah read. She was pissed I was late. I shared her frustration, for different reasons. “Tied up at work,” I responded and stared at the sign showing approaching trains. Hannah would be fine alone with our friend Tessa for a few hours at our old stomping grounds. The high school tennis championship really should’ve been water under the bridge by now. As I found a spot to stand on the crowded train and grabbed onto an already warmed metal pole, a pinging sound alerted me of an email. A new message from Law Daily: “Liberty Pizza Chain to Pay $5 Million to End Overtime Lawsuit.” Already? That was quick, even for the jackals at the Daily. That hothead on the other side was so full of himself, he couldn’t wait to share his lucky victory. News traveled fast in the hungry world of top tier firms. The cute junior partner with big blue eyes who took me on a recruiting lunch when I was a 2L sold me on the high-stakes, fast-paced, headline-grabbing nature of D&D’s prestigious legal cases. “You’ll never get sick of seeing your name on the best cases that other lawyers would’ve killed for,” he said. I ate up all his bullshit, along with the crab cakes, porter house steak, truffle fries, and chocolate cake D&D bought. But I should have known better. I had witnessed the Daily rip apart my dad’s legal career and then never issue an apology for all its lies accusing him of being a cheat and a thief. When I made partner, everyone would see the Daily was nothing but a rag with click-bait grunts who never had time for accurate reporting. The law firm world would see how wrong they were about my dad. The train lurched through the tunnel. My name appeared in small font at the end of the article, “Jacqueline Leah Rudd, Esq.” I scanned the story to see just how bad the reporter made my client look. Shit. Even the idiots at the Daily caught on that five million dollars was a hefty amount to give employees who accused the company of stealing from their paychecks. Even for the goliath chain that gobbled up every mom-and-pop pizza shop in its path. Paul’s stupid quote about the “delicious pizza and convenient locations” helped draw attention away from the painful settlement number. At least the Daily didn’t learn that at the last-minute, in a moment of desperation, Paul had agreed to an extra million in attorney’s fees just to make the case go away. Thank goodness that mess of a case was over! When the train doors opened in Hudson Shores, I bolted down the tree-lined sidewalk adjacent to a row of brownstones built in the 1950s. I passed the corner with my favorite Italian deli that had the glass door open giving a teasing scent of a sub with the best fresh mozzarella. My hangover hit me hard. My stomach growled, and my head still ached, but I didn’t stop. With all the intensity of a marathon runner sprinting to the big finish, I squeezed my toes to keep my flip-flops from sliding off, clutched my tote tight to my body with one hand, and secured my floppy sun hat with the other. Not that I had yet to follow my marathon training schedule. Out of breath, I forged ahead to my new white convertible I had parked three days before in a two-hour spot and removed two parking tickets from my windshield. My car wasn’t as cool as the classic red corvette my dad used to drive to our old shore house, but it sure beat the battered, sputtering, faded orange sedan I suffered with through college and law school. Soon enough I’d have all the same shiny things I had before my family lost everything. Well maybe not that soon since I had been making a few too many “cheer me up” purchases on top of my loans. Not to worry. Once I had a D&D partner’s salary, money wouldn’t be an issue. The cute, blue-eyed partner had voted against me joining his elite private club of D&D partners the first time, but in just a few months he and the other fifteen committee members would all vote for me. The firm chairman promised. My future was as bright as the fresh summer sun glaring in my eyes as I raced to the Parkway. -
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The Road to Happiness - Book 1 The Highwayman
The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. John 10:10 Chapter One - The Chef To thine own self be true. And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. Shakespeare, Hamlet. A famous Chef once said to turn every disadvantage to your advantage. It was the same Chef that stood before me now at the entrance of Bodkin House Hotel, a 17th Century Coaching Inn and former 12th Century Priory in Petty France, on the edge of the Badminton Estate. We had just had a busy Sunday lunch service, and I was still hungover from the night before. I wondered if I was hallucinating or whether Gordon Ramsay was standing in reception. I said a silent prayer and did my best to maintain my professionalism. My parents bought Bodkin House a few years ago now, at the turn of the 21st Century; I was away travelling at the time with my then-boyfriend, having just graduated from Manchester University. Despite everyone expecting us to announce our engagement upon our return to the UK, I broke the relationship off not long after we had bought a flat together in Bristol. Something was missing from the relationship. I was looking for something more—a significant meaning to life, pursuing my purpose, dharma, and destiny. A voice was screaming inside me, and I could ignore it no more. The only problem was I needed to figure out what my purpose was. Despite travelling the world for a couple of years, in the words of U2, I still hadn’t found what I was looking for. The Huguenots found refuge at Bodkin House when they fled France in the 16th Century, persecuted for their religious beliefs; they settled in the area and formed the hamlet of Petty France. King Henry VIII destroyed the central part of the building with the dissolution of the monasteries; however, part of the priory remained, particularly the secret passageways within the cellar. Once a nunnery, it now serves refreshments to guests and travellers. It is an impressive Grade 11 listed building on the Fosse Way, a Roman Road, and a major route from Bath to Gloucester. Jane Austen visited the Inn as a child and is reputed to have written her first novel while staying there. She wrote about "the tediousness of a 'two hours' bait at Petty France, in which there was nothing to be done but to eat without being hungry and loiter about without anything to see" (Northanger Abbey Chapter V) when Catherine travels from Bath with the Tilneys, stopping off at the Inn for some sustenance. Situated in an area of outstanding beauty, it is a testament to the place's creative inspiration. There is no doubt the place is haunted, with many stories and sightings of various ghosts reported by reputable members of society and guests alike. Many mention the headless Highwayman who haunts the King's Highway and visits the Inn. There are also regular sightings of a Victorian woman dressed in a white lace bridal gown roaming the corridor by the restaurant alongside the road. Legend has it that the notorious Highwayman held up a mother and daughter at gunpoint one night along the King's Highway en route to the Inn. Mounted on horseback, he took all their possessions, money, and expensive jewellery—a dashing-looking man with seductive dark eyes smouldering through his black mask. Dressed in an elaborate jewelled overcoat, he looked suave and sophisticated. The mother and her daughter handed over their valuables. The daughter was mesmerised by this dangerous character demanding their money or their life. Known to have an eye for pretty ladies, the Highwayman was attracted to the beautiful young woman. The following day the now unmasked Highwayman went to the Inn to find her. He claimed to have discovered their valuable items on the side of the road. The mother recognised him as the robber and raised the alarm. He was shot outside the Inn by officials, taken to Gloucester jail, and later hung. His spirit now roams the Highway, and his presence is felt at the Inn when he returns to Bodkin House looking for his lost love. "Good Afternoon! "How can I help?" I inquired. I turned to Chef Ramsay as I stood up from behind the hotel reception desk and greeted him, doing my best to remain calm and professional, despite my knees wobbling and my heart beating faster. "Hi," He said as he stood in the doorway, casually removing his sweatshirt and ruffling his hair, looking very relaxed. "Are you still serving lunch?" He asked. I couldn't help but notice he had a charming sex appeal. It felt surreal, like he was a familiar old friend, feeling very comfortable as he stood in the doorway of my family home, albeit an Inn open to the public. "I'm sure we can sort something out. Let me check with our Chef," I said, still doing my best to maintain my professionalism and not appear hungover while treating him like any other guest. Fuck! I thought. I was sure Ronnie, our lovable rogue of a Chef, had just had a line of something exotic, as he usually did after service, and was spinning around the kitchen. Fuck! Fuckity Fuck Fuck! Stay calm, I thought as I walked into the kitchen. Sure enough, our Chef was spinning his arms as he stared up at the ceiling, with flushed cheeks, having just snorted what I would imagine a line of his finest produce. My parents were very fond of Ronnie; he had a chequered past and had spent various visits at her majesty's establishment, AKA done plenty of time. According to our Head Housekeeper, the rumour was that he had killed a man. He was intelligent, and one would be wise not to let the slightly spaced-out and stoned demeanour mislead, for he had a great mind. He was loyal to my parents and had never let them down. He only once had not shown up for his shift when he had been arrested with a car boot full of cocaine, having been pulled over by the police on the motorway, travelling from London to Bristol, or the country lines as the Police call it. He claimed he was unaware of the cargo in the boot and had borrowed the car. It suited my parents to believe him, they needed him to work the evening shift, and they put up bail as they were promoting an Italian night in the restaurant, and Ronnie had put himself up as the expert. As I walked into the kitchen, I focused on the task at hand and did my best to ignore his flushed cheeks and the fact he was completely high. "Ronnie, I'm pretty sure Gordon Ramsay has just walked in!" I said, slightly bewildered. Ronnie staggered over to me. "Let me see!" he said, doing his best to wade past me like he was wading through water in what seemed like a wildly exaggerated manner. "I know Gordon; I used to work with him in London," he tells me. Ronnie reminded me of Keith Richards from the Rolling Stones and spoke with the same effect. He sounded like he had just taken a long drag of a potent joint and was taking it all in as he contemplated life and reality. Good God, no, I thought. "No, it's fine, Ronnie, it's OK…I just wanted to check if we were still OK to do food?" "Absolutely!" he answered very confidently, his cheeks still flushed and his stoned demeanour inviting. "Have we still got everything on the menu?” I inquired. "Sure," he said, "I'm a little low on roast beef, but other than that, we should be fine." He turned and shimmied up the kitchen back to the Pass. -
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RENATA REBORN - Thriller - Opening Scene
CHAPTER 1 THURSDAY OCTOBER 3 Inwood, Manhattan Leon Vasquez was pushing eighty but that was his business. In the stairwell of his apartment building his mind rushed, straining to recall. But his tall frame floated down the stairs to the beat of a Louis Armstrong tune. What time did Renata say she’d be home tonight? As he reached the last step, Leon remembered their most recent conversation. His granddaughter hadn’t told him when she was coming home. He glanced out the window of the vestibule at the dark street then down at his watch. A relic, just like him. Its worn off fake gold plating reminded him how long he’d been in the game, and it would keep ticking, ragged edges and all. At his last meet, he’d told the cut-out that there would be one last report to headquarters with information Renata was helping him obtain, and then he was done. Formal request to retire submitted. Let them question it, review the file. He’d played his part. Leon shoved through the doors, past peeling beige paint, and stepped into the crisp night air. The sounds emanating from the restaurants on Dyckman Street drifted up the block and the smells transported him south. Reminders of the past, long before he had an orphaned granddaughter to protect. At the beginning, Leon imagined that he’d die serving the cause—he’d been too naïve to understand the cost of being a lifer. A time before his allegiance to the ideals dripped away, leaving the small lies piled up into a large debt, a long con that he couldn’t let Renata discover. No one lasted in this game without patience, but now getting out was riding on his final report. Leon had no patience tonight. He grimaced at the thought that he’d drawn her into it, this one last task. It seemed like a small favor. He’d misjudged. Leon stepped over the fallen brown leaves gathered in bunches on the cold sidewalk and clocked a couple down the block, then strode ahead. He’d tried Renata on her cell phone again, but it went to voicemail. How to kill a few minutes? Leon headed down the street to the bodega on the corner to grab a soda. It was almost nine o’clock and she had to work tomorrow. If she didn’t answer again in a few more minutes, he’d walk to her new apartment. Leon still obeyed the old superstitions. Never turn back once halfway there. The bell hanging on the door clanged as he walked in and nodded to the cashier. He had quit smoking when Renata pleaded with him to stop. Her brown eyes brimmed with tears was a more influential strategy than he’d let on—though he never gave up orange soda. Renata was his only family left, the most important person in his life. Of course he’d taken her in and raised her after her parents died. But Leon refused to be shorn of all his vices. He grabbed a Fanta out of the fridge, dropped the bills on the counter and turned to leave. “Hey,” the cashier said in Spanish, “You forgot your change.” Dominican accent. Leon swiveled around and gave the boy a quick smile, his dark brown eyes set in warm olive wrinkles. “It’s good, I don’t need it,” he replied, also in Spanish. Unplaceable accent. Once in a while, someone would poke fun at Leon’s accent when he spoke Spanish and he would simply shrug and say, “My parents came from the old country.” No one ever never asked what country. Outside the bodega Leon gulped down the fizzy sweet liquid. Out of habit, his eyes scanned the block while he closed the plastic bottle and squeezed it into his back pocket so he could try Renata’s cell phone again. Voicemail. He started moving. It was seven minutes to her new apartment at his current pace. If he didn’t get her on the phone before then, he could wait. He had a spare key. He dialed again. Voicemail. Leon picked up his pace. One last report. Leon swore under his breath—he shouldn’t have asked Renata for help. The thought pierced him, though, because he had been the one to teach her the best ways to elicit information from people. He had encouraged her to study computer science at Columbia and helped her get a scholarship to attend that hacker conference in Las Vegas. He had been the one to encourage her take the job at the company always in the news, Athol Technologies, after she graduated last spring. Leon had encouraged her, influenced her, and ultimately put her in the position to be able to feed information into his reports. He had done all that, the whole time knowing why, but unable to resist the way her eyes lit up with his encouragement. Children were natural snoops. But Renata wasn’t a child anymore and the same rules no longer applied. Leon pushed the pang of regret from his mind and took a deep breath to quell the rising fear in his stomach. He’d kept the secret for more than half a century. He could do it for a few more days. What was the quote? “To lie is to perform the part of a good citizen.” It wasn’t too late to take back the favor and finish the report himself. There were other ways to find out how close her company was to getting the government contract. He dialed again. Voicemail. Leon let out a sigh of frustration and stepped into the crosswalk, eyeing the front door of Renata’s apartment building. He didn’t see headlights in his peripheral vision until it was too late to move. That’s the last thing he remembered. # -
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Take Five: Matthew Norman and Charm City Rocks
We’re delighted to bring you a closer look at WU contributor Matthew Norman’s newest release, Charm City Rocks. If you’ve read anything from Matt, you already know that he’ll swiftly have you nodding, laughing, and ultimately moved, which makes us so excited for this one. What’s the pitch? “When a single dad meets the former rock-star crush of his youth, everything they thought they knew about happiness and love is thrown into chaos in this hopeful, heartwarming romantic comedy.” “Bursting with heart and chock-full of pitch-perfect dialog and disarmingly wonderful characters.”–Allison Winn Scotch If you aren’t sold yet, just read on. Q1: What’s the premise of your new book? MN: CHARM CITY ROCKS is the story of Margot Hammer and Billy Perkins. Margot is the former drummer of an all-female rock band from the early 2000s called Burnt Flowers. Billy is a piano teacher in Baltimore. One day while watching a rock documentary on Netflix, Billy confesses to his teenage son Caleb that he used to have a huge crush on Margot back in the day. Later that night, Caleb accidentally gets stoned on pot gummies and comes up with an idea to get Margot to come to Baltimore to perform at a record shop called Charm City Rocks. As truly idiotic as Caleb’s plan seems, Margot’s former record label sees it as her potential rock-and-roll comeback. From there…romantic comedy ensues. Q2: What would you like people to know about the story itself? MN: I wasn’t kidding about the “romantic comedy” thing. Of my five novels, CHARM CITY ROCKS is the first that can be considered a true romantic comedy. There’s a strain of melancholy that has run steadily through my previous books—a sort of bitter-sweet sensibility that has always been a go-to aesthetic for me as writer. When I stumbled onto the idea for CHARM CITY ROCKS, this is how I pitched it to my editor: “What if I took the bitter part out and just wrote something, you know, sweet?” I couldn’t be happier with the results. I think it’s my lightest, airiest book, and I hope it’s my funniest. Either way, it’s definitely the most fun I’ve had writing a novel. Q3: What do your characters have to overcome in this story? What challenge do you set before them? MN: All things equal, Margot and Billy would meet, hit it off, go on a date, and see where things went. All things here, however, are not equal. Although she’s become a bit of a rock and roll recluse these last two decades, Margot is very famous, and Billy is just a normal guy from Baltimore. As Margot and Billy’s relationship begins to bloom, the world takes notice, and so do some key characters from Margot’s rockstar past—like her former bandmates and an ex-husband who’s even more famous than she is. Relationships are fragile in the early stages—particularly when both parties show up with some baggage. Can Margot and Billy’s tentative new relationship withstand the weight of a couple million eyeballs? We’ll see. Q4: What unique challenges did this book pose for you, if any? MN: I mentioned before that this was the most fun I’ve had writing a book. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t difficult. From beginning to end there was a push and pull between the past and present. I needed to create a fictional rock band, give that rock band a run of songs, albums, awards, concerts, and memorable performances, and then I needed to break that band up in spectacular fashion. It was important to me, though, to not let Burnt Flowers’ musical backstory overpower the book’s present action. I love fictional and nonfictional rock retrospectives as much as anyone, but that’s not what I was looking to write. CHARM CITY ROCKS is in the present tense, and it’s very much about Margot and Billy in the present. Q5: What has been the most rewarding aspect of having written this book? MN: Genre is important, and I don’t think it should be taken lightly. If you call something a romantic comedy but then don’t actually deliver a romantic comedy, readers will rightfully be annoyed and confused. So, I’m proud that CHARM CITY ROCKS meets the specs of the genre. I’m equally proud, however, that it also pushes beyond those specs. Margot and Billy’s romance is the book’s “A” storyline, for sure, but it’s also about the validity of nontraditional families, the love between parents and their children, the ever-changing entertainment industry, the flipping of traditional male-female power dynamics, and the sheer joy of second acts and second chances. Thank you, Matt! You can find out more about Charm City Rocks on Matthew’s website. Or follow him on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. [url={url}]View the full article[/url] -
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SBTB Bestsellers: May 20 – June 2
Our latest bestseller list is brought to you by the white noise of a rainstorm, cool breezes, and our affiliate sales data. Minimum Wage Magic by Rachel Aaron Amazon Heartbreaker by Sarah MacLean Amazon | B&N | Kobo Georgie, All Along by Kate Clayborn Amazon | B&N | Kobo Spotless by Camilla Monk Amazon Weather Girl by Rachel Lynn Solomon Amazon | B&N | Kobo Flyaway by Kathleen Jennings Amazon | B&N | Kobo Mad About You by Mhairi McFarlane Amazon | B&N | Kobo The Benevolent Society of Ill-Mannered Ladies by Alison Goodman Amazon | B&N | Kobo The Reading List by Sara Nisha Adams Amazon | B&N | Kobo Seraphina by Rachel Hartman Amazon | B&N | Kobo | GooglePlay I hope your weekend reading was calming and restorative! View the full article -
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Algonkian Pre-event Narrative Enhancement Guide - Opening Hook
Opening scene which introduces the main conflict, without providing too many details, as well as introduces the main character and provides some hints to her personality: There’s a quote that’s been lingering in the back of my mind, after everything that’s happened. It’s cliche to start off a letter with a quote, I know, especially one that anyone whose been following my career has heard. But it’s worth repeating, given who I am and what I do. “There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception.” It’s from Aldous Huxley, he was a British writer back in the early 20th century. It’s echoed in everything I’ve done, since witnessing the dangers of an idea. How it can take the likeness of a drop, touch oceans of history and culture in a community, and spreads until it has become the tides themselves. It’s the ten-year anniversary of when the world lost its gods. If you’re American, then you probably only saw how it impacted America. You saw the economy go down, the celebrities and politicians commenting either in support or opposition. As I watched the recent coverage of the damage done, during that time, it occurred to me just how much of the reporting illustrated the broader story of the TX12 and everything that resulted from it. The big stories and the big numbers, that scared or inspired readers, were told. But the smaller tales, the ones with elements that are too sharp to be crafted into entertainment and too dull to be cautionary tales, those weren’t. And they probably never will be. That’s how news that needs to be sold works. That’s why I’m writing this, in the hope that someone who was impacted by what happened reads it and feels that however, it affected them mattered. I know that my story is one of the millions that only thousands may relate to but I’d rather reach someone while failing to reach everyone. This is how it happened and hopefully, someone will read this and sees enough of their story in my experience. Behind a scattered collection of gray colds, sunlight bled through every part of the sky that they didn’t cover. Light rain dropped silently crashed into the neighborhood, without a sound and barely visible, the only proof that they landed in the puddles that they congregate into. Though mildly entertained, I looked at myself in my car, checking every detail on my newly braided hair, makeup that complimented my dark skin, and my near-perfect lips except for the little bit of skin hanging off, an annoying reminder of the habit but a more annoying reminder that I’ll keep doing it. If I saw this face on another woman, I’d probably think she was pretty. I looked out my foggy window and see that gray clouds were gone along with the wind. The sun was now out, without any hindrance; its light reflected in the leftover rain, making the neighborhood a little too bright to look at. I watched crowds of people, whose various black, brown, and amber shades were organized together into a moving color palette, strolling down the street. Black people, with streaks of white in their hair and pauses before their step, walked side by side as the red doors to the church opened. Some of them held the hands of black children, who moved uncomfortably in suits and dresses and yawned without covering their mouths. A blast of an organ erupted from the building, while the line moved steadily with people eagerly moving inside. As I watched them enter, a few random thoughts, apathetic of my feelings, across my mind and found themselves at its forefront. This is going to go wrong, you don’t know how but it will. You’re already about to fired and soon and you’ll probably take Marc down with you. A few more, just as loud and honest, followed their trail. I wonder how you’ll pay your bill without a job. I closed my eyes. -
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Getting Down to Business
Stories about AI led the news in May, both the pros and cons, mostly cons. More sad news about book bans, with a highly regarded poem thrown out for good measure, but there are also signs of a growing push back. So, dig in! AI We’d all better be paying closer attention to how AI is going to play out in the future, both as writers and as humans. It’s making headlines as the potential for pluses and problems appear to be infinite. Google’s new editor helping to perfect fakery Is AI paving the path to email hell? Do we need an AI manifesto? Scribd changes its terms in response to AI The best AI-powered apps—if you’re so inclined UK is launching a review of AI’s impact on consumers Biden and Harris meet with CEOs about AI risks Bookwire integrates chatgpt Is AI already replacing writers? A boom in AI-written books on Amazon Laws governing AI are like the wild, wild west AI analyzes Charles Dickens The Urgent Risk of AI Hard work, not AI is the key to success Book Banning Libraries, inauguration poems, textbooks—book banners have them all in their sites. Most banned authors of all time The fight against book bans Librarians, publishers, bookstores join lawsuit in Arkansas Amanda Gorman poem banned in Florida Publishers suing Florida school district over book bans Book Banning in America has never been worse Publishing Book shows, editorial turnover at New Leaf Books and others, commentaries on the state of publishing, and Trump vs Woodward. Amazon publishing stats Book business could be a better lgbtq ally Industry news, trade shows, events from Publishers Weekly New York book show US needs its own book fair New Leaf issues update for authors When your publisher gets the cover very wrong The current state of being a published writer—weird and worrisome Publishing people roundup—who’s in, who’s out? Trump vs Simon & Schuster and Woodward Ten Speed Press launches graphic book imprint Wave of resignations at Coffee House Press Bookstores It’s all about Barnes & Noble. Now that it seems to be on the come back, employees want to unionize. One take on Barnes & Noble “makeover” Flagship Barnes & Noble in NYC launches union drive Brooklyn’s Park Slope Barnes & Noble files for union election; Massachusetts store votes yes for unionization Social Media In a head-to-head with Twitter, Snapchat, Tiktok and Reddit, Linked In comes out on top? LinkedIn driving content discovery for publishers What say you about AI? Are concerns justified or is the hand wringing unnecessary? If you have any sources on the topic you’d like to share for next month, I’d love to hear about them. [url={url}]View the full article[/url] -
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The Need for Respect Between Writers and Editors
Photo by Yan Krukau (Pexels) I took part in a nasty email exchange recently. I didn’t start it, and I certainly didn’t want to continue it. This dust-up began when I submitted a CNF essay to a print journal. I had received one of those “Open to Submissions” digests through email. You know the kind. It’s similar to the sidebars we include in each monthly WOW! Markets newsletter, alerting writers to open calls for submissions. * This round-up I’m referencing was not, for the record, included in the WOW! Markets newsletter. Anyway, this particular round-up noted that one journal—a name I was not familiar with, a print magazine—was open to original work, as well as reprints. It’s rare to find journals open to reprints, so I immediately took notice. I have a CNF essay that is very dear to me, published three years ago in an online journal. I always keep my eyes open for reprint opportunities because I’d love to hold this essay in a print publication. It’s about my sister-in-law’s suicide, and it’s one of the most bittersweet pieces I’ve ever written. I sent my essay to the print journal on a Monday morning. I clearly noted at the top that it was a reprint, and cited where and when it had been published online. Three days later, I got an email from them. I was surprised at the speed of the reply, and wasn’t sure if I should take it as a good or bad sign that they were getting back to me so quickly. Prior to submitting my reprint, I had visited the journal’s website to see if they published any pieces online. Some print journals have been known to post a few sample pieces, to help give writers a flavor of what they publish. With print, it’s sometimes harder to get a sense of what a particular journal likes when one does not have a paid subscription. Their website did not have any sample pieces posted. I also did not see in their submission guidelines where they said they accepted reprints. I wanted to cover my bases to show that I was not randomly spraying out essays without reading guidelines. As an online journal editor myself, I appreciate the importance of following guidelines to the letter. I pointed out in my cover letter that the submissions round-up email had indicated reprints were accepted. I opened their reply with my usual expectation of a 50/50 coin toss. They were either going to thank me for considering them and tell me they were not interested in my piece, or they might surprise me and say that they wanted to republish it. What I was not expecting was the sarcastic reply I read: Print magazine editors are weary of junk submissions from people who have not read an issue. “Junk” submissions? Ouch! Where the hell did that come from? This editor—as it turns out, when I Googled him—is white and male and older, judging by his photo. Not a good look, this email reply of his, especially in an industry that has a history of literary gatekeeping. An industry that consistently and unabashedly valued male (and almost always white) writers and all but ignored, well, everyone else: females, people of color, the LGBTQ community, neurodivergent writers, and on and on. For, um, centuries. But, this is not a discussion about white male privilege. It’s actually just a discussion about rudeness. About sarcastic, conceited dismissal. Stick with me. We’re getting to that part. He went on to scold me that they do not accept previously published work, and that the digest that included that guidance was clearly in error. What I read between the lines was that he, in his haughty wisdom, dismissed them as well for being sloppy. He continued: Visit our website. And read the magazine. Though I found his email off-putting, and though I rarely respond to editors when I receive a rejection, I felt this called for some kind of reply. I let him know that I had, in fact, visited the journal’s website before submitting and I had tried to read some of their published work, but that I could not find any writing in any shape or form published on their website. (The only thing I saw was instructions on how to purchase back copies, or sign up for an annual subscription.) I also apologized for sending my reprint in error, then mentioned in closing how I’ve seen some print journals publish samples, which helps those writers who may not have money to buy subscriptions to every publication. I’m pretty sure that’s the point where our email conversation went from unpleasant to ugly. His reply, a half hour later: Like other magazines, XX receives many submissions from people who have not read it. When I call this fact to their attention, they reply as you did that they cannot buy every magazine to which they submit. Why not? If a magazine is good enough to publish your work, it is good enough for you to buy a copy. Please save your advice on how to run the magazine, and what to put on the website. Editors rarely welcome such comments from writers. I sat there, stewing over his condescension. I thought about how I had apologized to him and was sincere in owning up to my mistake. The onus was on me after all, as the submitter, to fact-check what I’d read in an erroneous third-party round-up that said this particular journal did accept reprints. I’ll be sure to file your emails in my Pompous Ass folder, I replied. Get over yourself. I was not proud of my snark. OK, who am I kidding, you’re damn right I was proud. I assumed that would be the end of it. It was not. Minutes later, I got another scorching email. And I’ll be sure to pass your name to other editors as a writer to avoid! I'll do you one better, I wrote back, and share with the journal for which I am an editor to keep your name in mind as one to avoid. I hit the Send button, but soon regretted engaging in a juvenile tit-for-tat with some gray-haired, bespectacled man who oozed grandiosity. While Googling him, I saw that he crowed about his Ivy-League education, and listed a handful of what he considered higher-tier—and therefore worthy, in his esteemed opinion—journals in which he’d been published. My Inbox dinged five minutes later. He’d apparently also Googled me, because he called out by name both the literary journal where I volunteer as a Flash CNF editor, and the WOW! Women on Writing community where I write newsletter columns. His comments about both put his ugliness on full display. Barren Magazine? Are you kidding me? Women on Writing? Am I a woman? He rattled off a few more insults and closed his rant with the question: Who do you think you are? I was floored. And, done. I filed his nasty-grams away in an archived folder, and reflected on what had gone down. I’m not sure I have any answers, certainly not any that can excuse this person’s overblown response to a legitimate mistake in thinking their journal accepted reprints. I regretted stooping to his level, as he baited me with his hostility. Even more so, I regretted sending him my essay about my deceased sister-in-law. An essay he in all likelihood never read, but felt compelled to call "junk." The whole experience left me feeling a bit brokenhearted. When writers and editors can’t or won’t respect one other, when someone like this boor dismisses another writer and editor, when he stoops to lording it over other journals and lashes out with a sexist comment about an entire community, it sucks the joy out of this thing we we all work so hard at capturing. How to relate to each other. Getting to universal truths. Here’s a truth about that editor. He is, indeed, a pompous ass. And if his journal’s mission in any way reflects his own ugliness, it’s not a journal I’d ever want to be in. Ann Kathryn Kelly writes from New Hampshire’s Seacoast region. https://annkkelly.com (C) Copyright wow-womenonwriting.com Visit WOW! Women On Writing for lively interviews and how-tos. Check out WOW!'s Classroom and learn something new. Enter the Quarterly Writing Contests. Open Now![url={url}]View the full article[/url] -
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Kickass Women in History: Queen Amanirenas
The Kingdom of Kush existed along the Nile Valley in what is now parts of Sudan and Egypt. It included the city-states of Kerma, Napata, and Meroë. The inhabitants of this kingdom spoke and wrote in the Meroitic language, a language that is currently almost completely untranslated. Kush existed for over 3,000 years, and during much of that time it was ruled by women. Queen Amanirenas is famous for having successfully resisted the Roman army’s invasion of the kingdom. Most of the information we have about her is either written in Meroitic, which we can’t read, or comes to us from a Greek historian named Strabo who writes from a place of bias. Still, we know enough to firmly place Queen Amanirenas in the ranks of Kickass Women. Amanirenas was a Kandake, the Meroitic word for female ruler. She ruled from around 40-10BC. Once the Roman Augustus Caesar established dominion over Egypt, he marched on Kush, desiring its supply of gold. Queen Amanirenas is said to have sent him ten golden arrows and a message stating: “If you want peace, this is a token of warmth and friendship. If you want war, keep the arrows, because you are going to need them.” Queen Amanirenas’ army was much smaller than that of the Romans so strategy was crucial. Queen Amanirenas was an archer as were many women from the kingdom. Many women fought in her army. In an early battle, Queen Amanirenas’ husband was killed. In a later battle she lost an eye. She fought with her son at her side, rebounded after some devastating losses, and used battle tactics of surprise and fear. After three years, she forced the Romans to sign a peace treaty which removed taxes from the Meroë and withdrew Roman forces almost all the way back to Egypt. A temple in Meroë that is dedicated to victory contained a bronze sculpture of Caesar Augustus’s head, buried beneath the temple steps so all could tread upon it. History.com elaborates: The temple in Meroë is also decorated with drawings of Roman prisoners and victorious Nubian queens. Solange Ashby, Egyptologist and Post-Doctoral Fellow at The University of California, says such depictions are typical for the period and indicative of a wider culture where femininity and willingness to engage in warfare were not contradictory. Because we have to rely almost entirely on the words of a single person for details about the war, it’s difficult to interpret what did and didn’t happen. Paintings of Amanirenas show her riding a war elephant and feeding prisoners to lions – propaganda created to instill fear, or true reporting of the actions of a ruthless leader? What we do know is that Amanirenas made tremendous gains and maintained the kingdom’s independence. The kingdom endured for another 400 years. Here’s a video about this amazing woman: And here are some sources: “The Nubian Queen Who Fought Back Caesar’s Army” History.com “Amanirenas: The One-Eyed Queen Who Fought Rome Tooth and Nail” Rejectedprincesses.com https://artsandculture.google.com/story/queen-amanirenas-the-story-of-the-white-nile-nubi-archeress/bALSN3WTK_YEJA View the full article -
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Algonkian Pre-event Narrative Enhancement Guide - Opening Hook
Part of the first chapter - introduction to the protagonist, some world building, and background to support the antagonist's motivation. Acalia flashed her canines at the amber Etherwolf trying to push past her. Fueled by anger, her ethereal white fur bristling up to give her more height to intimidate with. “The nerve. Trying to muscle through. Not even from my clan.” She widened to a more aggressive stance on the hard, rocky ground. The harsh terrain only broken up by impact craters of various sizes as far as the eye could see. The minerals in the stagnant dirt glinted shocks of white among the gray boulders on her home in the Moon Goddess given dimension of Etherluna. Above flowed ribbons of colors ebbing in the celestial winds filling the area with a spectrum light show of blends of greens, reds and blues. The colorful prisms were powered by the Goddess’ energy surfing on waves of colliding gases creating wondrous belts of iridescent hues. An opalescent veil dividing them from the low hanging, starry heavens. The Moon Goddess had created a home for Her children across Her celestial body. Acalia caught a fierce smile from her friend, Bethena, in acknowledgment that she showed that interloper who the more dominant one was. A flash of red cut to the side knocking Bethena out of the way. Acalia spun around and did a hard shoulder check into the trespasser and knocked her off all four of her paws. Acalia was very protective of her friends. With her translucent, sandy brown fur raised up to full height in irritation, Bethena was still one of the smallest Etherwolves. Even some from their own clan tried to take advantage of her size and push her around. One of those incidents was when their friendship was cemented. Acalia came across two of the more dominant clan brothers demanding someone make way through a tight, constricted, cutout passageway. Their southern clan territory was carved out by deep, dry, lava sculpted, river beds and closed in craters with high, rippled ridges. The small, tawny Etherwolf had stood her ground. Her short, flaxen, wispy fur stood straight, barely giving an extra couple of inches of height. Acalia admired the small bundle of fierceness and joined her side of the blockade. After the two more dominant Etherwolves mopped the floor with them they had laid on the ground laughing and crying together over their shared pain and stubbornness. This feisty bundle of sandy fur and her have been close friends ever since. The crimson form cowered on the ground with all her translucent fur flattened and ears pinned back. She raised her snout in one finale defiant attempt. “Your lot always think your better than everyone else. Leaving scraps behind for us to fight over.” Acalia pulled her lips back and gave a small growl showing some teeth at the pushy, whiny, insubordinate ball of fur. She gave up her bluster and showed her throat as all thoughts of taking advantage of Acalia and her friend given up in the face of a more powerful Etherwolf. Satisfied her friend was safe, Acalia made a point of dismissively turning her back on the downed would be gatecrasher. She returned her friend’s smile with a mischievous one knowing giving her backside gave insult to injury to the defeated intruder. “I might not be the most dominant, but I’m not going to let anyone push my friends around.” She gave a quick look out of the corner of her eye just in case she was going to have to get more violent, then she wiped her back paws at the properly cowed Etherwolf. The rest of the Etherwolves jockeyed for the best position to receive the full moon’s gift when Acalia’s clan’s shaman channeled the Goddesses’ blessing.Her clan created the inner circle around him. His own semitransparent, pale fur flowed in the cosmic currents as the magic began to build. It was their turn to lead the blessed ceremony that rejuvenated the Etherwolves on Etherluna and the others with their matches on Gaia. The ones on Gaia will raise their devoted snouts and bask in the mystical energy sent down the brimming beams of the full moon. The shaman threw his nose to the bright stars and let loose a loud howl from deep in his throat. The chorus grew louder as each voice joined in. The encompassing melody reverberated through space pounding against her demanding she throw hers into the mix. Their cries older than time telling her she belonged and that they were one. This was what it meant to be clan. She felt her own howl build from deep within herself. A fleeting memory of other times she howled during the full moon surfaced long enough to make her pause. A flash of a time when she was corporal. Of another life before she was returned to Etherluna. It quickly faded as the clan pulled her back in. It was a full moon. A time when their spirits called down to their brothers and sisters that were fortunate enough to have claimed a joining. A time the Moon Goddess shared her full face with her children down on Gaia. Acalia leaped and danced among the glowing moon beams. She felt the ardor of the light caress her airy wolf form. Her white, opaque fur waved in the empyreal breezes. She threw her head back and laughed while dodging between her brethren. Their joyous yips joining hers. She looked down the moon beams to Gaia’s surface, a window to those that had found their soul matches. Their souls glowed as they filled with the power of Etherluna, with the magic of the Goddess. The brightness blurred the flesh coating of their bonded ones. Their connection with the land beings older than time. A soft blond figure brushed up against her. “Acalia, watch out. You almost ran across dark space. It hides in the shadows of the crater ridges and mountain ranges.” “Thanks Bethena. Your turn to save me.” “Us clan sisters have to watch out for each other.” “Speaking of clan sisters, I was looking down for Charra. She’s been gone for so long.,” Acalia replied. “Looks like she doesn’t wish to shorten her time with her soul match.,” answered Bethena. “I don’t begrudge her the match. I just miss her. I also miss a connection to my own match. I have flashes of my life with my land being and feel the loss of it.,” Acalia said. Bethena lowered her snout and rubbed against her cheek in sympathy, “They come so far and few for us. Is it no wonder we fight for one.” The glow of the white beams intensified as the moon’s fullness reached its peak changing the usual gray surface of the moon into a giant, reflective, source of power. The clan paused and looked center. Acalia’s thoughts fill with pride as her chieftain stood at the axis of the clan. Etherluna’s chosen shaman as the full moon cast down on one of Sister Gaia’s northern continents, the one the landers call America. His fur more silver than white mirrored the moon’s intense glow. She watched as his now fluid essence swirled in and out gathering the celestial energies filling until he was a glowing orb. Just as he became too bright to bear witness he flung the bursting power out from him and through the waiting clan. The force of clan magic broke through the barrier to reach those on Gaia. Acalia swelled with the enhanced energies. The familiar metallic taste signaled the intense power passing through her to share with those waiting below. The land locked had changed into their Moon Mother honoring forms of wolves in preparation to receive the life giving force from Etherluna. The howls of enriched gratitude rose up from the blue world below and lasted for hours into the long night. Acalia watched as the soul matched went off into pack groups to sleep off their empowering night of re-energized libation from the Goddess’ blessing. “Come Acalia. We only have a short time with Charra before her match has need of her.” “Coming.”, Acalia replied. Swiftly falling in line with Bethena’s lead as they padded towards the Entra Soul Gate. The gate is made of the same depthless dark matter that Acalia almost carelessly stepped in. Condensed arches of obsidian, negative space swirled in its own confounding energies. A dark force effecting universal changes with its own set of alien rules. Any accidental contact with the dark matter can easily vacuum slivers of life force into the oblivion. With one misstep parts of the ethereal form could be abruptly sliced away into the blackness severed forever. The Entra Soul Gate is one of two dark matter gates. Both the Entra Soul Gate and the Ounto Soul Gate out date any memory of their origins or any that anyone will admit to. It is taught “The only thing older than the gates is Mother Moon herself.” Acalia believes the gates were Mother Moon’s birth gifts to her Ethereal children. The gifted gates are the only known access to find their soul matches in the corporeal dimension. The second gate is used by Etherwolves bonding with their soul match. Entra Soul Gate is used by those who have already sealed their match. Though the bonded can use different celestial energy to return home most prefer to use the full moon. Charra’s bonded one is susceptible to the energies of the full moon and would usually find a safe spot to sleep it off. They have been a werewolf for a very long time and are feeling the weight of their age and the changes in the centuries. Charra didn’t like to leave her match to her own waking thoughts for long. The Entra Gate perch firmly on the edge of a large, flat bottom crater and with one side facing the larger Sister celestial being below. The center of the dark arches teased with a reflective shimmer of the moon’s glow. Acalia always felt a tingle run across her shoulders when she was near the magic that kept the gate in place and powered the door. Streams of pigmentation spilled above either side of the entrance to the welcoming crater bowl as if the darkness of the gate kept the Goddess’ ribbons of color at bay. Acalia walked through the entrance into the basin of the greeting crater. They arrived at the gate just in time to see Charra sail through. Her crimson, areal form floated down to the smooth surface of the bowl. She threw Acalia a quick smile before running off to the Vortex Siphon. Charra’s red tail thread extended back down through the receiving gate linking her to her chosen one. You always knew where a bonded one was as they were given away by their tail thread weaving its way through Etherluna maintaining their mental bond to their match down on Sister Gaia. Acalia knew it would be awhile before Charra was cleaned of Gaia’s clae. Bonded ones brought back the essence of Gaia as an offering to Mother Moon. The matched Etherwolves collect heavy essences from their bonded ones and their travels on Mother Moon’s larger sister Gaia. To the land walkers, Sister Gaia was called Mother Earth as they were made from her flesh. The sharing of the energies of the clae and moonbeams kept the Sisters connected. Charra leaped into the Vortex Siphon. The astral gusts whipped through her red, gossamer form. It gathered all of Gaia’s soils and offered it up to the Moon Goddess to feed the Sisters’ symbiotic relationship. Acalia sighed as she remember the sensation of release as the clae was blown through her floating fur. She glanced around. She noticed her fellow Etherwolves waiting for their loved ones to visit through the gate. A twinge of sympathy went through her as she noticed Arnou stood off to the side by himself. His light gray form hung low and lacked his normal luster. It has been over five full moons since Kiba had visited through the gate. Acalia went over to him. “Don’t worry Arnou. I’m sure Kiba will visit soon. You know how easy it is to get caught up in your match’s life and lose track of time down there.” “I know. I just didn’t expect her to forget her mate when she found a match.” ‘There are so many more of us than opportunities for a match. I’m sure she will come to her senses soon and visit.,” she said. “At first, I was mad at her. Now, I just miss her.” She rubbed her side against his for comfort allowing their aerial fur to mingle.“She’ll have to return with a clae offering soon. She can only hold so much before it gets painful. Then you can have a good long talk,” she replied. She leaned harder against him. Her alabaster fur intermixing with his light smokey colored fur. Just as he was relaxing into her care she felt his energy tense up. She looked up to see a large, dark slate colored Etherwolf heading for them. His dappled fur a swirl of gray colors often reflecting his churlish mood. His mood when it came to them anyways. She asked, “What does Diak want now?” “The same thing he always wants, trouble.,” he replied. Diak stopped a few inches from Arnou and looked down on him. Diak’s head was a good foot above his. “Why do you wast your time Arnou? Kiba has probably found a land bound mate. Your acting like an Earth dog waiting moon after moon for someone who doesn’t care anymore. Your whining offends me. Go from here and wait out of my sight.” Acalia heard a low growl start from Arnou. As much as she would like to see someone wipe the ground with Diak she knew Arnou was no match for him. At least undying obedience to a pack leader was only a land magic requirement. Etherwolves did have a hierarchy of dominance and Diak was pretty high. That made him dangerous, but not in charge. She step between them and said, “I’m surprise to see you without your little lackeys. Did they get tired of you bossing them around?” “I’m surprise to see you hanging around a loser. Did you want a lap dog?” “You keep referring to dogs as if you’ve seen one. You haven’t though have you. You haven’t had a Soul Match yet. Your clan brothers, but not you.,” she replied. Diak loomed even larger as he filled with anger. He stepped closer. “Your lucky your chieftain was shaman tonight and your clan is moon honored or I would show you where your place is.” She wasn’t sure her clans standing was going to be enough to dissuade Diak from beating Arnou down, but she was hoping as she stepped between them. “Your place is in a dog house.,” Arnou snarled back at Diak. She inwardly groaned as she had just defused the situation enough to send Diak on his way. He knocked her aside and leaped for Arnou. “I’m going to beat you like a ..” Before Diak could finish his threat a huge, dark form darted through the gate crashing directly into him, somersaulting him six feet past them. “Hey clan brother. Where you waiting up to greet me?” Durrak’s excited mass of shadow and fur easily pinned Diak’s. Every time he tried to respond Durrak would shake his fur hitting him in the mouth with a chunk of clae. “What’s the matter little brother, got dirt in your mouth? Aren’t you going to great me?” Durrak’s smoky tail thread waved with each shake of his fur. “Get off me you big, smelly goof. Quit breathing on me. You have dog breath.” “Is that anyway to great a clan brother?” Durrak allowed him to push him off. He sat on his haunches with a big toothy grin. He forgot all about Arnou’s comment as he and his clan brother pushed and nipped at each other on their way to the Vortex Siphon. “Good to remember there is always someone bigger than Diak.,” she said. Arnou replied, “How can we get him to fly out of nowhere to tackle Diak whenever we need him to?” They leaned into each other and began to laugh, more from relief than humor. -
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Algonkian Retreats and Workshops 2023 - Assignments
FIRST ASSIGNMENT: write your story statement. Even if she must defy the Moon Goddess, Acalia will make every personal sacrifice to stop the soul thieves to redeem herself and save all those she loves back home on Etherluna and here on Gaia. SECOND ASSIGNMENT: in 200 words or less, sketch the antagonist or antagonistic force in your story. Keep in mind their goals, their background, and the ways they react to the world about them. Kernt’s discontent had been building up for centuries as he watched members of other clans bath in the blessings from the Goddess. The discontent slowly turned to anger as unsettled whispers from other clan members lent justification to his thoughts of unfairness. The loud complaints of rejection after rejection from one he swore to protect emphasized a need to force a change to their situation. He was primed to become a cult follower when approached to take destructive action to raise himself up to the level and power he felt he was entitled too. He was quick to latch onto the demented moon witch who’s own twisted logic played into his own skewed reasoning validating his decisions to destroy anyone in his way. THIRD ASSIGNMENT: create a breakout title (list several options, not more than three, and revisit to edit as needed). Soul Matched Soul Thieves Abomination FOURTH ASSIGNMENT: - Read this NWOE article on comparables then return here. - Develop two smart comparables for your novel. This is a good opportunity to immerse yourself in your chosen genre. Who compares to you? And why? The authors’ books my story is comparable to have strong, ongoing series with beloved characters that readers cling to during the wild misadventure and triumphs over one adversary after another with a twist that gives fresh eyes to the genre. Like Patricia Briggs’ Mercy Thompson series, my story has relatable, endearing characters that have their own problems that keep the reader rooting for their success and in tears over their losses. My side characters’ lives are complex with their own juicy problems that make the reader want to be their best friend to help fix it or drink a big glass of wine to commiserate with them. Ann Bishops’ Others’ series reinvented the fantasy genre with the voice of the wild, magical creatures saving the world while the humans are trying to prove they aren't the plague that needs destroy. My story’s twist gives a voice to the dark, dangerous, creature from inside the magical Soul Match and revels the world behind the wolf side as no other book has. Invested fans are on the edge of their desire for the next book to be released in Briggs and Bishops series, I know because I’m one, and my series will have the readers hoping the story never ends and craving more. FIFTH ASSIGNMENT: write your own hook line (logline) with conflict and core wound following the format above. Though you may not have one now, keep in mind this is a great developmental tool. In other words, you best begin focusing on this if you're serious about commercial publication. Tormented from being tricked into destroying and replacing Bellanna as the wolf side of the Soul Matched werewolf pair drives Acalia to use her Goddess forbidden knowledge from Etherluna to stop the disillusioned Etherwolf, Kernt, and his demented witch from destroying all that she holds dear. SIXTH ASSIGNMENT: sketch out the conditions for the inner conflict your protagonist will have. Why will they feel in turmoil? Conflicted? Anxious? Sketch out one hypothetical scenario in the story wherein this would be the case--consider the trigger and the reaction. Acalia narrowly escapes her own destruction by accidentally participating in the elimination of another innocent Etherwolf. She has always felt compelled to help and stand up for others. Now she finds herself the source of inconsolable pain. She can’t even sacrifice herself to undo the damage and death she was a party of. During each step she takes to stop and punish the ones responsible she is faced with another individual that feels the loss and emptiness her action helped to create. Her guilt compels her to protect those that she she has caused irreparable harm. Next, likewise sketch a hypothetical scenario for the "secondary conflict" involving the social environment. Will this involve family? Friends? Associates? What is the nature of it? Treont was blessed to not only find a soul match, but also a soul mate. The long lived life of a werewolf can become lonesome and tiresome. He was fortunate the lander he merged with saw the beauty in Bellana’s lander as he knew she was his as soon as his eyes locked onto hers. His gazed poured down past the lander’s mundane brown irises and connected with the amber flame of Bellana’s soul. Their passion endured for centuries until his soul was torn apart by her abrupt loss when Acalia replaced her in the body of the lander he knew as his. FINAL ASSIGNMENT: sketch out your setting in detail. What makes it interesting enough, scene by scene, to allow for uniqueness and cinema in your narrative and story? Please don't simply repeat what you already have which may well be too quiet. You can change it. That's why you're here! Start now. Imagination is your best friend, and be aggressive with it. Etherluna – Acalia felt sorry for those of the lander dimension who can’t see past their non-magical noses even when they have finally found a way to set their undeserving feet on the Mother Goddess’ bosom. Their realistic filtered senses only fathom a cold, hard lifeless, stagnant gray ball surrounded by engulfing, smothering black. Their eyes cannot see into Acalia’s home of the Moon Goddess given dimension called Etherluna. They are denied sight of what brakes up the continuous mundane terrain as Etherluna is filled with shooting white sparkles Her pent up magic randomly explodes across the tundra or gently glitters among the minerals coating Her heavenly body. Their environmental muting suits blocks them from seeing and feeling the magic and warmth that lays across the upper atmosphere in colorful ribbons of streaming mixes of greens, reds, and blues photons that ride across the solar winds creates a veil between them and the vast heavens. Through the visor of their helmets they can see carved out, dry, river beds that were formed during Her youth when magma poured from insides out and across Her flesh weaving among the deep impact craters with wrinkled ridges and mountain ranges that had exploded during her bloom. Only those in the Ether world can see and transverse the rivers of white vapor, nebula energy pouring down the carved channels. The landers are rejected by the Goddess as foreign invaders from discovering the underground basalt formed shoots and tunnels to her children's dens. They believe She is a solid, hard, compact, barren orb, they view in the night sky of their Earth bound home, but they still feel compelled to meet her in the heavens where she is still out of their true reach. -
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Podcast 565, Your Transcript has Arrived!
The transcript for Podcast 565. Once More with Feeling, with Elissa Sussman has been posted! This podcast transcript was handcrafted with meticulous skill by Garlic Knitter. Many thanks. ❤ Click here to subscribe to The Podcast → View the full article -
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Nam Le and Nancy Lemann Recommend
Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier, public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. The pandemic seemed like a good time to read the ninety-odd novels of Balzac that comprise The Human Comedy. (Which you can get on your Kindle for ninety-nine cents, by the way.) I was definitely obsessed with Balzac in my first youth. Some lines and ideas of his were then emblazoned on my brain: the ruthless mastery an artist must have over his material to boldly cut and shape it; “the impetuous courage of the South;” the “tenacity of purpose which works miracles when it is single-minded.” Once, in my first youth (I probably got the phrase “first youth” from Balzac), I was having dinner with my brother, Nick Lemann, and about a dozen of his friends, all journalists like him; I was sitting right smack in the middle of the table, and I was, as I recall it, the only girl. They kept talking about politics, of course, and I wasn’t interested in politics at all and still know nothing about them, so eventually I fished out a Balzac novel from my purse and started pointedly reading it in the middle of dinner at the table, amid their conversation. It was like saying, You can be interested in politics, I am interested in Balzac. I have no regrets about it. I was making a point! The scene is emblazoned on my brain. It was the only way I could assert myself in that context! It got their attention. —Nancy Lemann, author of “Diary of Remorse” Read Nancy Lemann on opera and The Palace Papers. There’s a moment in the Ken Burns documentary series Muhammad Ali when—it’s ridiculous to say, four hours in and after however much (kinetic, absorbing) footage of boxing—I was suddenly shocked by how hard Ali was punching, and getting punched. It’s the “Thrilla in Manila,” the third and deciding fight between Ali and Joe Frazier, and it’s maybe 120 degrees in the ring under the TV lights and totally, unventilatedly humid under the metal roof. We’re in the ninth round or so and both men are already swollen and sagging and staggering, and then some new footage slides in, archival this time, of the two wearily trading punches, and in grainy sixteen-millimeter Technicolor it’s as if a screen’s been yanked off: you’re riding Ali’s shoulder (these shots were taken from the apron, just outside the ring) and everything you thought you knew about the speed and weight of punches at this level (even these subpar, exhausted punches), their impact against flesh and bone, needs to be scaled up about a thousand percent. What happened? How does this archival footage feel so real? It got me thinking: all the proximity offered by our modern cameras—extreme zoom, hi-res and -frame rates, 360-degree angle capabilities—works to a counterpurpose: it makes mastery look easy, plausible. Or is that the deeper purpose? To make the average Joe believe that they too could do that—take that punch, hit that forehand, drive, or curveball? I was reminded of a passage by the great art critic Peter Schjeldahl, one of his last: One drunken night, a superb painter let me take a brush to a canvas that she said she was abandoning. I tried to continue a simple black stroke that she had started. The contrast between the controlled pressure of her touch and my flaccid smear shocked me, physically. It was like shaking hands with a small person who flips you across a room. I love this shock, this awe, from someone whose whole life is art and artmaking. I love the idea that consummate skill remains inaccessible, even to the consummate expert looking at it or for it. You’re either in it or you’re not. So what about writing? It’s hard to imagine any literary critic being judo-flipped by a superb writer in quite the same way. By the whole of a work, sure, or by an organized effect, but not by whatever’s the technical equivalent of a painter painting a basic line (or a boxer throwing a punch, or a violinist playing a note). A word is a word is a word: identical, replicable, accessible, whether put down by a master or a novice. And the putting down of words seems fairly shut off from the kind of sensory epiphany that might shake up your sense of the whole shebang—no way could I take that punch, control that brush or bow. Still, writing takes no less skill than anything else. For me, the Ali footage was stunning access to what may as well have been God-mode, and it shares with Schjeldahl’s moment more than just a glimpse of mastery in full flow: of what you think you know but you don’t. What if, I wonder, we could access the mastery of the writer Alis out there? What if we could shunt ourselves—shock ourselves—even for a moment, into a real embodiment of the intensity and risk and artistry of their talent at work? What would it feel like? What might it change? Would it matter? Should it? We can only imagine. —Nam Le, author of “from ‘36 Ways of Writing a Vietnamese Poem’ ” View the full article -
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Heists, Fae, & More
Iron and Magic Iron and Magic by Ilona Andrews is $3.49! This is the first book in a new series by Andrews and features a hero who was a bit of a villain in the Kate Daniels series. Did you read and enjoy this one? Can it be read without the KD series? No day is ordinary in a world where Technology and Magic compete for supremacy…But no matter which force is winning, in the apocalypse, a sword will always work. Hugh d’Ambray, Preceptor of the Iron Dogs, Warlord of the Builder of Towers, served only one man. Now his immortal, nearly omnipotent master has cast him aside. Hugh is a shadow of the warrior he was, but when he learns that the Iron Dogs, soldiers who would follow him anywhere, are being hunted down and murdered, he must make a choice: to fade away or to be the leader he was born to be. Hugh knows he must carve a new place for himself and his people, but they have no money, no shelter, and no food, and the necromancers are coming. Fast. Elara Harper is a creature who should not exist. Her enemies call her Abomination; her people call her White Lady. Tasked with their protection, she’s trapped between the magical heavyweights about to collide and plunge the state of Kentucky into a war that humans have no power to stop. Desperate to shield her people and their simple way of life, she would accept help from the devil himself—and Hugh d’Ambray might qualify. Hugh needs a base, Elara needs soldiers. Both are infamous for betraying their allies, so how can they create a believable alliance to meet the challenge of their enemies? As the prophet says: “It is better to marry than to burn.” Hugh and Elara may do both. Add to Goodreads To-Read List → You can find ordering info for this book here. The Duke Heist The Duke Heist by Erica Ridley is 99c! This is book one in a new series and was mentioned on a previous Hide Your Wallet. Elyse was super excited about the heist element and I feel like the other books in the series have been talked about positively here. A NYT bestselling author kicks off a new Regency series of “irresistible romance and a family of delightful scoundrels” as a woman looking to recover a stolen painting accidentally kidnaps a duke instead. (Eloisa James) Chloe Wynchester is completely forgettable—a curse that gives her the ability to blend into any crowd. When the only father she’s ever known makes a dying wish for his adopted family of orphans to recover a missing painting, she’s the first one her siblings turn to for stealing it back. No one expects that in doing so, she’ll also abduct a handsome duke. Lawrence Gosling, the Duke of Faircliffe, is tortured by his father’s mistakes. To repair his estate’s ruined reputation, he must wed a highborn heiress. Yet when he finds himself in a carriage being driven hell-for-leather down the cobblestone streets of London by a beautiful woman who refuses to heed his commands, he fears his heart is hers. But how can he sacrifice his family’s legacy to follow true love? Add to Goodreads To-Read List → You can find ordering info for this book here. A Dance with the Fae Prince A Dance with the Fae Prince by Elise Kova is $2.99! This is book two in the Married to Magic series. I think this series has some gorgeous covers and Elyse mentioned this one on a previous Hide Your Wallet. Cinderella meets The Cruel Prince in this stand-alone fantasy romance about a human girl and her marriage to the prince of the fae. She knew her hand in marriage would be sold. She had no idea a fae prince was the buyer. Katria swore she’d never fall in love. She’s seen what “love” means through the cruelty of her family. So when she’s married off to the mysterious Lord Fenwood for a handsome price, all Katria wants is a better life than the one she’s leaving. Feelings are off the table. But her new husband makes not falling in love difficult. As their attraction begins to grow, so too do the oddities within her new life: strange rules, screams in the night, and attacks by fae that Katria never thought were real. When she witnesses a ritual not meant for human eyes, Katria finds herself spirited away to the land of Midscape. Surviving the fae wilds as a human is hard enough. Katria must survive as a human who accidently pilfered the magic of ancient kings – magic a bloodthirsty king is ready to kill her for in order to keep his stolen throne – and her new husband is the rightful heir in hiding. The power to save the fae is in her hands. But who will save her from a love she vowed never to feel? A Dance with the Fae Prince is a complete, *stand-alone novel*, inspired by the tales of Psyche and Eros, as well as Cinderella, with a “happily ever after” ending. It’s perfect for romantic fantasy readers who enjoyed of A Court of Silver Flames and An Enchantment of Ravens. A Dance with the Fae Prince features a slow-burn romance, swoon-worthy couple, and steaminess that ranges from simmering to sizzling. Add to Goodreads To-Read List → You can find ordering info for this book here. She Gets the Girl She Gets the Girl by Rachael Lippincott and Alyson Derrick is $1.99! This is a new adult romance that was mentioned on both Cover Awe and Hide Your Wallet (Tara’s pick!). Did any of you pick this one up? She’s All That meets What If It’s Us in this swoon-worthy hate-to-love YA romantic comedy from #1 New York Times bestselling coauthor of Five Feet Apart Rachael Lippincott and debut writer Alyson Derrick. Alex Blackwood is a little bit headstrong, with a dash of chaos and a whole lot of flirt. She knows how to get the girl. Keeping her on the other hand…not so much. Molly Parker has everything in her life totally in control, except for her complete awkwardness with just about anyone besides her mom. She knows she’s in love with the impossibly cool Cora Myers. She just…hasn’t actually talked to her yet. Alex and Molly don’t belong on the same planet, let alone the same college campus. But when Alex, fresh off a bad (but hopefully not permanent) breakup, discovers Molly’s hidden crush as their paths cross the night before classes start, they realize they might have a common interest after all. Because maybe if Alex volunteers to help Molly learn how to get her dream girl to fall for her, she can prove to her ex that she’s not a selfish flirt. That she’s ready for an actual commitment. And while Alex is the last person Molly would ever think she could trust, she can’t deny Alex knows what she’s doing with girls, unlike her. As the two embark on their five-step plans to get their girls to fall for them, though, they both begin to wonder if maybe they’re the ones falling…for each other. Add to Goodreads To-Read List → You can find ordering info for this book here. View the full article -
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“Then Things Went Bad”: How I Won $264 at Preakness
Photograph by Tarpley Hitt. There’s a shortage of good signs en route to the Preakness Stakes, the annual horse race in Baltimore best known as the Kentucky Derby’s older, less attended sibling. By good, I mean the useful types that tell you where to go. There are plenty of other kinds: ads stationed outside delis; DIY posters offering lawns, driveways, and other car-size surfaces as extremely pricey parking options; at least two hotel-related banners on propeller planes; and roving sandwich boards affixed to scalpers, which read, counterintuitively, I NEED TICKETS. The result is a ring of confused, directionless traffic around the track, where it’s easy to forget that everyone has come for a spectacle essentially premised on speed. The lack of organization at the Preakness is appropriate; horse racing is America’s least centralized sport. There is no MLB or NFL or NBA or NHL for this game. There is a panoply of jockey clubs, trainers groups, state racing boards, owners associations, and veterinarian organizations. The racing rules change from state to state. The racing seasons change from track to track. Even the kind of race a horse runs may fluctuate with the weather. This tradition of casually maintained chaos is almost a point of pride. In 2020, when Congress passed the Horseracing Integrity and Safety Act (HISA)—a modest attempt to standardize antidoping rules across the industry—it was met with three years of bitter infighting, five federal lawsuits challenging its constitutionality, and most recently, an exquisitely melodramatic public letter from the U.S. Trotting Association that opens with a Thomas Paine quote. That is to say, it’s in the spirit of horse racing that, this past Saturday, as I approached the venue, I had no idea where to go or who was in charge, and neither, seemingly, did anyone there. The venue was Pimlico Race Course. Of the many contrasts to be drawn between the Derby and the Preakness, most land in the former’s favor. The track is one of them. The Kentucky Derby is run at Churchill Downs—a 147-acre complex in Louisville whose 170,000-person capacity, hexagonal twin spires, and $121 million Bush Jr.–era renovation make it one of the largest, most recognizable, and most opulent race courses in the country; Pimlico isn’t even the nicest option in Maryland. It’s the second oldest racetrack in the U.S. and doesn’t look a day younger, though parts of it technically are. The original clubhouse—a “Steamboat Gothic-era” “rambling wooden Victorian confection,” as one Baltimore Sun article put it—burned to the ground in a 1966 electrical fire, leaving only a horse-and-jockey-shaped weather vane behind. The newer clubhouse, built a few years before the fire, seems to take most of its architectural influence from high school gymnasiums and the DMV. It is also, however, awesome, if you like these things more for the money and big fast animals than for the antebellum theatrics. The clubhouse was white, brick, and not entirely full. Live racing attendance has been on a downward slide since the Reagan administration, and the pandemic and the rise of online betting platforms have only sped up the process. In 2022, Pimlico’s owners—a company formerly known as the Stronach Group, now operating under the dubiously pronounceable name 1/ST—made a play for younger audiences by setting up a music festival just off the track. This sounds like a good idea, and last year, with Megan Thee Stallion headlining alongside Lauryn Hill, it may have succeeded in bringing the median age of attendees down by a decade (in 2021, it was sixty-five). This year’s bill featured Sofi Tukker—a dance music duo comprised of a girl named Sophie and a guy named Tucker, which broke out seven years ago with a single called “Drinkee”—and Bruno Mars, an artist with fifteen Grammys and, based on the turnout, maybe as many fans. Between Friday and Saturday, racetrack and festival, this year’s event drew just 65,000 people—barely a third of the 182,000 who came out in 2019. As far as I was concerned, fewer people was a plus. I’d come mainly to eavesdrop and maybe make some money. Both goals turned out to be somewhat optimistic. I like to think of myself as a gambler, but it’s one of those semiflattering self-assessments that holds more water in theory than in practice. In theory, I love fast payouts, their stereotypical accessories (casinos, croupiers, the outfits croupiers wear at casinos), and pretty much every movie about those things. In practice, I follow sports and stocks absentmindedly at most and, during various stretches in Vegas, lost more money at the in-house Starbucks than at any card table. I am a sore loser and constitutionally cheap, meaning most of my bets are low in value, long in odds, and cashed out quickly. Photograph by Tarpley Hitt. As far as eavesdropping, the acoustics seemed best suited for minding your own business. Even with the lower turnout, the place sounded packed. I’d hoped to hear gossip about the eight horses that had died at Churchill Downs since April, or about the return of the disgraced trainer Bob Baffert, who was suspended from last year’s Triple Crown races after his Derby-winning horse, Medina Spirit, tested positive for pain meds in 2021. It wouldn’t have hurt if guests had thrown in some sad musings about the declining state of the sport. But the audible conversation proved a little more literal. “I’m wearing my big hat,” a woman in a big hat said to her boyfriend, “for good luck.” The food vendors trailed lines of men in identical beige caps; they all read MAGE, for the Kentucky Derby winner who would be running later that night. “I called my investment manager the other day and told him to put everything in money-market funds,” one guy told the MAGE men. “He says to me, ‘Those only yield five percent.’ And I say, ‘Exactly.’ ” At the ticket windows, would-be winners barked long lists of bets—exactas (on the first- and second-place finishers in a single race), trios (on the first three finishers in a single race), and daily doubles (on first-place finishers in two consecutive races), as an MSNBC presenter gestured at racing stats for TV cameras nearby. “That’s the election guy,” one girl announced to her group. It was. If Steve Kornacki was giving good advice, no one could hear it. But few cared about Preakness stats anyway. The goofiest part of horse racing is how short it is; from starting bell to finish line, a race lasts all of two minutes. If everyone came just for the main event, they’d be headed home as soon as they parked. The Preakness program is stacked instead with undercards boasting smaller purses and cryptic names (the $200,000 “Dinner Party Stakes”). It gives the day a predictable rhythm: twenty minutes of research, betting, and crab-cake buying; ten minutes of finding a clear view of the finish line; one minute of watching; thirty seconds of screaming variations of “COME ON, NUMBER NINE!” It’s easy to get swept up in this cyclical game to the point where its harsher realities barely register. During the sixth race, for example, a horse was rounding the home stretch when it stumbled. The jockey fell to the dirt. But the bay colt—a Bob Baffert horse named, with unfortunate foresight, Havnameltdown—kept running without a rider. There was something off about his stride; he was lagging from the pack with a visible limp. As he galloped, you could hear the onlookers’ uncertainty from the pitch of the cheers. The upbeat roar became a more somber howl. It passed quickly, though. The front-runner won and the shrieks came back. The crowd streamed out to the betting windows. Havnameltdown, I found out later, had broken his left forelock so badly he had to be put down. The lack of clear signage, which characterized the clubhouse as much as it did the parking lot, had some upsides. It was never clear which areas were off-limits. My media pass mostly got me access to the press pit—an enclosed, standing-room-only dirt patch with a sole seat reserved for NBC. But no one stopped me or my boyfriend, whom I’d passed off as a photographer despite his lack of a camera, from wandering into the winner’s paddock, where owners posed for pictures next to overheated horses; or into the member’s clubhouse, where two older men were picking a fight with a group of frat guys for taking too long to place bets. The downside was that it took us well into the eleventh race to realize that we’d missed out on a whole other half of the grounds. Between sprints, backstretch workers would lower a bridge across the dirt so that guests could cross from the grandstand to a series of tents at the center of the track. This was where you found the music festival, though the combination of electro swing and direct sunlight kept me from staying long. It was also where the VIPs and private parties were set up. The entrance to those tents was unmarked, but also unguarded. Anyone could walk in, grab some broiled salmon, and watch the race mere feet from the starting gate. This was a notable level up. Gayle King was chatting by the simulcast screens. At one point, Odell Beckham Jr., I learned from pictures later, was standing near where I chowed on shrimp cocktail. The tents were equipped with giant ceiling fans, perhaps thanks to one of the event’s sponsors, Big Ass Fans. The hats seemed bigger here, and their wearers, having paid for the open bar, drunker. Photograph by Tarpley Hitt. We had been betting all day, picking horses based on a feigned grasp of what racing statistics mean and occasionally on whichever horse’s name seemed to say more about its owner (I’m the Boss of Me, Bipartisanship, Taxed). This, it turned out, was not a good strategy. We had exclusively lost money, but a woman in a plush horse head hat was having better luck. She was gripping a fresh wad of fives, mimicking club music (“oontz oontz oontz”), and pretending to rain the bills over her friend’s matching hat. I was tired, sober, and down ninety dollars. But the twelfth race, of thirteen, was about to start, and here was a reminder that not only was winning possible, it was very fun. A decision was made; we would give betting one more go and give up any pretense of expertise. We bought a one-dollar Superfecta (a bet on the first four finishers in a race) and played it safe; we picked the program’s recommendations and “boxed” them, meaning that we paid a dollar for every possible place combination of the program’s chosen four—the unremarkably named Nagirroc, Kingfish Stevens, Funtastic Again, and Circle the Drain—for a total of twenty-four dollars. The starting bell rang and the contenders leapt from their stalls. Horses do not need signs to know where to go; some miracle combination of training and having a heel dug into their side gets them moving right on cue. That does not mean they always go in the way that you’d like. By then, we had seen enough races that the commentator’s unintelligible narration, delivered in the pauseless monologues of an old cattle auctioneer, seemed to reveal itself as a series of recognizable words strung into sentences. Specifically, I could decipher “Not a good beginning for Circle the Drain”—enough to understand that our selection seemed poised to suck. Nagirroc and Funtastic Again were leading the pack, but Circle the Drain and Kingfish Stevens seemed stoned on slow juice. If they didn’t place, neither would we. But at the final quarter-mile mark, Kingfish Stevens broke out from the pack, gaining on the top two by just a few feet. At the half-mile mark, Circle the Drain surged up along the rail, overtaking horse no. 8 (Wonderful Justice) and horse no. 2 (Fadethenoise), squeezing between horse no. 3 (A Western Yarn) and horse no. 6 (Moonstrike), and finally, pushing past horse no. 4 (Top Recruit) until he was tied with Kingfish Stevens. In roughly twenty seconds, our piece of paper with four semirandom picks was worth $264. We cashed out and ran off to beat the postrace rush. The roads were absolutely carless. We watched the actual Preakness from my phone; a Baffert contender, National Treasure, finished in first place. The day marked Baffert’s eighth Preakness win and, counting Havnameltdown’s collapse earlier, at least his seventy-fifth horse death. “This day was like a roller coaster,” Baffert told the Los Angeles Times. “Started out great. Then things went bad.” The badness didn’t seem to weigh on him too long. “We get rewarded for how hard everybody in my team works,” he said. “To me, that’s mainly what it’s about.” Tarpley Hitt is a freelance writer and an editor of The Drift. She is currently at work on a book about Barbie. View the full article
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