Name-checked in Jane Friedman's blog!

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Only Three Lads podcast

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Tori Amos, "Spark"

She's addicted to nicotine patches
She's addicted to nicotine patches
She's afraid of the light in the dark 

Broke the Top 100 on Amazon!

BEARDED LADY is now no. 76 in its category!

This morning's writing

Jenner comes to us as in a dream, a beautiful wide spot in the road held softly by the Russian River and Pacific Ocean. A sign tells us that the population is less than 150 – 136 to be exact – and we feel a perceptible shift when we hit its town limits.

 

“It’s different here,” Rob says, and I agree, though I’m not sure why I agree, because at first I don’t feel anything, but that quickly changes. Soon I understand. The air here is cleaner, quieter. There is a certain slowness here, the pace endemic to small towns where you can call Information, ask for Buck, and not need to offer a last name.

 

When I roll through places like this, part of me wants to pull up stakes at home and move. Totally change my life, my existence, my everyday. Come to a place where anonymity is just a listing in the dictionary, where they know where you are. You’re held hard by the tininess of the place. Your license plate, memorized.

 

“You’d hate it,” Rob says now.

 

“I didn’t say anything.”

 

“Like you had to?”

 

Marriage, too, is a bit of a small town. You can’t hide in this universe, can’t duck or dive. You can keep secrets, but they will be detected. Just give it time.

Toad the Wet Sprocket, "Walk on the Ocean"

Somebody told me
That this is the place
Where everything's better
And everything's safe ...

Half an hour later

We packed up our things

Said we'd send letters

And all those little things

They knew we were lying

They smiled just the same

Seemed they'd already

Forgotten we came

Sometimes

Things become so absolute. Clarity lap-dances you, and you tip her and say thanks.

Peter Gabriel, "Big Time"

And my heaven will be a big heaven
And I will walk through the front door

Triumphant weekend

The launch at Jered's was wild. Full house. All books sold. Hugs. Flowers. A mixologist. Could I ask for anything more?

Then yesterday I went up to Fairfield to meet up with DR folks. Everyone bought the book. "You damn well better," I said. Or maybe I just thought it.

Tears

My East Bay launch at Jered's Pottery is tonight and I've been a stupid mess all morning. Sitting at a cafe crying over my arugula and eggs. I've written about things I never talked about to anyone. Written about people and never told them. Turned my deepest humiliations into entertainment. What have I done?

Just sent out a ton of books

 Signed copies, all. That wasn't my heart going out into the void. Nope. 

Feeling weird

On the flip side of all the hoopla is this crazy feeling of my brain being unwired. Like, something's off. Not comfortable. Not comfortable at all. 

The launch

 

My reader

 

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New podcast

Art Heals All Wounds!

And a piece on the Brevity Blog. 

Launch Day!

BEARDED LADY is alive and out in the world! I couldn't be more excited or touched by the response I'm already getting. This is a story that I have always felt needed to be told and I am honored that it is indeed going to be. <3

Today's writing

I’ve always been a puker. I puked on my wedding night, on the afternoon I walked into Jax’s room and life changed, tilted to that dizzying angle. Things just don’t stay down with me. They have to come up somehow, find some air, get some space. Days I’ll just go to the bathroom and stick my finger down my throat to rid myself of it, whatever it is. Not just a veal parm sandwich from Hoagie’s either. There is something refreshing, something real, about getting rid of what backs up inside of you. Even if it leaves you with watery eyes and this nasty taste inside your mouth, a taste like toothpaste gone horridly wrong, something you can’t rid yourself of no matter how many times you brush your teeth, so intrepid and insistent it is along your teeth, atop your tongue. It’s like chalk in a sense, this quasi-regret. Better to taste it than to feel it. Better to grimace than cry.