Category Archives: women writers

Upcoming Promotions, a Cat, and the Shadow of a Cat

Hello all, it is time for the promotion portion of this novel process. Please be in touch if you have a local indie (still looking for one!) where I can do a reading. If you would like me to chat with your book club, or if you would like to review the book, please let me know. In the meantime, here are some dates in place.

On November 7, I will be among the authors at my publishers’ Virtual Launch Party. Stonehouse Publishing is the press, and my fellow authors are Anna Marie Sewell, Robin Van Eyck, D.K. Stone and Sabrina Uswak. There will be readings, book trailers, and food and drink (although yes, it is virtual). The fun begins at 7:30 Eastern time. You can reserve tickets, which are free, here.

Note to U.S. friends, the 5 books for one shipping price will not apply to you. That is for Canadians. You can order the books directly from Stonehouse Publishing.  You can also order my book here or here or here

On November 20, I will be among four writer-readers participating in The Great Indoor Reading Series. I will read for ten minutes, followed by a chat. “Doors” open at 7:30, reading begins at 8:00.  Zoom code is 728 9321 2031.

On October 28, I will be appearing on The Blue and Yellow Kitchen at 3:00 Eastern time. The Blue and Yellow Kitchen is a show produced by Stephanie Weaver in which she cooks a dish inspired by a new book, while chatting with the author (via Zoom, of course! Zoom is the whole world now!) about the book. For Censorettes, which takes place primarily in Bermuda, she will be making this recipe for Bermudian Fish Chowder. You can watch it on her Facebook page, IGTV, or via YouTube.

In March, I will be part of the readings by Friends of Maple Grove Literary Sundays, but March is a long way away.

Now There Would Be Time for Everything

How’s your world, everyone?

Here is a photo of mine, when I look out on it.

viewfromthewindow

I am two blocks from a branch of Mount Sinai Hospital, as my friends and social media friends know. A branch where they have erected emergency COVID testing tents. In three minutes from the time I am writing the words “in three minutes,” the applause will start, the applause for the health care workers at the shift change. It seems to grow in duration and in volume every day.

I begin each day by opening the window and turning on the classical music station. I was fortunate in that my remote control broke one week into this isolation, so I no longer have the option to channel surf or listen to live press conferences.

There it is, the applause. Banging of pots and pans, honking of horns.

It should lift up my spirits, but instead it burrows deep into my sinews, like a fishhook, not a knife. This is a trauma not easily extracted. This is an anger not easily assuaged.

When I was on an “Unworkshop” retreat at the Highlights Foundation last fall, I met a woman named Heather Dean Brewer. The Highlights Foundation retreats take place in Pennsylvania on a rural property outside Honesdale, Pennsylvania. Because I admittedly live in an NYC bubble, Honesdale was the first town where I saw an un-ironic “Make America Great Again” sign posted in the window of a small-town business.

Heather was at Highlights for a workshop.(By way of explanation, Highlights offers a vigorous catalogue of workshops for children and young adult authors and illustrators, but also offers space and meals for any writer who might need time and space.) I was there for time and space. Heather was there for a workshop. She is the author of this happy little book which I bought for my sister’s birthday. (Spoiler!)

Heather was sweet enough to send me a bottle of wine from distant Michigan.

giftfromHeather

My cultural references these days are Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window, staring out the window and speculating on the neighbors. And Katherine Anne Porter’s Pale Horse, Pale Rider, a short novel about the 1918 pandemic which has been written about by wiser heads than mine, for example, here. I cannot look at it now, not with the sirens screaming in the background, but nor can I forget the story’s final line: “Now there would be time for everything.”

A month ago, my biggest concern was that the 92nd St. Y would cancel the appearance of Dame Hilary Mantel, who was to discuss the third book in her Cromwell trilogy, The Mirror and the Light. I had been looking forward to her talk for months; bonus points for it occurring on my birthday. But of course, it was cancelled. Instead, I ordered the book from The Astoria Bookshop, my local indie, on the last day it was operating live. It is still operating virtually, if you would like to support it.

I am having a hard time concentrating on The Mirror and the Light. I loved the first two volumes. I am pretty well versed in the Tudors. But despite the fact that the circumstances are dire, and that we know how this will end (it’s the world of Henry VIII, after all), I have trouble following along and perhaps need a lighter book.

But one line did resonate. Among so much speculation about succession to the throne, one character observes that it is treasonous even to wonder about the future. “We are trapped,” she sighs, “in the hours we occupy.”

The Republic of Franks

trytogetlostMy review of Joan Frank’s wonderful essay collection Try to Get Lost is up at the Brevity website.  You can find it here.

Joan Frank was the first Frank to accept a friend request from me on Facebook and among the Franks I have friended in that strangely intimate and arm’s length space, ours is the strongest connection. I buy all of her books. We cheer each other on. I have plans to meet her for a second time (after that bean soup in Florence) when she visits Fort Greene next month to promote her two books. (She might provide snacks.)

Through her I “met” Thaisa Frank , a writer with whom I have never exchanged words, except to praise her lush-coated tortoiseshell cats (such cats must always be praised).  I also friended and exchanged warm words with Gabriela Denise Frank after I read her piece “Muzzled” in True Story.

In real life, I have only a sister with the surname Frank. Her children have their father’s name. My brother ceased communication with both of us years ago. His sons have grown up without their Frank aunts. So I collect virtual Franks — send them a friend request when they cross my feed, cheer quietly when they publish (I only reach out to writers) and otherwise wish them well from afar.

In this way, I have created my own little France, a country which, after all, was settled by a tribe of Franks a millenia or two ago. Speaking (again) of France, I do recommend my cousin (but not my cousin) Joan’s collection, if only (but not only) for the piece “The Cake Frosting Country,” which I cannot link to here, although I can link to a coda published by The Antioch Review.

In these days when we are discouraged (if not forbidden) from travel, these pieces will transport you, without the lines or the luggage.