Last night at Kathryn’s party, we talked about books and movies that make us cry. Kody threw out The Art of Racing in the Rain. “It’s narrated by a dog!” A collective groan. Dog books. Emily mentioned The Goldfinch. “It’s a coming of age story,” Kathryn explained to the rest of the group who had not read the tome. “It’s in my top seven best books ever,” I added. I had my hands up and was waving them frantically, the way I do when someone is talking about something I love. I was thinking about the Mauritshuis museum in the Hague and remembering, after reading the book, that I had seen the little painting when I was there. Windy January, flag whipping in the wind outside in the plaza, dreading the inevitable day when I would have to go to Schiphol airport in the rain and leave the Netherlands and go back home.
A Fall Vignette in East Clear Creek
Across the water from the squeaking red boats, there is a bank of reeds rustling in the wind. It doesn't take much to move them—just a little breath, a small breeze. They show no discernible difference from the colors of summer, and their green bodies dance in a uniform swaying motion. Above them, the striated rock stands silent guard. The pain that sandstone has had to endure is obvious: weathering, cobbled blocks, where cuts dash back and forth along their faces. The sun comes out every few moments, poking its face from behind a puffy cloud and going away again. When airplanes fly overhead, the firmament sounds muffled and toned-down, about to sleep. Fall has arrived at East Clear Creek.
How I Dove Back Into Fiction with Vocal's Summer Fiction Series
When I was a kid, I wrote stories all the time. They seemed to bubble to the surface constantly, completely out of nowhere. Looking back, I'm envious of my younger brain. I never stopped thinking of characters, names, plots, settings, and fictional worlds. I never seemed to run out of ideas, and I never got discouraged. I miss this creative younger version of myself.
What's In the Pond
Summer has come again. The nights are loud with insects and bright with lightning. Fireflies dance among the trees flush with fragrant leaves, their lanterns a ping ping ping of waves lilting in the darkness. The lily pads float on the surface of the pond again, on the brink of blooming.
As Close as a Star to the Moon
Mrs. McMillan was obsessed with The Great Gatsby. She read it at least twice every year: once in the summer, and once at Christmas, from her old taped-together paperback copy she got when she was a student at Our Lady of Lourdes herself.