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She had me at Page Three.
May. 5th, 2008 07:28 pmOnce again, my subconscious has gotten me started on an unexpected journey that has turned out amazingly awesome.
Two mornings ago, I awakened after going on quite a mind-bender in the middle of the night. At one point, I was watching Horace Rumpole in a time-travel story involving Queen Elizabeth (the first one, I think). Even earlier in the night, though, I set out on an odd journey beginning in my old home town, passing along some paths alongside the Long Island parkways where I used to ride my bike, and ending up in front of a bunch of sand dunes in front of the Jones Beach Theater. I've been by that latter ampitheatre a few times, but never in it, so I have no idea what THAT had to do with anything.
The amazing part, though, was where that subconscious journey began. I was in the family room of a school and church acquaintance, where, best as I can tell, I had not been since perhaps the very late 1960s. I remembered him a little, his mother a little more (she was one of the "church ladies" who numbered my mother among them for close to 40 years), and even more vaguely that he had an older sister.
I still have no idea what my brain was doing there, but I tackled the easier task of trying to figure out whatever happened to Rob. That first name and his fairly distinctive last name didn't produce anything, but when I replaced "Rob" with "East Meadow," I found his sister in a matter of seconds.
She just published her first novel. By this afternoon, I'd laid hands on it, and re-made what had been a very thin acquaintance from many years back with her through email. Turns out she's Eleanor's age (my guess had been she was a year younger), went to college in Rochester, and met her husband, as I met my wife, in church.
That's cool karma and all, although after so many of these serendipitous connections I'm almost used to it by now. What I wasn't expecting, though, was to find this on the third page of
her novel. Here, she's introducing herself to a first-time group of would-be fiction writers at a community education writing class:
"The point is that for many of us the desire to be a writer starts young, but then something happens, doesn't it?" Arabella asks. "Maybe you found you couldn't get a job with your English degree or you got married or had a baby or went into law, because that's what English majors are supposed to do for money, and somehow that dream you had of being a writer went away."
Omigod. Guilty as charged. Except that last clause; for me, that dream's been shelved, even drawer-ed and quartered over time, but as I continue to run into such talented wordsmiths in so many places, expected and not, I'm detecting a stronger heart rate from that dream than I have in a long time.
But enough about me. Buying the book's as easy as A(mazon) - B(eans'N'Noodles)- C(ontact her yourself). Just don't plan on putting the thing down anytime soon once you start.
Two mornings ago, I awakened after going on quite a mind-bender in the middle of the night. At one point, I was watching Horace Rumpole in a time-travel story involving Queen Elizabeth (the first one, I think). Even earlier in the night, though, I set out on an odd journey beginning in my old home town, passing along some paths alongside the Long Island parkways where I used to ride my bike, and ending up in front of a bunch of sand dunes in front of the Jones Beach Theater. I've been by that latter ampitheatre a few times, but never in it, so I have no idea what THAT had to do with anything.
The amazing part, though, was where that subconscious journey began. I was in the family room of a school and church acquaintance, where, best as I can tell, I had not been since perhaps the very late 1960s. I remembered him a little, his mother a little more (she was one of the "church ladies" who numbered my mother among them for close to 40 years), and even more vaguely that he had an older sister.
I still have no idea what my brain was doing there, but I tackled the easier task of trying to figure out whatever happened to Rob. That first name and his fairly distinctive last name didn't produce anything, but when I replaced "Rob" with "East Meadow," I found his sister in a matter of seconds.
She just published her first novel. By this afternoon, I'd laid hands on it, and re-made what had been a very thin acquaintance from many years back with her through email. Turns out she's Eleanor's age (my guess had been she was a year younger), went to college in Rochester, and met her husband, as I met my wife, in church.
That's cool karma and all, although after so many of these serendipitous connections I'm almost used to it by now. What I wasn't expecting, though, was to find this on the third page of
her novel. Here, she's introducing herself to a first-time group of would-be fiction writers at a community education writing class:"The point is that for many of us the desire to be a writer starts young, but then something happens, doesn't it?" Arabella asks. "Maybe you found you couldn't get a job with your English degree or you got married or had a baby or went into law, because that's what English majors are supposed to do for money, and somehow that dream you had of being a writer went away."
Omigod. Guilty as charged. Except that last clause; for me, that dream's been shelved, even drawer-ed and quartered over time, but as I continue to run into such talented wordsmiths in so many places, expected and not, I'm detecting a stronger heart rate from that dream than I have in a long time.
But enough about me. Buying the book's as easy as A(mazon) - B(eans'N'Noodles)- C(ontact her yourself). Just don't plan on putting the thing down anytime soon once you start.