tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8088325732113194952024-03-12T19:57:00.333-07:00Who Moved My Buddha?change. it happens every day.Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-66633355836858645002016-02-17T07:10:00.000-08:002016-02-17T07:10:49.850-08:00I'll be on the Road and All the Winters After will be on the March Indie Next List!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As of yesterday, <i>All the Winters After</i> is now officially out of the nest, flapping its pages. I woke up to a really lovely review from the <i>New York Journal of Books</i>, which called it, <i>"A winner read that should appeal to a variety of literary and genre tastes."</i> And these lines revved up my heart even before my first cup of coffee: <i>"All novelists strive for what all readers want: that moment when you open a book and it grabs you by the throat and pulls you in to another place and time, another person's reality. Thus opens All the Winters After, and it keeps you pinioned inside the covers until it's over and you emerge blinking and shaking your head."</i><br />
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I was the one blinking and shaking my head when I heard that <i>All the Winters After </i>is included on the American Booksellers Association Indie Next List for March. The Indie Next List! I am so honored. I love independent bookstores. The list includes writers I've admired for years, including Ethan Canin, Joshilyn Jackson, and Joyce Maynard. Here's the link to the ABA's <a href="http://www.bookweb.org/news/march-2016-indie-next-list-preview" target="_blank">full list</a>, and here's what they had to say about <i>All the Winters After:</i><br />
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<i>"This is the compelling story of a damaged young woman, Nadia, who has taken refuge in a cabin in the Alaskan woods for the last 10 years after escaping an abusive marriage. Kachemak Winkel, the cabin's owner, returns to Alaska after a long absence, still mourning for his parents and older brother who lost their lives in a plane crash 20 years earlier. Two young, damaged souls are at the heart of this beautifully written novel, and the wild and dangerous beauty of Alaska is present throughout. Perfect for book groups!"--Patricia Worth, River Reader Books, Lexington, MO</i><br />
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Speaking of book groups, I've already started scheduling visits, either by phone or Skype (or in person if you live close by), so contact me through my website if you'd like to chat. And I'll be heading out soon to visit bookstores. Check out the tour schedule above. If I'm going to be in your neck of the woods, I'd love to see you!<br />
<br />Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-31114230548812966852016-01-22T09:14:00.000-08:002016-01-22T09:14:26.856-08:00 All the Winters After Goodreads Give-Away and Publication Day in Germany<br />
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<i>All the Winters After </i>just came out in Germany! The title is <i>Das Haus der gefrorenen Träume</i>, or <i>The House of Frozen Dreams</i>. It's fun to see their cover design, so different from the US edition, but lovely in its own right. Those colors! Gorgeous.<br />
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My German publisher has done such a wonderful job with both <i>Die Andere Seite des Glucks, </i>which was a bestseller, and <i>Das Haus der gefrorenen Träume. </i>I feel very thankful to my editor Tanja Seelbach and all the hardworking people at Fischer Verlage. So let me just say, <i>Danke</i>. "Just" because Danke is about all I know in German, other than <i>Ich liebe diche</i>, which means I love you and is a good phrase to know in any language. Thank goodness for the translator, Helga Augustin, or this edition of the novel, though full of gratitude and love, would have been very short.<br />
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If you, like me, don't understand German but would like to get your hands on a US copy of <i>All the Winters After </i>before the pub date on February 16th, Goodreads is giving away ten advance readers copies. You can <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/170472-all-the-winters-after" target="_blank">enter the give-away here</a>.<br />
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<i>Ich hoffe, du gewinnst! </i>That means "I hope you win!" According to Google Translate. I sincerely apologize if I've just insulted your dog.<br />
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Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-76498089439150467552016-01-12T17:45:00.000-08:002016-01-12T17:45:59.571-08:00This Winter and All the Winters After<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Happy New Year to you. The holidays here in our little house in the woods were sweet and busy and full of people I love. There was a lot of getting ready, which I actually enjoyed this year, and then the house came alive with light, with warmth, with too much good food and lots of games (we even dug out our 1985 edition of Pictionary) and then...whoosh...done. Just like that. </div>
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The house feels a bit hollow. I feel a bit full. In other words, it's January.</div>
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But! Now that I've finally managed to pack up the 15,000 Christmas ornaments and seven miles of light strings, there's a lot to look forward to this winter: My second novel, <i>All the Winters After</i>, will be published by Sourcebooks in the US on February 16th!</div>
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I'm really, really excited to share this story with you. Here it is, ready to go out into the world. I absolutely love this cover. I love the little cabin, the trees, the mountains, the type. The hint of northern lights on the horizon. And that wonderful endorsement from the extremely talented Sarah McCoy, novelist extraordinaire.</div>
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The early reviews have been great, which is, of course, a big relief. You can find more information on my <span id="goog_1069022464"></span><a href="http://sereprincehalverson.com/" target="_blank">website</a> and links if you'd like to <a href="http://www.sereprincehalverson.com/purchase.php" target="_blank">pre-order</a>. (Pre-orders make all the difference in helping a book get off to a good start. They're extremely important and so appreciated.) I plan to write here regularly (can she really blog more than once a year?) so please check back. <span id="goog_1069022465"></span><br />
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In the meantime, wishing you much happiness in 2016 and in all the winters--along with all the springs, summers, and falls--after.Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-40975600331218454822015-10-20T10:49:00.001-07:002015-10-20T10:53:48.278-07:00Gilmore Girls Night<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lauren Graham as Loralai and Alexis Bidel as Rory</td></tr>
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(I wrote and posted this five years ago. In light of the stupendous news about four new Gilmore Girls episodes (!!!!), I thought it would be fun to revisit. Maddie and I are already planning the GG Revival Nights.)<br />
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About once a month, sometimes more, my niece Maddie comes over for a Gilmore Girls Night. She brings her complete DVD set of the show's seven seasons. We usually go for a walk, make dinner, get in our jammies, and eat a ton of junk food while we watch as many shows as we can before passing out in a sugarfied stupor.<br />
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Maddie is eleven. She's my husband's sister's daughter, and she was born into this family right about the time her Uncle Stan and I started dating. She gave me the nickname Ree Ree when she was little because she couldn't say Seré, and now I'm Ree to the whole family.<br />
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So Maddie calls me whenever she gets the inkling and says, "Ree, how about a Gilmore Girls Night?" Or if we're leaving a family party, she'll raise her eyebrows and hold her pinkie and thumb to her ear in the Call Me sign. I'm always a little surprised and thrilled that my sweet, smart, and fun niece still actually enjoys hanging out with her fairly-old-and-sometimes-less-than-cool aunt. I know these nights with her are totally numbered, but still I allow myself to hope they're not. I hope, against all odds, we keep having Gilmore Girls Nights even when she's a teenager.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, to be eleven again!</td></tr>
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If you have no idea what I'm talking about when I say <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Gilmore Girls</span>, let me give you a little context. The show aired from 2000 to 2007 and starred Lauren Graham as Lorelai, a young, mostly cool, single mom, and Alexis Bidel as Rory, her smart, mostly responsible, teenage daughter. They live in the fictional town of Stars Hollow, Connecticut, surrounded by a bunch of quirky characters. The show is extremely well-written, with dialogue that's a constant rapid-fire of witty word play and pop-cultural references, and at the same time, plenty of poignant teary-eyed moments for us softies.</div>
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Plus, Lorelai and Rory hate to cook, eat ridiculous amounts of junk food and of course, never get fat. Maddie and I eat lots of crappy food on Gilmore Girls Nights. We say we're doing it in <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">honor </span>of the Gilmore Girls. However, we understand that Stars Hollow is a fictional world and that the actresses would each weigh upwards of 300 pounds if they really ate like that.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We start with a walk in the woods before we take a dive into the junk food.</td></tr>
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So <span class="Apple-style-span">most</span> of the time we try to eat the healthy stuff. But never on Gilmore Girls Night. To eat tempeh spring rolls and quinoa salad while watching Lorelai and Rory eat cheeseburgers and fries at Luke's? Downright blasphemy.<br />
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I'm going somewhere with all this, really I am.<br />
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One night last year, Maddie's cousin, Kelsey, also my niece, joined us for Gilmore Girls Night. The nieces were lounging on the couches in their jammies, getting ready to start the DVD, and I was acting kind of goofy in my fairly-old-and-sometimes-less-than-cool aunt sort of way and said, "Hey, I just thought of something! I read that Lauren Graham is going to be in a new show called <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Parenthood</span> with Peter Krause. And Peter has a home somewhere around here. You know what that means?"<br />
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"What?" Maddie asked.<br />
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"Lauren could become friends with Peter. Maybe they'll even start dating, who knows? They'd make a cute couple. (I swear I'm not making this up now, even though I was completely winging it at the time.) We'll be at Safeway, picking out treats for Gilmore Girls Night. And there she'll be. And we'll say, "Hey Lauren," and we'll tell her what we're up to and see if she wants to come over and watch it with us."<br />
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Kelsey said, "Ooooh, can I be there, too?"<br />
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"Sure," I said. Call me the Generous Psychic.<br />
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"Um," Maddie said, "Ree?"<br />
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"Yeah?" I thought she might say, I'm so there! and fist-bump me or add her own little details to the whole celebrity fantasy thing I had going.<br />
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"How about you get back to, you know," (the eye roll came right about here, I believe) <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">reality</span>?"<br />
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Uh oh. I'd blown my cover and now she'd realized what I was hoping to put off for a few more years -- that I really was very, very old and sort of dorky and well, kind of <span class="Apple-style-span">embarrassing</span>.<br />
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But I laughed it off and said, "Hey, it could happen!" and handed her a huge bowl of popcorn and some Peanut M&Ms and hit play on the remote.<br />
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Then <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Parenthood</span> premiered last season and I loved it. Lauren Graham was amazing, as was her soon-to-be-as-predicted-by-me beau, Peter Krause.<br />
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So one afternoon a few months ago I got a call from Maddie, talking so fast I couldn't even understand her. I picked out the words <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Mackenzie</span> (Maddie's 15-year old sister) and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Lorelai</span>. I got Maddie to slow down until I figured out she was saying Mac and her friend Valerie saw Lauren Graham.<br />
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In town.<br />
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When they were buying ice cream.<br />
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I know.<br />
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At first I didn't believe her. (Call me the R<span class="Apple-style-span">eluctant</span> Psychic.) But this didn't happen at Safeway, although the ice cream store does start with an <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">S.</span> And then there's the pesky little detail that the whole thing happened to two people who weren't actually us. People who were almost us didn't quite cut it. (Call me the A<span class="Apple-style-span">lmost</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> P</span>sychic.)<br />
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Maddie wanted me to hurry and pick her up immediately so we go could run into Lauren/Lorelai, too. I explained to Maddie that now that I lived in the boonies, it would take me a half-hour to pick her up and another 20 minutes to get to the ice cream store, and since Lauren Graham was leaving the ice cream store when Mac saw her an hour or so before, the odds were not in our favor. Maddie took this news like a champ, but I could hear the massive disappointment in her sweet voice, trying so hard to sound upbeat.<br />
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I asked Mac, "Did you tell Lauren about your little sister Maddie and your Aunt Ree, and our Gilmore Girls Nights?"<br />
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"No. I just told her how much I loved the show and that we had the whole DVD set."<br />
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"So, you didn't mention Maddie's name, or my name, maybe once?"<br />
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"Ah...no? But this guy she was with took our picture."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TK1Ss_24riI/AAAAAAAAASM/8Me_H9z9Kdg/s1600/vallaurmac.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="242" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TK1Ss_24riI/AAAAAAAAASM/8Me_H9z9Kdg/s400/vallaurmac.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Val and Mac (Stand-ins for Maddie and Ree) with Lauren</td></tr>
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I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">know</span>.</div>
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This would be a much more exciting story if I could say that since then, Maddie and I have run into Lauren numerous times, had her over for Swedish Fish and ice cream and Hazelnut Ritter Bars, had our own pictures taken with her, all three of us wearing really cute matching robes and bunny slippers. Okay, matching, Maddie would tell me, is a little creepy. Maybe just coordinating...<br />
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But, alas, my psychic abilities are somewhat off-kilter. It's like my intuitive GPS system stands for Gone Psychic Sideways. Still, it was kind of...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">something</span>. At the very least, I think I may have postponed any more eye rolls from Maddie for a while. The next time I make a nerdy prediction, the kid'll be all ears and awe.<br />
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I must tell you that Maddie went from feeling majorly bummed that it didn't happen to <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">us</span>, The Gilmore Girls' Truest Fans, to now saying, "Hey, I'm okay with it. If it happens, that'd be great. But it's not, you know, my life's <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">goal</span> to meet a celebrity. There are much, much more important things."<br />
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It is so good for me to hang out with such a mature person.<br />
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Still, I'm thinking that if my copywriting work dries up and I don't sell the novel I'm finishing, I might just hang out a shingle. Something like: <span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Ree's Readings</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> </span>or<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Not-Quite-Right-But-Pretty-Damn-Close Psychic to the Stars</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">. </span><br />
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Because it's now official. Lauren Graham and Peter Krause are <a href="http://www.people.com/people/article/0,,20419733,00.html">dating</a>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TKn5NElbc9I/AAAAAAAAARw/VKH1DB_GJk0/s1600/ALO-1135691-188x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TKn5NElbc9I/AAAAAAAAARw/VKH1DB_GJk0/s320/ALO-1135691-188x300.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A little formally dressed for GG Night.</td></tr>
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I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">know!</span>Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-18009646929715427502014-12-31T10:47:00.000-08:002014-12-31T10:47:11.972-08:00Returning to My Old, Abandoned Blog with The House of Frozen Dreams, Set in an Old, Abandoned Homestead<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bDbBhXYzU3A/VKQes36cl4I/AAAAAAAAAZ8/L31fHuRHI3c/s1600/DownloadedFile-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bDbBhXYzU3A/VKQes36cl4I/AAAAAAAAAZ8/L31fHuRHI3c/s1600/DownloadedFile-1.jpeg" height="320" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is definitely a curl-up-with-by-the-fire kind of book.</td></tr>
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HELLO...? Hello...? hello...? It's kind of cold and dusty in here. I've been gone a long time, off in my writing cave, working on a novel that takes place in Alaska. <i>The House of Frozen Dreams </i>will be out tomorrow, New Year's Day, <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/House-Frozen-Dreams-Prince-Halverson/dp/000743894X/ref=tmm_pap_title_0" target="_blank">in the UK</a>. (It won't be available in the US until next January 2016, under the title <i>All the Winters After</i>.)<br />
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This is a story about a young Russian woman who fled her Old Believer village and has been hiding in an abandoned homestead for a decade -- alone and unseen -- and the man who returns home after twenty years to finally face the tragedy that drove him away.<br />
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Who are the Old Believers, you may ask, and why has this woman been hiding? How did she survive? What drove this man away for so long? Why the heck is he returning now? These are all good questions, but I won't be giving any answers away here. We authors must remain coy, you know.<br />
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I will tell you this: <i>The House of Frozen Dreams (All the Winters After)</i> is a contemporary family drama and an outsiders' love story that explores isolation and connection, mystery and danger, grief, guilt, and the magnetic pull of a place. I've been working on it for several years, and first began thinking of it way back in 1996. So yes. I'm very excited to finally be able to see it take its first step out into the world.<br />
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As you know if you've read <a href="http://whomovedmybuddha.blogspot.com/2010/09/place-where-you-go-to-listen.html" target="_blank">this post</a>, I have a long and deep-rooted love for Alaska. Some might call it an obsession. One of the best things about being a writer is that I can write about my obsessions, I can excavate them deeply and fully and call it work. I've worked hard on this novel. But it was work that, in a way, allowed me to experience my younger self's dream of moving north, my own frozen dream, if you will. It also renewed my respect for those people who followed their dream to live in Alaska, and especially the original homesteaders who pioneered the Kenai Peninsula and beyond.<br />
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Fortunately for me, research called for another visit to Homer, Alaska, which, with a bit of poetic license, became the fictional town of Caboose.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We stayed in this lovely cabin on the Kilcher homestead acreage. <br />All in the name of research.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We also visited the original homestead, kept as a living museum on the property.<br />Inspiration around every corner.</td></tr>
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I sincerely hope readers enjoy this story and are inspired by it as much as I was while researching and writing it. I still feel very attached to Kache, Nadia, Lettie, Snag, and Gilly, and of course, Leo the dog. What a dog. If you happen to venture into their world, please say hello for me.<br />
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Wishing you all a Happy New Year, full of good living and good reading.<br />
<br />Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-43401155006233241052012-11-27T07:45:00.001-08:002012-11-27T07:50:41.792-08:00Win a Picnic for your Book Club<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Today is the day <i>The Underside of Joy</i> begins its new life as a paperback. Paperbacks are great. They're inexpensive. They fit perfectly in Christmas stockings. (Sing it with me...The Underside of Joyyy to the Woooorld!) They fit in purses. They fit in picnic baskets. Book clubs <i>love</i> paperbacks. And<i> I </i>love book clubs.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanging out with <i>Les Girls</i> book club.</td></tr>
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Book clubs are smart, and funny, and they often serve delicious food. They have passionate discussions about people who existed only in my head for six years. These readers have actually taught me things about my own book, which is pretty cool. Many of the groups I've visited have had a picnic theme to tie in with the Life's a Picnic Store in Elbow. How cool is that?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Towne Centre Books hosted this lovely picnic for their book club.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yum!</td></tr>
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I'm truly grateful to all the book clubs that have read <i>The Underside of Joy</i>. It's been such a privilege to talk with you.<br />
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As all of this rolled around in my head, an idea struck me, as they occasionally do. I thought, "Hey, wouldn't it be fun to deliver a Sonoma County picnic to a book club so it arrives in time for our skype visit?" And then I thought, "Yes, <i>that</i> would be fun."<br />
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So that's what we're doing. <a href="http://sereprincehalverson.com/contact.php" target="_blank">Contact me</a> to schedule a skype or phone visit to discuss <i>The Underside of Joy</i> in January, February, or March and I'll enter you to win a picnic--chock full of goodies and wine from the region--delivered right to your doorstep. You'll eat, drink and be merry, and we'll chat about Ella and Annie and Zach and the whole Elbow gang, along with step-parenthood, grief, joy, Italian-American Internment, food, vineyards, postpartum depression, childhood secrets, family, nature, and how every once in a while, life really <i>is</i> a picnic. Check out <a href="http://www.sereprincehalverson.com/" target="_blank">my website</a> for more details.Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-31064734840435201002012-11-13T08:28:00.000-08:002012-11-13T08:28:21.317-08:00Pretty in PaperbackI took yet another break from blogging over the summer so I could focus on writing my new novel. Some people can do more than one thing at once. This is called <i>multi-tasking</i>, and I've heard that it's quite useful. Unfortunately, this skill doesn't come naturally to me. I am a one-track kind of woman. Oh, sure, life forces me to at least attempt the octopus approach on a daily basis (I did somehow help to raise four children) but it's never pretty. So if you ever see me with toothpaste on my eyelashes and mascara on my teeth, you'll understand.<br />
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And now that the kids are living out in the world and feeding themselves, when I'm deep into my work I become sort of useless. I avoid cooking, cleaning, shopping, and errands. (My husband might divulge that I avoid many of these things even when I'm <i>not</i> in the thick of writing, but this is my blog and I'm not giving him the password. He'd have to start his own blog, and that's not happening. The dear man is too busy shopping and cooking.)<br />
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So this summer, while much of the population took to the beach, lost in reading a juicy novel, I was trying my best to write one.<br />
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My new novel was relentless. It would not let me go. Every morning as I stretched, sipped my coffee, and pondered the possibility of say, planting flowers or heading out to the beach to enjoy the incredible weather, my novel would say, "Like hell you are. You're staying right here in Alaska, freezing your keester off with Kache and Aunt Snag and Nadia." And I obeyed. A writer never wants to tick off her novel-in-progress.<br />
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On particularly hot days, this had its benefits. I remember when it was over 100 degrees and I happened to be writing a snow scene and had actual goosebumps. See? I may not be able to multi-task, but there are times when a focused imagination comes in handy.<br />
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While I was trekking through Alaska in my head, the hardworking, multi-tasking folks at Plume transformed <i>The Underside of Joy</i> into this wonderful paperback edition, which hits stores November 27th and is now available for <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Underside-Joy-A-Novel/dp/0452298733/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1352741119&sr=8-1&keywords=the+underside+of+joy" target="_blank">pre-order here</a>.<br />
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I am in love with this cover. I love the vertical treatment of the horizontal photograph, the reflection of the sky and the little girl. And I'm extremely grateful for the stamp of approval from the talented Jennifer Weiner.<br />
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I may not have spent much time playing on the beach this summer, but whenever I look at this cover, I'm right there...with Annie and Zach and Ella. I missed them while I was gone.Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-15641898995131306402012-05-05T10:30:00.000-07:002012-05-09T10:28:59.692-07:00UK launch for The Underside of Joy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Beginning May 10th, this little girl will be perched on bookshelves in stores throughout the UK. And as if she's not sweet enough, here's a <i>really</i> sweet deal to add to the pot: For a limited time the publisher is offering the e-book <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Underside-of-Joy-ebook/dp/B006I1J2ZY/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&m=A3TVV12T0I6NSM" target="_blank">here</a> for a special promotional rate of a mere <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">£</span>1.99. Yep. <i>Sweet.</i><br />
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My UK publisher, HarperCollins UK, has done such an amazing job. I was able to meet my editor, Sarah Ritherdon and my publicist, Liz Dawson, for lunch when I visited London last summer, and they were both so kind and gracious and fun that when we hugged good-bye, I felt like I'd known them for years instead of hours.<br />
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I'm extremely grateful for Sarah's and Liz's hard work and enthusiasm--along with that of the entire Harper team. Special thanks to: Heike Schuessler, who designed the beautiful cover; Harriet Sands, Laura Fletcher, Oli Malcolm, Sarah Collett, and Tom Dunstan, who've been doing a terrific job with sales; likewise Catherine Friis, who made great things happen with international sales, marketing guru Liz Lambert; and publisher extraordinaire Kate Elton. Everyone has gone to great lengths to see that The Underside of Joy finds its across-the-Atlantic audience.<br />
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So far, so good. Early readers have chimed in with truly lovely reviews, some of which are listed <a href="http://www.lovereading.co.uk/book/7095/The-Underside-of-Joy-by-Sere-Prince-Halverson.html" target="_blank">here</a> and <a href="http://reviews.waterstones.com/4921-en_gb/8750952/reviews.htm" target="_blank">here</a>. <br />
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So I'm excited to see how my book baby does on its first trip abroad. In the meantime, I'm heading up to Alaska as I write this (gotta love inflight wifi) to see my oldest son, Daniel, graduate from the University of Alaska, Anchorage. So proud of him for a million reasons. After graduation, we'll be traveling with Daniel on the Kenai Peninsula, where my novel-in-progress is set. If you've read this blog in the past, you know how much Alaska inspires me. Maybe I'll even have a blog post for you when I return that <i>isn't</i> about The Underside of Joy. Now wouldn't that be something?Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-86266290670344747932012-01-12T11:39:00.000-08:002012-01-12T13:42:11.967-08:00The Over-the-Top of Joy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Well, hello there, book.</td></tr>
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Today is my official publication day.<br />
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So this is me. At our perfect local bookstore, Copperfield's, in Sebastopol, California. Yep. This is me, seeing my novel, <i>The Underside of Joy</i>, on a bookshelf in a bookstore for the very first time. I look pretty calm, but don't let that fool you. I felt like hugging and dancing with every customer and staff person in the store, and then running out to the sidewalk and doing the same with all the pedestrians -- and their dogs -- before leaping from hood to hood on the cars waiting for the light to change.<br />
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I'm a little excited.<br />
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What's even more overwhelming, though, is the gratitude I feel. You would not believe how supportive my family and friends have been. Friends I've known for years and years, and friends I've just recently met on the internet. I've never published a book before, but by the way they've all been shouting from the rooftops, you'd think that <i>no one </i>had ever published a book before. They have been ordering <i>The Underside of Joy</i> as if it were a survival kit and we had sudden proof that the Mayans were right after all. (For many reasons, besides the fact that this is the year I'm finally getting published, I do so hope they were wrong.)<br />
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There is an amazing team of professionals, who have also become friends, working extremely hard to see that this novel finds its way into the world. My agent, Elisabeth Weed and her associate, Stephanie Sun. My foreign rights agent, Jenny Meyer. My editor, Denise Roy, my publicist, Amanda Walker, and all the people at Dutton. Kathleen Schmidt at KMSPR. And then there's all the foreign publishing houses that also took a chance and bought <i>The Underside of Joy</i> from an unknown author.<br />
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This was going to be short, but I'm on a roll. There have been many thoughtful reviewers, who really get the book and are able to describe it so much better than I can. Some of them are quoted here on my <a href="http://sereprincehalverson.com/reviews.php" target="_blank">website</a>. A <a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2012/01/11/entertainment/e061935S39.DTL" target="_blank">great review</a> just appeared on The Associated Press wire, which goes out to a ton of newspapers and websites. Lindsey Mead, a writer whose work I so admire, wrote a lovely, insightful review on her blog, <a href="http://www.adesignsovast.com/2012/01/the-underside-of-joy/" target="_blank">A Design So Vast</a>. More reviews are beginning to appear on blogs, which I'll post links to soon.<br />
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And my family! My relatives and in-laws have cheered me on for decades. My sister, Suzanne, and my sister-in-law Julie have been competing for chief volunteer publicist. I have an incredibly supportive husband, Stan, and four great kids, Daniel, Michael, Karli, and Taylor, who've lived so closely with my writing, it was like having another sibling they had to put up with.<br />
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There will be a book launch party on Saturday, January 14, at Copperfield's at 1:00. At the exact same time the 49ers will be in the playoffs. Have I mentioned that we have a Joe Montana Christmas tree ornament? My husband, smart man that he is, will be taping the game. If you're in the area, and you're not a football fan, come by. There will be picnic food in honor of the store called Life's a Picnic that's in the novel.<br />
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I could go on and on. I know. I already have. But the thing is? This doesn't even scratch the surface. My acknowledgement pages go a little deeper. But I would need to write another novel-length manuscript in order to thank everyone who has had a hand in this day. My heart is full, and so are my eyes. Thank you all.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My son Michael outside of Copperfield's.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com45tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-32047146530793142382011-12-25T10:24:00.000-08:002012-01-04T06:16:36.266-08:00Fear Not<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pzPrK3qzgZg/Tvdky6hkU_I/AAAAAAAAAWw/H8kZvc9wPGg/s1600/big_thumb_3708858fdc55f835114eb1665cd9facc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pzPrK3qzgZg/Tvdky6hkU_I/AAAAAAAAAWw/H8kZvc9wPGg/s400/big_thumb_3708858fdc55f835114eb1665cd9facc.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Merry Christmas. Our family is celebrating Christmas on the 28th because that's the day we can all be together, and so this morning it is probably more quiet at my house than it is at yours. And the quiet gets me thinking about the many, many Christmases behind me. The Ghost of Christmas Past is paying me a visit, but this is a good ghost I enjoy having around. A lot of the memories blur together, but there are some that are so distinct -- clear and round and whole -- like the favorite ornaments on the tree that I unwrap every year and think, There you are. Hello, Christmas.<br />
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There's one Christmas I think back to every year. Back to before I had kids; way, way back to when I was a kid around ten, when we drove from Hamden, Connecticut to Ottawa, Illinois in a blizzard. The car held a trunkful of wrapped presents and my dad and mom; my sister, Suzanne; me; and our black miniature poodle, Babette, who would later help herself to the leftovers of our 25-pound turkey, narrowly escaping death -- both from the effects of the turkey and from the threat of my grandmother's barely contained wrath.<br />
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But before all that, we had to get to my grandparents' house, and things were not going smoothly. We crept along with the snow barreling down and the windshield wipers frantically ineffective, my dad hunched forward in his seat, my mom tense, both smoking. Even Suzanne and I had stopped fighting about whom Babette liked better. A temporary peace, a ceasefire if you will, erased the imaginary line that had served as the border between our two hostile countries in the backseat.<br />
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My parents were much younger than I am now, in their early thirties, attractive, successful professionals, who usually kept life interesting and fun for their young daughters. Before the blizzard took over, we'd been singing road songs, eating salami sandwiches my mom had passed back to us, playing the alphabet game. Five years later, they would divorce, but as much as things would change for our family, all four of us always remembered and talked about this road trip. As I write this now, I want to call my father to help me fill in the details, because he had that kind of memory. But my dad died seven years ago. He was a risk taker, a man who had to turn around and repay the toll many times in his life, a man who was raised in Buffalo Center, Iowa, and who swore he'd still be there if it hadn't been for hitchhiking.<br />
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Which brings me to the next scene in our story. My father was paying at a toll booth when he spotted a hitchhiker up ahead. He was covered in snow, but as my dad drove slowly past him, the hitchhiker smiled and waved, and something in his smile reminded me of Jim Croce, a singer I'd recently seen on television singing "Time in a Bottle."<br />
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"That's the same guy," my dad said.<br />
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Jim Croce? I thought.<br />
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"What same guy?" my mom said.<br />
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"The guy I saw back at the Whatchyamacallit toll booth." (My father didn't say Whatchyamacallit here; if he were alive, he would tell me the exact name of the toll booth and its exact location. Forgive me, Dad, I'm doing my best here without you.) "We could have given that poor kid a ride the whole way. I'm turning around."<br />
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"Donald! WAIT!"<br />
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But my father slowed the car down even more, looking for an exit he could take. He drove back and repaid the toll booth operator.<br />
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My father picked up hitchhikers. If they were young women, he would lecture them on the dangers of hitchhiking. He would only pick up men if my mother, Suzanne and I weren't in the car. But my father was also a man who was not above breaking his own rules. This drove my mother understandably crazy.<br />
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"Jesus, Janice," my dad said. "He's obviously trying to get somewhere. He didn't strangle the kind people who gave him a ride this far."<br />
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"How do you know it's even him? He's covered in SNOW."<br />
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"Exactly. That's <i>why</i> we're giving him a ride."<br />
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As my dad pulled over to pick up what Suzanne called The Abominable Snowman, Babette barked like a Doberman Pinscher in attack mode, and my mom yelled, "Donald! It's not him! Just GO! Don't stop!"<br />
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But my dad ignored us all, and leaned over my pissed-off mother to roll down the window for the Jim-Croce-Abominable-Snowman-Family-Poodle-Killer.<br />
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"Where are you coming from?" my dad shouted over Babette.<br />
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"Well, Sir, Vietnam. But more recently, Connecticut."<br />
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"Yep. I thought I saw you back at the Whatchyamacallit toll booth."<br />
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"Yes, Sir, That was me. On my way home, Sir." He told my dad the name of his hometown.<br />
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"We can give you a ride to your front door. Hop in."<br />
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My mother got out of the car. I waited for her to fling open the backdoor and yank Suzanne, Babette, and me out, but she didn't. She let the snow-covered soldier in to sit between them, and then got back in the car. She offered him a salami sandwich, and hot coffee from the thermos and then a cigarette.<br />
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Babette settled down and fell asleep while Suzanne and I, who usually happily ignored most adult conversations, strained to hear the three adults murmuring in the front seat. I traced the name of the soldier etched on my POW bracelet. I wanted to lean forward and show him the name and ask if they were friends, but I was too shy.<br />
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While he spoke, I watched the snow melt off his hat and jacket and slip down the back of the seat like teardrops. My parents shook their heads, fell silent. The three of them smoked more cigarettes, said more things I couldn't quite hear.<br />
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And then, a shift, a rise in the soldier's voice as he leaned to look out the window. In the far distance, he said, he could see his parents' farmhouse. My father again offered to drive him to the door, but he declined. "No thank you, Sir. I've been dreaming about walking up and over that hill for a long time now."<br />
<br />
My dad nodded, pulled to the side of the highway. It was snowing still, but in big soft flakes that lollygagged their way down. The soldier turned and patted Suzanne and me on our heads. "I hope Santa's good to you girls."<br />
<br />
Both my parents got out of the car. He shook my father's hand and then they embraced. My mother wrapped her arms around the soldier, too, and said, "Merry Christmas."<br />
<br />
Back in the car, my dad didn't shift into drive right away. The car idled, filling with Christmas. My mother scooted closer to my father and laid her head on his shoulder and he reached his arm around her. I heard her sniffle and sigh as we all watched the soldier make his way through the snow, toward his waiting home, white with lights.Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-81311036402790083932011-07-29T11:03:00.000-07:002011-07-29T11:43:43.973-07:00Let it Rain<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u_ptXciB9aI/TjLuDnqjNaI/AAAAAAAAAWo/7xL4tn6nfyg/s1600/195726_107073802705057_5632843_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u_ptXciB9aI/TjLuDnqjNaI/AAAAAAAAAWo/7xL4tn6nfyg/s400/195726_107073802705057_5632843_n.jpg" width="332" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ellen Newmark in the Himalayas, 2009</td></tr>
</tbody></table><i><br />
</i><br />
<i>My friend and writing sister, Ellen, died last month. I got home from Europe and took a flight down to San Diego so we could say good-bye. She taught me so much about living life -- really <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">living</span> it -- and then she taught me about dying -- bravely, and with gratitude. She was my friend but so much more...too much, I've decided after many failed attempts, to convey in a blog post. </i><br />
<br />
<i>We have all lost people we love. We have all felt the spreading void of their absence filling the rooms, the streets, the fields, the very sky, until we find ourselves pressed out on the ground underneath the weight of all that emptiness, wondering how? How can this be? And how will we possibly get up and face a world that feels so different now?</i><br />
<br />
<i>But we do get up, eventually, and we go on living -- really <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">living</span> -- because that is the best way to honor the dead, and ourselves. It is what Ellen insisted on.</i><br />
<br />
<i>She is gone, but still I feel her here. I feel her like I feel the scarf she gave me -- light, warmth, comfort, a hint of her perfume. How can this be? And yet it is.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Back in March, I wrote the following post, but I didn't publish it. There were a lot of scary things going on in the world, as there always is, and I was trying to wrap my head and heart around the fact that Ellen was not going to recover as we had so fervently hoped.</i><br />
<br />
<i>***</i><br />
<br />
There's a storm hitting us, and it's ferocious. The rain and wind batter away at our Barngalow, so loud now that our dog, Stuart, and our cat, Bob, keep looking up from their naps to the ceiling, then planting their eyes on me, asking <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">What the hell? </span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"></span>Through the window, the tree branches have transformed into a crowd of rioters, going at each other in a panic, throwing the weakest to the ground.<br />
<br />
But it's only a storm, not a tsunami, not an earthquake, not escaping steam from a nuclear power plant, not a war-zone. We are warm and snug and safe in the moment, something I wish were true for everyone in this world.<br />
<br />
My friend Diana and I had plans to drive an hour south and hike Mount Tamalpais today, but you know what they say about plans. Instead I'm still in my pjs, nursing an extra cup of coffee, thinking about all that's happened this past month. As Dickens wrote, "It was the best of times. It was the worst of times."<br />
<br />
My own dream in my own little corner of the world, finally realized. And yet, as more good news from my agent came in emails and phone calls, I watched the nightmare unfolding in Japan and then Libya, watched unfathomable devastation wreaking its havoc on people who had woken that morning much like I had woken, thinking about whatever it is we think about in those first moments when we're on autopilot. I'd like to say I always wake with gratitude, but sometimes my mind is bent on the need to get the coffee going, take the dog out to pee, pay this or that bill, and get this done or that done. We wake as if it's just another day, ho hum, la-tee-dah, as if we have all the time in the world. But the truth is, none of us have that kind of time. We're all going to die, but most of us don't know when or how. Most of us, myself included, would rather not think about it.<br />
<br />
Someone I love very much is teaching me about dying. It's a privilege to talk with her. She knows things the rest of us can't know until we're willing to sit face to face with our own mortality. I am learning how to listen. I am trying to learn to quiet the NO that keeps shouting through my head so I can truly hear her. I am trying to learn how to someday say good-bye to her with acceptance instead of fear or denial or a clutching heart.<br />
<br />
Today's storm will move on, leaving the sun to do its thing. The trees will rest in peace again, raindrops like crystals on a chandelier will sparkle from their calmed, harmonious branches as Mother Nature takes a deep breath, decides to return to civility. Yes, the sun will shine again, gloriously, but as always, keep casting its shadows, too.<br />
<br />
It's such a mixed bag, this life. The sorrow -- we all know it wouldn't be so hard if the joy wasn't so damn sweet. And good-byes wouldn't be so difficult if the love wasn't woven through our core, connecting every part of us. But what can we do? Go ahead, I say. Love with utter abandon, drink up the joy with lip-smacking gusto. And when it's time to cry, let it rain. Let the raging storm have its way.Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-10612626271820229162011-06-15T15:40:00.000-07:002011-06-15T15:40:57.360-07:00Florence, Paris, London, Elbow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-H6UvEKkSDVw/Tfktn2lYwdI/AAAAAAAAAWk/XUv-xKfdJpU/s1600/florence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-H6UvEKkSDVw/Tfktn2lYwdI/AAAAAAAAAWk/XUv-xKfdJpU/s400/florence.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Michael Prince</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The past several months have been a bit of a blur, focused (or I guess if it's a blur it would be a sort of an <i>un</i>focused-focused) on The Book. The book, the book, the book. You know, <i>The Underside of Joy</i>? Yes, <i>that</i> book. So when the opportunity to travel in Europe with my son, Michael, came up, I jumped. I mean, how many times is your 20-year-old son at least seemingly excited to travel with you? And what are the chances it will happen again?<br />
<br />
Granted, he had been hoofing it across Europe with his friend for a month after their semester studying abroad ended, staying in youth hostels, counting every Euro. So it may not have been only my <i>company</i> he was thinking of. Who cares? Yes! I'd love to meet you in Florence. I'd love to get away from thinking obsessively about the book and spend some mother/son bonding time exploring incredible cities.<br />
<br />
The ol' book can wait, right? Ella Beene and the town of Elbow will still be here, waiting when I return. But of course! <i>Andiamo</i>!<br />
<br />
Although Michael had been in Florence for four months, he hadn't yet climbed to the top of the Duomo to gaze out at that gorgeous red sea of rooftops. So that is one of the first things we did.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L0g6iU1fcjQ/TfkZW_gb83I/AAAAAAAAAWE/Mhsxvfd2cMI/s1600/IMG_2164.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L0g6iU1fcjQ/TfkZW_gb83I/AAAAAAAAAWE/Mhsxvfd2cMI/s400/IMG_2164.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
In Paris, we made the pilgrimage to that famous bookstore on the Left Bank, Shakespeare & Company, a newer version of the one Sylvia Beach started, where Hemingway and friends hung out. My kind of store, where old shelves and every nook and cranny are crammed full of books both used and new. So many books, so little time. How does one choose? Ah, but when your mother, <i>l'auteure</i>, is standing over you with her camera? Not so difficult.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pg_Lk9eAu0U/TfkhA4xu_dI/AAAAAAAAAWY/gItuZDN_T40/s1600/mike+s%2526co..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pg_Lk9eAu0U/TfkhA4xu_dI/AAAAAAAAAWY/gItuZDN_T40/s400/mike+s%2526co..jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
And what is Paris without a stop at the Eiffel Tower? It's so commanding, so captivating, especially at night with its multitude of lights -- that giant, glittering pathway to the heavens. Nearly impossible to look away.<br />
<br />
Nearly, but not quite.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A3E_xlJJtSY/Tfkh4dcLwGI/AAAAAAAAAWc/WVs_quNCM4I/s1600/mike+eiffel+tower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A3E_xlJJtSY/Tfkh4dcLwGI/AAAAAAAAAWc/WVs_quNCM4I/s320/mike+eiffel+tower.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
Our final stop was London. Land of Harry Potter. The first book that grabbed my little boy and would not let him go.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A5TfPKZ-BEg/TfkfUCflhWI/AAAAAAAAAWQ/SpRBV10ngls/s1600/tower+bridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="340" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A5TfPKZ-BEg/TfkfUCflhWI/AAAAAAAAAWQ/SpRBV10ngls/s400/tower+bridge.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Move over, Harry. He's mine now.Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-56764681879786167472011-05-21T07:47:00.000-07:002011-05-21T12:58:44.411-07:00A Very Bad Blogger<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4s0QrviWsbc/TdZ2J5BbuQI/AAAAAAAAAVs/sF8o0ipDu0o/s1600/THE+coverjpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4s0QrviWsbc/TdZ2J5BbuQI/AAAAAAAAAVs/sF8o0ipDu0o/s400/THE+coverjpg.jpg" width="262" /></a></div>I have been a very bad blogger. Perhaps as punishment, I should write that sentence a hundred times and then at least I'd complete a blog post and break the silence we've been experiencing over here at Who Moved My Buddha? for the last couple of months.<br />
<br />
My Buddha has been doing cartwheels (in a detached sort of way) here, there, and everywhere and I am just now getting caught up with all the changes going on. (Okay. I'm not even close to getting caught up. Still back at, Wow! I have an agent!) So this will be a mostly newsy post so that I'll at least get <i>you</i> caught up.<br />
<br />
The novel. Last you heard, I was zip-a-dee-doo-dahing through the Redwoods after a week of <i>areyoufrigginkiddingme?</i> news about <i>The Underside of Joy<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">, which will be published by Dutton in January 2012</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">.</span></i> It will also be published in 12 other countries, in 12 languages, including Hebrew and Chinese.<br />
<br />
I am still...there are no words...at least not in English. I will have to ask the Chinese translator.<br />
<br />
But. (There is always a <i>but.</i>) My dear friend and writing sister, Ellen, has been very ill. Her gorgeous book, <i>The Sandalwood Tree</i>, came out April 5th and was greeted by a mass of wonderful reviews. I was able to spend the first half of April with her -- time I already treasure. We talked and talked, as we have for more than 15 years. We talked about life. And about death. And about writing, always writing. To get a glimpse of why I love her so much, read <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sandalwood-Tree-Novel-Elle-Newmark/dp/1416590595/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1305384294&sr=8-1">The Sandalwood Tree</a></i>.<br />
<br />
And. (There is always an <i>and, </i>too it seems.) While I was visiting my beautiful, talented, funny friend, I got some amazing news. <i>The Underside of Joy</i> was chosen to be one of six books discussed at the Book Expo America <a href="http://bookexponews.blogspot.com/2011/04/heres-buzz.html">Editors Buzz Panel</a>.<br />
<br />
But. As you know, with good news often comes more work, so we've been rushing to get everything done in time for BEA, which is in NYC May 23-26. As I've mentioned before, I'm a bit of a barnacle and not particularly adept at rushing, so I've been a few miles out of my comfort zone, leaping here and there over hurdles like a gazelle. (Picture, if you will, a gazelle wearing clogs. On her way to NYC.)<br />
<br />
Fortunately, my edits went quickly and smoothly and were done before we heard the news. Next up were the copyedits, cover design -- which I love -- and author photo. My website is done. Isn't it <a href="http://sereprincehalverson.com/">cool</a>? (More about that later.) And I finished making changes to the first pass galleys: my words, typeset, looking more and more like a real book. Holy Moly.<br />
<br />
And...This week, Publisher's Marketplace posted my <a href="http://lunch.publishersmarketplace.com/2011/05/buzz-reviews-the-underside-of-joy-by-sere-prince-halverson/">first review</a>, and it's lovely. Huge sigh of relief. You have to be a member to access it there, but if you really, really want to read it and don't want to pay the $20 monthly fee, I've posted it under <a href="http://www.sereprincehalverson.com/news.php">News</a> on my site. Absolutely free. No membership required.<br />
<br />
See? A newsy post. A little light and breezy. But in the middle of it all, here I am, not able to articulate the depth of sadness I feel about my writing sister's struggle that lies below all the happy news and excitement. If I were to try to name it? I guess I would call this the underside of joy, too.Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-45362339239001814732011-02-22T07:50:00.000-08:002011-02-22T07:50:52.694-08:00It Only Took One Week (Plus About 20 Years)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br class="webkit-block-placeholder" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kRxVHVNpBtI/TV7LhzJmQSI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/xHuckVabsBQ/s1600/2010-12-11+17.06.57.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kRxVHVNpBtI/TV7LhzJmQSI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/xHuckVabsBQ/s400/2010-12-11+17.06.57.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from The Barngalow.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
This is for everyone who writes. Or paints. Or sings. Or cooks, or dances, or builds, or teaches, or searches for cures. Or catches flying objects while leaping in the air.<br />
<br />
This is for everyone who has a dream. Or maybe you don't have a dream. Maybe you're just trying to get through a tough time. It's for you, too.<br />
<br />
It's for everyone who feels like they can't quite get a break but they can't quite give up, either.<br />
<br />
It's for everyone who cares deeply about what they do, who wants their work to somehow find its place in this world.<br />
<br />
Keep going. Don't give up. Because the cliché really is true: You never know what might be right around the corner.<br />
<br />
I have been writing for years. For decades, even. And last week my agent, the incredible Elisabeth Weed, sent my novel out into the world...<br />
<br />
But wait, let me back up a bit. The week before <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">that</span> I sent my son Michael out into the world. He landed in Italy. This is how he looked to me right before we said our good-bye at the airport:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ly-DF1Jeqd8/TV6QO8dKzfI/AAAAAAAAAT4/MFc6L-_RpXg/s1600/IMG_20110130_123212.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ly-DF1Jeqd8/TV6QO8dKzfI/AAAAAAAAAT4/MFc6L-_RpXg/s400/IMG_20110130_123212.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ciao, Michael. (Appearing somewhat blurry through his mama's misty eyes.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The next week Elisabeth sent my novel, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Underside of Joy</span>, to her amazing foreign rights agent, Jenny Meyer. I felt a bit like this, getting out of the shower that morning:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a7YT7896lhk/TV6S7jg6bhI/AAAAAAAAAUA/c0rBj1VZvJM/s1600/36810_511396671827_201600740_30417492_5578958_n-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="347" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a7YT7896lhk/TV6S7jg6bhI/AAAAAAAAAUA/c0rBj1VZvJM/s400/36810_511396671827_201600740_30417492_5578958_n-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On pins and needles. (Photo by Daniel Prince)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
But Jenny said wonderful things about the novel. Both she and Elisabeth sent it out. And the first place it landed? The first country to make an offer? Italy. Italy!<br />
<br />
God, I love that country.<br />
<br />
It was my husband's birthday. I woke Stan up with the news. We had a good cry.<br />
<br />
More offers came in from other countries, including the UK, the Netherlands, Germany, Spain, Brazil, Israel and Taiwan. There were several auctions. (Sometimes, I admit, I have to recheck my emails to make sure it's really happening.) And then, this past Wednesday, an auction in NYC.<br />
<br />
I am thrilled and honored to tell you that my U.S. editor is Denise Roy, and that <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Underside of Joy</span> will be published by Dutton in January 2012!<br />
<br />
And I am humbled, because I know so many gifted writers who have worked hard and long and still haven't heard the big Yes. I want you to know that I had received nothing but rejections on my other manuscripts. There were a few very close almosts and kind words of encouragement, yet they always preceded one or more of the following: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">But. Unfortunately. However. Nevertheless. In this difficult market. Didn't quite fall in love. Not for us.</span><br />
<br />
I'll write more later about the long uphill-both-ways icy road that led to this miraculous week, and how Elisabeth became my agent. (It wasn't through contacts. I queried her. We met through the dreaded slush pile.)<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">But for now I want to tell you about one more crazy thing. The week before all this happened, I'd made reservations to go ziplining through the redwood canopy this past Sunday to surprise Stan for his birthday. We'd never ziplined before. I love the redwoods and they play an important role in my novel. So the day turned out to be a fitting celebration not only of his birthday, but of the whole wild ride we'd found ourselves on.</span></span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-osc_M1yiuX8/TV6fMe8PR1I/AAAAAAAAAUE/ydCdZGn2KRU/s1600/DSCN1349.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-osc_M1yiuX8/TV6fMe8PR1I/AAAAAAAAAUE/ydCdZGn2KRU/s400/DSCN1349.JPG" width="203" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You want me to do what?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>If you've never experienced ziplining, it goes something like this:<br />
<br />
1. Stand on a miniscule platform 300 feet or so from the ground. Try to look casual while gripping tree trunk.<br />
<br />
2. Allow a friendly young stranger to secure your harness, helmet, and shiny metal aparatus.<br />
<br />
3. Allow same stranger to hook you to a cable that extends 800 feet to another tree, still 300 feet from the ground, so you can travel 25 mph suspended from said cable.<br />
<br />
4. Hang on.<br />
<br />
5. Step off miniscule platform into vast sky.<br />
<br />
6. Keep hanging on.<br />
<br />
7. Say, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">8. Repeat 7 times.</span></span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ihgqCi67Ogc/TV6jBIPCPYI/AAAAAAAAAUI/C9ynpL_eoaA/s1600/DSCN1333.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ihgqCi67Ogc/TV6jBIPCPYI/AAAAAAAAAUI/C9ynpL_eoaA/s400/DSCN1333.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy 50th, Stan!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br class="webkit-block-placeholder" />Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-20178552074236732482011-01-17T09:24:00.000-08:002011-01-17T16:18:55.692-08:00Rocks, Paper, Wind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TTRsGnddG-I/AAAAAAAAATw/rEubKcBQSCY/s1600/2010-12-25+11.39.20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TTRsGnddG-I/AAAAAAAAATw/rEubKcBQSCY/s400/2010-12-25+11.39.20.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
When I started this blog, I acknowledged that change is not only a part of life, it <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">is</span> life. The winds of change can sometimes be nothing but a whispering breeze and other times whip through with the might of a hurricane. Right now change is everywhere I look. It's in every inhale, it's all over me like skin. It's a bit exhausting. But it's also exhilarating.<br />
<br />
My husband, Stan, and I moved again, right before Christmas. I do not recommend that you try this. Especially if you are trying to work and finish the latest draft of your latest novel. And if you, like me, are lousy at multitasking.<br />
<br />
But we knew that the cabin would be a temporary stop while we regrouped and figured out a plan. Stan had made a brave career change in mid-life to something he actually enjoys doing. (There really are a few positive aspects to a sucky economy.) An opportunity came up, and now we're about 20 minutes from the cabin, back in the place we lived years ago, a lovely apartment above a barn (which I know sounds like an oxymoron, but it really is lovely) at the end of a country road, with a view of forest and vineyards. We've dubbed it The Barngalow, and it sits on the 8-acre property where we were married, so it holds a lot of good memories.<br />
<br />
All four kids -- Daniel, Michael, Karli, and Taylor -- were here for Christmas. Actually, they were here on the Third Day After Christmas, which is when our blenderized family could squeeze in a celebration. The girls, 19 and 17, live with their mom now. When I see them I'm always struck by their beauty -- the kind that's so young and effortless.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, it's rare that we're all together, but I was grateful for the short time we had, and it felt good to be opening presents in a place where we had all opened presents years ago. Even if some of the boxes around us were marked <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Linen Closet</span> and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Living Room/Books</span> instead of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Merry Christmas</span>, I had managed to get the tree up and decorated, put the bulk of the place in functioning order, and even finish the novel before everyone arrived.<br />
<br />
And then I promptly passed out. Not really, but I seriously considered it.<br />
<br />
After New Year's, the boys and I took a mini road trip to see my stepmom and stepbrother. My dad died six years ago this month, and if I can get myself in the right frame of mind, I'll try to write about him another time. It was wonderful to see Jan and Marc. And yet it was bittersweet to be in the home where my father should be but isn't. There is some change that I will never get used to.<br />
<br />
Jan loaded our plates with delicious comfort food and we played Bananagrams, charades, cards, and that game where you wear some famous person's name on a piece of paper stuck to your forehead and ask yes/no questions in order to try to figure out who you are.<br />
<br />
If I'd worn a piece of paper on my head for the last 23 years that told people who I was in only one word, it would have said Mom. I'm other things, of course. I'm a writer, wife, friend, daughter, sister, lover of books, trees, dark chocolate with nuts, and Mad Men, to name a few. But foremost, always, a Mom.<br />
<br />
I still vividly remember that day I became a mother, and as corny and 1950s pre-feminist as it may sound, I felt such a sense of complete and utter fulfillment -- as if suddenly the universe had shifted, and I had fallen into the place I was supposed to fit, perfectly. As perfectly as Daniel fit into my arms.<br />
<br />
And then, eventually, my hormones settled down.<br />
<br />
But, truly, being a mom has been my most favorite thing in life. It's been the most gut wrenching difficult and the most rewarding, by far. It's been the thing I knew I was meant to do, even though I didn't do it perfectly, and some days not very well at all. But as much as I loved being a mom, I realized it was not my sole purpose in life. It was the biggie, no doubt. But there was also writing, and I wrote around nap times and on the edges of napkins at Chuck E. Cheese, and eventually started getting up at 4 a.m. to work on a novel. This will date me even more, but I remember typing short stories on my grandfather's electric typewriter while Daniel napped, using White-Out to correct my typos. I did this all with very little success, but I wrote because I loved to, even needed to, as overly dramatic as that may sound.<br />
<br />
Once I had kids, I wanted to work from home, so I started working as a freelance copywriter to pay the bills, writing slogans, ads, brochures, articles, and later web sites. I still picked away at writing fiction, too.<br />
<br />
I was there for my kids. But sometimes, I admit, I wasn't <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">there</span> for them, in the sense that writers often live in two worlds and you'll see our eyes glaze over while we have a particularly riveting conversation with one of the characters who lives in our minds. This is not something I'm particularly proud of, and which often leaves my husband shaking his head, saying, "You writers are a special breed." But because I was a Mom first, my children's voices would snap me back into the real world. Kids' howls always trump fiction. Whereas a husband's lengthy explanation of why the car sounds funny? Not so much.<br />
<br />
Speaking of the car, I should get back to our road trip. While we were visiting, Daniel, Michael, Marc and I walked down to the lake. The day was cold and the sky hung low and gray. Daniel would be returning to Alaska in a few more days to finish his degree in biology. Michael, who lived 20 minutes away from us, would be leaving soon, too, at the end of the month, to study abroad in Italy. It was absolutely official: my boys had become men. I would still be, always be, their mom. I know this. But the wind was picking up, that last leaf on the tree was twirling, about to cut loose.<br />
<br />
When we got to the lake, the guys started skipping rocks. Not nice flat stones, but big, heavy chunks of gravel. Theirs skipped freely across the water, 10, 15, even 20 times. Those rocks were like Daniel skipping off to Kindergarten that first day, dressed in the cowboy boots he always insisted on wearing and shorts, thrilled to be starting school, while I followed behind, blinking back tears. Skip, skip, skippety skip. And now their rocks happily skittered across the surface while my attempts ended with big loud kerplunks. There was teasing, and a few imitations of my form (Ha! Thank goodness they were only <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">joking</span> and I really don't look <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">that</span> uncoordinated.) But then there were a few patient lessons and when my chunky gravel actually skipped once I jumped up and down like a little kid. They said, "Good job," and I thought, Oh, God. I'm so not ready for parent-child role reversal.<br />
<br />
If I were depressed, I might have conjured up some metaphor about youth and unlimited possibility juxtaposed with getting older and sinking head-first deep into the muddy muck. Fortunately, I'm not depressed. Just ever so acutely aware of this change. And while I do see their lives taking off -- soaring even -- I see mine evolving. I may not be skipping across the world, but now I'm at a point where my writing is my focus. Where it isn't scribbled in on the edges. Where the days are still and quiet enough that I can sink down even deeper into my other worlds. Where perhaps my words might actually reverberate out and reach across a distance. Where I'm still Mom, but I don't need to wear that badge on my forehead.<br />
<br />
We drove home, just the three of us, Daniel, Michael, and me. Like the old days. But different. A few days later, Stan and I took Daniel to the airport. I hugged my tall son, burying my head into his chest, my tears slipping onto his jacket. "Bye Momma," he said, gentle, kind, and good. Stan stood to the side, eyes a bit misty. He hugged Daniel good-bye, too, and then let me cry on his shoulder when we got back to the car.<br />
<br />
This weekend we helped Michael move out of his apartment. He's living with us for two weeks and then we'll take him to the airport. I have a lump in my throat when I think of it, and yet, I'm more excited than anyone for him.<br />
<br />
So in between all this moving and saying hard good-byes, something wonderful happened last Thursday. I got a call from a literary agent. Not just any literary agent, but the one I really, really wanted to be my literary agent. She loves the novel. She offered to represent me.<br />
<br />
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!<br />
<br />
(I think exclamation points may be the punctuational equivalent of stone skips.)<br />
<br />
Way, way back, when I was in seventh grade, my creative writing teacher -- who, unlike my math teacher, wrote nice things on my papers with a lot of exclamation points -- said, "Seré, do you realize what you've just done with your pen?" Hoping she might say something like <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">You've written a masterpiece</span>, I shook my head and waited for her answer. "You were scratching your forehead with the wrong end of the pen, and now you've got <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">writing</span> all over your forehead."<br />
<br />
All these years and questions later, and I know what I was starting to realize even back then. It took me a while, but I figured out who I am.Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-18655459621161901002011-01-13T09:31:00.000-08:002011-01-13T09:31:58.150-08:0081 Looks Damn Good on Him<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TS8jpHARhHI/AAAAAAAAATY/VPPOxU_t80k/s1600/IMG_0646.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TS8jpHARhHI/AAAAAAAAATY/VPPOxU_t80k/s320/IMG_0646.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Happy Birthday to Bill.<br />
Part stoic cowboy. Part teddy bear.<br />
A wise philosopher<br />
Who never met a tractor he didn't like.<br />
Well read. Well spoken.<br />
Friend to yaks. And kitties.<br />
Calls the chickens "Ladies" and his lady "Sweetie."<br />
Grills a mean steak.<br />
Has a kind heart.<br />
Loves PBS,<br />
Westerns,<br />
Snow-crested mountains,<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>And my mother.Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-53147101660703367352010-11-24T21:44:00.000-08:002010-11-25T00:01:19.181-08:00Gratitude for My Writing Sister<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TO3xW8w1gHI/AAAAAAAAASo/8cJKYozCLVQ/s1600/84485319.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TO3xW8w1gHI/AAAAAAAAASo/8cJKYozCLVQ/s400/84485319.jpg" width="281" /></a></div><br />
A year ago today, I flew down to San Diego to hold onto the hand of one of my closest friends. Ellen lay in bed in the ICU, hooked up to a ventilator, as still as still can be. Under that stillness, a battle raged over her lungs. She will never again say, "As easy as taking a breath."<br />
<br />
It's her story, so I'll leave it for her to tell. She's a fabulous writer and storyteller. She has been my writing sister for the past 15 years.<br />
<br />
I will say this: She's home now, still fighting, but getting better. There have been setbacks, more hospital stays. But she finished a novel and turned it into her publisher. To keep her spirits up, she ordered a whole new supply of pretty pajamas and matching slippers online. And when yet another setback got too depressing, Cat Stevens crooning through her iPod ear buds reminded her how utterly gorgeous life can be, and what a privilege it is to be able to make art.<br />
<br />
She's a prize fighter. She's a prize writer. When the bombs explode, she often pulls her pen from its cap like a sword from its sheath, and she gets the words down. She makes art. (She's shrugging as she reads this. She's saying, "Everyone has their battles. We all do the best we can.")<br />
<br />
Except we don't always choose to do our best. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I </span>haven't, not always. Sometimes the fetal position is so <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">inviting</span>. But for the last 15 years, Ellen has been a phone call away, helping me to drop-kick the indulgent self-pity out the front door, to let in hope and perseverance. She's that kind of person, that kind of friend.<br />
<br />
A year has passed, from one Thanksgiving to another. I know only two prayers really well. Last Thanksgiving I kept praying, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Please.</span> This year I'm praying the other one: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Thank you.</span>Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-69507726809183643552010-11-12T10:06:00.000-08:002010-11-12T12:36:49.823-08:00A Barnacle With the Wind in Her Hair<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TNxW3kSwc9I/AAAAAAAAASQ/NlxtBzfrEP4/s1600/barnacle.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TNxW3kSwc9I/AAAAAAAAASQ/NlxtBzfrEP4/s320/barnacle.gif" width="280" /></a></div><br />
A few weeks ago, I pried my little barnacle self off my rock here in the woods by the water, and flew to Colorado to visit my mom and stepdad. Then I jet-setted back home for a couple of days before flying with my son to Austin to see my sister, Suzanne, and her family.<br />
<br />
We are a close family, but our pinpoints on the map are spread far and wide, and we don't see each other as often as we'd like. Maybe that's why when we do get together, I feel the passage of time whipping through my hair, suddenly aware of the earth spinning 900 miles per hour, orbiting at its 18.5 miles per second around the sun. I want to grab each member of my family and hold on for this dear, sweet, short life.<br />
<br />
Images flash through my head like an erratic and random slide show. Remember when, Mom? You were twenty-seven and I was four? Remember when, Suzannie? You were five and I was eight? Remember when? My <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">kids</span> were five and eight? And your kids were seven and four? The soundtrack of my mind flits around from eight-tracks pumping out <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Kentucky Woman</span> and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Monday, Monday</span> to cassettes playing everything from The Indigo Girls to Raffi, to CDs blasting Modest Mouse when I took the boys to school, to the silence of everyone hooked up to their own iPods. The irony is that now our three different generations of family like a lot of the same music, and much of that music links us to our past, to each other.<br />
<br />
There are the stories we repeat, telling each other again and again in an effort to keep moments alive. Like the time I came home from seventh grade and announced to my mom, while she worked on a painting at an easel in our kitchen, that I had volunteered her to make potica, a Slovenian sweet bread, for Ethnic Day. She reacted as if I'd invited The President and First Lady to join us for an eight course dinner. In an hour. What I didn't know is that although my grandmother made potica regularly, my mom had never made it. Nor did she have a desire to make it. It was a complicated recipe. She wanted to paint. Instead, she figured out how to make potica for a hundred or so seventh graders.<br />
<br />
We laugh about it now, and as I've mentioned here before, she now sends us potica every Christmas. We've talked about making it together for years, of her teaching me how, but we never have. This trip, we made potica together. The good thing about feeling the passage of time whipping through your graying hair, is that you stop putting things off. You get busy doing the important stuff.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TNxXLL4zesI/AAAAAAAAASU/4ukmpkGOiyo/s1600/IMG_0628.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TNxXLL4zesI/AAAAAAAAASU/4ukmpkGOiyo/s320/IMG_0628.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Making potica at my mama's.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
And so I also stood in a field and painted a picture of the mountains with my mom because she loves to paint and I've always wanted to try it but never have -- at least not since I stopped carrying my paintings home folded up in my lunch box. We set up easels and she gave me some pointers. Then we fell into a deep, concentrated silence that hushed my flitting soundtrack and stilled my random slide show so that I became aware of nothing other than the mountains before me and my mother beside me. And I discovered that I, too, love to squish paint onto a canvas.<br />
<br />
Flash forward a couple of days when I sat on a plane with my 20-year-old son Michael and thought about how I wouldn't fly with him when he was two because I was afraid he might break out into his fingernail-curling scream, causing the other passengers to join forces and open the emergency escape hatch in order to throw us off the plane. I realize it is not possible to open the emergency escape hatch at 35,000 feet without sucking everyone into oblivion. But I also fully understand the desperation that would cause them to ignore this fact and try it anyway.<br />
<br />
Now I looked over at Michael, a handsome, calm young man working the crossword puzzle, who will be leaving in January to study for a semester in Florence. And I remembered the feel of his silky baby hair on my cheek, as if his two-year-old self had just climbed into my lap, anchoring me to this world like a paperweight in footsie pajamas.<br />
<br />
Suzanne picked us up at the airport and we joined her kids at a restaurant for dinner. Another story we like to retell: The first time they visited us, Michael, who is a year older than my niece Nicole, would push Nicole down when she'd get anywhere within three yards of me and say, "No, baby, no! <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">My</span> mommy!"<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TN178aL832I/AAAAAAAAASY/APgO9wv7ywQ/s1600/149096_1468100352158_1523040301_31189085_2375902_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="342" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TN178aL832I/AAAAAAAAASY/APgO9wv7ywQ/s400/149096_1468100352158_1523040301_31189085_2375902_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nicole sharing a moment with her school mascot at UT.<br />
Michael refraining from pushing. Such cooperative cousins.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I am happy to report that Michael no longer screams or pushes Nicole or teases her mercilessly as he did when they were growing up. But the two of them, along with my 16-year-old nephew Chris, made us laugh so hard all through dinner that my abdominal muscles actually ached. Considering the fact that I don't really have abdominal muscles, this is truly amazing. Either our kids should have their own show on Comedy Central or we share a genetic predisposition that makes us think the same ridiculous jokes are utterly hilarious.<br />
<br />
But, wait. For some reason, the kids don't think <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">my</span> ridiculous jokes are utterly hilarious. Hmm. I'll have to rethink that one.<br />
<br />
Anyway, it was a good trip. And now I'm back home, missing everyone. But I am here, with our dog, Stuart, and our cat, Bob, both stretched out across our bed. Stan makes breakfast, the fire in the wood stove pops. One day this quiet, simple morning may flash in my memory like a slide. One day Stan and I might shout to each other in ears stuffed with hearing aids, "Remember, Sweetie? Remember that little place by the river? Remember Stuart and Bob? And how they would hog the bed? And how much we loved them anyway?"<br />
<br />
And yet for now I am right here, tucked back into this little home, back to my barnacle ways, scrawling words down in some kind of effort to slow this world's spinning -- slowing it enough, at least, to touch and feel the moments as they fly by.Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-10396408334697821872010-09-17T07:59:00.000-07:002010-09-18T23:52:47.992-07:00The Gift My Mother Gave Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TJN9FHEJ3TI/AAAAAAAAARY/h-WnPvFqwzE/s1600/document2010-09-17-091216.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TJN9FHEJ3TI/AAAAAAAAARY/h-WnPvFqwzE/s400/document2010-09-17-091216.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br class="webkit-block-placeholder" /></div>Today is my mom's birthday. I have so many good Mom Stories, I'm going to have to narrow them down to a few. But first you'll need a little background.<br />
<br />
Way back when, my mom was an A student, president of her high school class, then president of her college sorority. She graduated with honors with a degree in pharmacy.<br />
<br />
I proudly ran to claim her whenever she picked me up from school; she was the prettiest mom, the smartest mom, the mom who had a real career with the men in the 1960s and still came home and finger-painted with the kids.<br />
<br />
The woman had it all going on.<br />
<br />
But in the mid-1970s, a cross-country move away from a job she loved, the deaths of her parents, her disintegrating marriage, and a family history of alcoholism all got together and sucker punched her. Hard. We lost her for a few years and we almost lost her for good. But in the last round, she got up and she fought back, and she came out of it stronger and more fully alive than she'd ever been.<br />
<br />
I could leave that part out but I won't, because out of all the gifts she's given my sister and me over the years, we both agree that the most significant has been the gift of her sobriety. The<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> bravery</span> of her sobriety. It shaped both our lives and directed many of the choices we've made.<br />
<br />
Now don't get me wrong. My mom still gets high. I don't want to sound cliché and say she gets high on life, so I'll put it this way: She gets high on cilantro.<br />
<br />
This is how it goes: We're seated at a Mexican restaurant when she starts moaning, as if she might be starting in on an impression of the famous <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">When Harry Met Sally</span> scene of Sally in the diner. But my mother isn't faking anything. She's genuinely excited about how fresh the cilantro tastes.<br />
<br />
"Honey, isn't this the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">best </span>cilantro you've ever tasted?" She opens her eyes and waits for my answer.<br />
<br />
"You said that the last time we had Mexican."<br />
<br />
"I did? I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">did?" </span><span class="Apple-style-span">She knits her eyebrows together then shrugs.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> "</span>Well. That was really wonderful, too. But this is even better, don't you think?" She looks at me expectantly.<br />
<br />
I've learned to say, "Yes. Absolutely." But my sister and I roll our eyes whenever she goes into her spiels about the best cilantro, the best eggplant, the best mocha almond fudge ice cream, the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">best</span> friggin' french fries she's ever had in her entire life. <span class="Apple-style-span"></span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The</span></span> best. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Ever.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br class="webkit-block-placeholder" /></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TJLmLGhwg6I/AAAAAAAAARQ/xC_YiMZIIBM/s1600/n1584576783_11324_7906.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TJLmLGhwg6I/AAAAAAAAARQ/xC_YiMZIIBM/s320/n1584576783_11324_7906.jpg" width="205" /></a></div>Then there was the time when we were in another restaurant, waiting to be seated. My mom sat down at a Pac Man game. Remember Pac Man?<br />
<br />
"Ohhh. I've been wanting to try this!" she said. She started playing, whooping and hollering, slapping her knee, stomping her feet, having a grand old time of it. "What a hoot!" she said, beaming.<br />
<br />
That's when my brother-in-law pulled a quarter out of his pocket, handed it to her, and said, "You'll need this to start the game."<br />
<br />
She looked up at him, then down at the moving pac men on the screen. And she started laughing. My mother always laughs harder at herself than any of us do, and we all laugh pretty hard at her, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">with</span> her. She laughs until tears roll down her cheeks. She eventually catches her breath, calms herself. Then the laughing starts back up again.<br />
<br />
She approaches her life with the deepest sense of enthusiasm and appreciation. She lives with her kind and gentle husband, Bill, on acreage along the Western Slope in Colorado with a break-your-heart-open view of the mountains.<br />
<br />
This is a woman who has had three hip replacements over the years along with a badly broken leg and wrist. But, the hell with it, she set down her knitting needles at 70 and took up kayaking anyway. She dons overalls and a big straw hat and grows a thriving organic garden from seeds. At Christmas, she sends us braids of five different kinds of her garlic. And homemade potica, which is a delicious walnut and cinnamon bread from a recipe her grandmother brought over from Yugoslavia. She paints gorgeous landscapes and wins blue ribbons. She used to have chickens and llamas. Now she has cats. And Yaks.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TJLlrkowoCI/AAAAAAAAARI/3pdmdEpUig4/s1600/n1584576783_59787_3809.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="370" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TJLlrkowoCI/AAAAAAAAARI/3pdmdEpUig4/s400/n1584576783_59787_3809.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Yep. Yaks.<br />
<br />
So today she is 72.<br />
<br />
I hope I'm like her when I grow up.<br />
<br />
I love you, Mom.<br />
<br />
Happy Birthday, pretty lady.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-19208944664144239472010-09-12T17:49:00.000-07:002010-09-18T15:09:19.259-07:00The Place Where You Go To Listen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TI1iUflHwGI/AAAAAAAAAQw/WUtu40B0ft0/s1600/30622_587062425465_43402985_33827132_733932_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="323" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TI1iUflHwGI/AAAAAAAAAQw/WUtu40B0ft0/s400/30622_587062425465_43402985_33827132_733932_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
When I was in my early twenties, I drove up the Alcan, the Alaskan Canadian highway, with my then soon-to-be-husband, who was from the Kenai Peninsula in Alaska. I have always had a deep sense of place. It's not hard for me to picture myself living in beautiful spots I visit. But I have never fallen so hard for a place as I fell for Alaska. The fierce mountains, aqua water against blue-white glaciers, the trees that never stop, the wildlife around every bend -- it all crept under my skin and stayed.<br />
<br />
As we drove from the Kenai up to Fairbanks, we plotted our life together. Perhaps he would transfer up to University of Alaska at Fairbanks to finish his engineering degree. Then we would raise a family. I saw a cozy cabin in the woods. Stomping off the snowshoes. Writing with kids in my lap.<br />
<br />
I've always been a bit of a naive romantic, if you haven't gotten that yet.<br />
<br />
But when we arrived in Fairbanks, we changed our minds. Fairbanks is not the Alaska of the cruise ship ads. There are no close-ups of jagged mountains and glaciers falling into the sea. It lies more flat and open, the mountains at a distance. And Fairbanks gets a lot colder than southeast Alaska or the Kenai Peninsula -- 50 below zero is not uncommon in the winter. At that time, rents were double what we would be paying in central California, and we were broke.<br />
<br />
We decided to finish school back in California and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">then</span> move to Alaska, perhaps to Homer, the place where I stood on the spit and looked across the Kachemak Bay to the most incredible mountains and thought, simply, yes. Or maybe we'd even move across the bay to a little hamlet called Halibut Cove. A cabin on stilts. The perfect life for a writer, perhaps. Not so much for an electrical engineer.<br />
<br />
So then life happened. A successful engineering career in San Diego happened. A couple of amazing boys were born. A fixer-upper was purchased. All through this, Alaska pulled on me. It felt like a big, missing piece, the one with all the right colors that would somehow make everything whole.<br />
<br />
I was young. I can see now that Alaska was my "If only..." Something with a shape I could yearn for, point to as the fix-all solution to the broken parts of my life. Now I know there is really no one such thing. That our obsessions can simply be welcomed distractions from the painfully obvious. But back then, I felt that Alaska was My Answer.<br />
<br />
And then a divorce happened.<br />
<br />
I still thought of Alaska, but I stopped longing for it as a way to escape. Things had changed.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> I</span> had changed. Alaska became a place where my ex-husband's extended family lived, where my boys and he went to visit, but not I.<br />
<br />
Until several years ago, when I found myself on a business trip to -- of all places -- Fairbanks, Alaska. I never traveled for business. I write at home and getting myself properly dressed and to a meeting can feel like preparing for a six-month journey by covered wagon when I'm really just driving to the next town for an hour.<br />
<br />
But there I was, in a borrowed parka flying north, because in the more than 20 years since I'd last been there, Fairbanks still hadn't managed to find itself any glaciers dropping off into the sea, leaping whales, or king salmon. So how do you draw tourists? the town leaders wanted to know. I was part of the creative team hired to help them figure that out.<br />
<br />
I met up with three others -- a V.P., an account exec, and a research guy -- none of whom I'd met before, all a bit younger and more energetic than I was. We hit the ice running at seven a.m., talked to a lot of friendly locals, went dog sledding, flew into a village in the Arctic Circle, witnessed incredible ice sculptures, sat at an ice bar in an entire hotel made out of ice, talked to more friendly locals, and saw the Northern Lights. I crawled back into bed after midnight to do it all again the next day.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TI1jB8ouqJI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/MRe7x5xJICI/s1600/arcticfox.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="352" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TI1jB8ouqJI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/MRe7x5xJICI/s400/arcticfox.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not very scenic, but proof for the bucket list: I made it to the Arctic Circle.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I was out of my element in many ways, but I ate up every minute of it because I realized, even twenty years later with all the changes I'd gone through, I was also <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">in</span> my element simply because I was in Alaska. There's something about that place. And yes, even Fairbanks held a distinct magic for me.<br />
<br />
Our schedule was so packed that I didn't have a lot of time to think, to absorb the feelings of the full circle of it all, of how much had changed since I was last there, twenty-two and about to be married, full of plans that didn't pan out, now living a life so different from what I'd imagined then.<br />
<br />
But then, when I interviewed some of the faculty at the University of Alaska in Fairbanks, they directed me to the Museum of the North, and to a specific exhibit.<br />
<br />
It was a white room with a single bench before five glass panels of changing colors. The exhibit creator was composer John Luther Adams, who interprets the real-time natural events of seismological and geomagnetic data into sounds. In other words, the shifting of the earth, the dancing of the Northern Lights, the cycles of the sun, the moon, the stars all become music for the ears to hear.<br />
<br />
It is called The Place Where You Go To Listen.<br />
<br />
I entered, and was alone. I sat down, pulled off my wool gloves, set down my bag, my notebooks and pens, my recorder. I sat and I listened. I could distinguish a humming, then low distant booming, sustained chords, and even the chiming of bells representing The Aurora Borealis.<br />
<br />
And I started to cry. Not just a little mist-in-the-eyes cry. The tears came unexpected and fast, streaming down my face, dripping onto my jacket, even before I could wipe them away. <br />
<br />
I felt the wonderment of a child, as if I'd been given the privilege of holding Alaska to my ear like a conch shell. How could it be? That I could hear the actual music of a place, that a <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">place</span> can sing its own song? I felt connected to that song, that place, and could feel the connection from my unfulfilled longing dream-life to my actual life, the one I had lived and been disappointed by, been joyously surprised by, the life I'd been torn by grief and buoyed by laughter by. The life I was living. Still.<br />
<br />
Still writing, still loving, still enthralled and moved by nature, and yet in a different place that I also felt passionate about, with trees and water and wildlife. I could still love Alaska, even if I never lived there. And I'd learned enough about life to know that someday, I still just might. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Who</span> really knew? Who really <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">knew</span>? But older, sometimes wiser, I did know this: Alaska wasn't The Answer. That's just too much pressure to put on one state, even one as big and bold and brave as Alaska.<br />
<br />
In that room, I heard the door open and close. People leaving the crazy lady alone, perhaps, or visitors looking for the Ice Age steppe bison mummy exhibit, not a bare white room. Did I mention that the white room was padded?<br />
<br />
Just kidding.<br />
<br />
I dried my face and pulled myself together. After all, this was supposed to be a business trip, not a Vision Quest. But I left different than when I'd entered. A bit more whole, somehow. Ironically, I had found a missing piece. Not <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">the</span> missing piece, mind you. But one of them.<br />
<br />
Back when I was obsessing about Alaska, I was also obsessively reading the author Frederick Buechner, an ordained Presbyterian minister and masterful writer who helped start me on my way from a blind type of faith to a more spiritual, open way of seeing and being...and listening. This is one of my favorite passages of his:<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br class="webkit-block-placeholder" /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"Listen to your life. See it as for the fathomless mystery that it is. In the boredom and pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness; touch, taste, smell your way to the holy, hidden heart of it because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace."<br />
- Frederick Buechner</div><br />
After I went to The Place Where You Go To Listen, more full circles formed in the scribbles of years, and many more moments of grace. As I've mentioned here before, my husband and I recently moved to a cabin in the woods near a river. A cabin on stilts, no less. It's in Northern California. It's a bit warmer here than Alaska. There are no jagged mountains or glaciers. But we're twenty minutes from a perfect whale watching spot. We've started kayaking. We see osprey and eagles, seals, great egrets, blue herons, mergansers, and many more birds...I'm still learning their names.<br />
<br />
When I am out on the water, or walking in the woods, or writing at my desk on the screened-in porch, I know I have found here my own places where I go to listen.<br />
<br />
There's more: My oldest son now attends the University of Alaska in Anchorage. His girlfriend, Sam, is from Fairbanks. Daniel is studying biology and spent the last two summers in the wilderness, working for Fish and Wildlife, living his dream. When people assume he inherited his passion for Alaska from his dad, who was raised there but still lives in San Diego, Daniel chuckles and says, "Well, actually, I got it from my mom."<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TI1jTXjdCQI/AAAAAAAAARA/kxjJf4IHCzw/s1600/30622_587062365585_43402985_33827120_4280610_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TI1jTXjdCQI/AAAAAAAAARA/kxjJf4IHCzw/s400/30622_587062365585_43402985_33827120_4280610_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daniel on the Homer Spit this summer. Photo by Sam Simpson.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I guess he was listening.Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-24153679437500761052010-08-29T14:19:00.000-07:002010-08-30T07:02:50.832-07:00Squirt Dog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/THoCLXh0OOI/AAAAAAAAAQY/r15L-yWp-ZY/s1600/4454_506458168627_201600740_30248993_7696708_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/THoCLXh0OOI/AAAAAAAAAQY/r15L-yWp-ZY/s320/4454_506458168627_201600740_30248993_7696708_n.jpg" /></a></div><br />
A few years ago, my husband, Stan, descended into a bit of a funk. His job was not going well. (Which is a nice way of saying it totally sucked.) And we were a blenderized family with four teenagers. (Which meant that no matter how great they may have been, life was often...complete uncontrollable chaos.)<br />
<br />
One Saturday, Stan slumped in his daddy chair, clicking through sports and the food network, bemoaning his less-than-perfect midlife while our yellow Lab, Stuart, sprawled on his back taking up most of the couch, one front leg extended straight up in the air, snoring and content in his <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">absolutely</span> perfect dog-life.<br />
<br />
And then something on TV caught my husband's attention, reeling him in. He sat up straighter, leaned in and watched, entranced.<br />
<br />
It was a Splash Dog competition. Dogs, many of them Labs, jumped from a dock to catch a floating toy their owners threw out over a pool. Whichever dog leapt the farthest won. The dogs were leaping and loving it. Their owners were loving it even more.<br />
<br />
"Now <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">that</span> looks fun." Stan glanced over at Stuart and raised his eyebrow, not unlike the Grinch eyeing his tiny little dog just before he tied huge antlers to his tiny little dog head.<br />
<br />
But there were important distinctions. Stan was hardly a mean one, his heart was plenty big, and Stuart seemed up for anything. "Stuey!" Stan said. "You wanna be a Splash Dog? Can you jump 25 FEET? How about 26 FEET?"<br />
<br />
Stu leapt up from his nap in a nanosecond and sat at Stan's side, grinning, thumping his tail, and cocking his head. Stan took that to mean, "Yes, indeedy! I'll make you proud! We're goin' to the TOP." When what Stu really meant was "Did somebody say 'treat'?"<br />
<br />
Lo and behold, Splash Dog was coming our way, to the county fair in just a few weeks. Stan researched everything Splash Dog. He drove over an hour to watch a competition. He talked to fellow Splash Dog trainers. He bought the appropriate floating toy. He even bought a Splash Dog visor.<br />
<br />
"It's a no brainer," he explained to me, with more enthusiasm than I'd seen from him in months. "Stu loves the water. He loves the beach, the river. He loves chasing the ball. Remember how he used to jump off the backyard deck at our old place to catch the ball? Same thing!"<br />
<br />
"Except there's the pool," I pointed out. "He's never been in a pool."<br />
<br />
"He'll love it. He's a Lab!" He waved the brochure at me. "Besides, they have practice sessions before the competitions. Right, Stuey? Stu, you wanna be a Splash Dog? Won't that be <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">sweet</span>?" And Stuart wagged his tail, sure he'd again heard something about a treat.<br />
<br />
Stan came home from work singing Splash Dog in the tune of Batman: "Nananananananana Splash Dog, Splash Dog, Splash Dog!"<br />
<br />
He had become obnoxiously cheerful.<br />
<br />
My son Michael, who was 17 at the time, took me aside. "Mom," he said. "This cannot be good."<br />
<br />
"I know."<br />
<br />
"He's got <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">way</span> too much riding on this."<br />
<br />
"Honey, I know."<br />
<br />
"He <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">chest bumped </span>me after saying they were going to take first place." Michael shook his head. "Poor Stuart."<br />
<br />
The day of the competition arrived. The plan was that I would drop off Stan and Stuart early so they could take advantage of the practice sessions. I received explicit instructions on when and where to meet them. Just between you and me, I wanted to stay away as long as possible. Call it woman's intuition, call me psychic, but I had a hunch.<br />
<br />
When I got there, a few people lingered in the stands between heats, and Stuart sat quietly next to Stan, who slumped in his folding chair. Not accustomed to seeing Stuart sitting quietly anywhere outside the vicinity of our own home, I said, "Wow. He's doing great."<br />
<br />
Stan shook his head. "You have no idea." And then he proceeded to tell me how, as the crowd gathered and filled the grandstands, Stuart refused to jump into the pool. Stan even lay next to him and splashed the water and said, "Come on! You're a Lab! You were born for this!" But he wouldn't budge.<br />
<br />
Eventually, he escaped down the steps and started running <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">around</span> the pool. Stan ran after him, but couldn't see over the sides of the pool, so people shouted, "He's going that way! Whoops! Now he's going the other way!'" Stan chased him back and forth until the crowd yelled in unison, "HE'S IN THE POOL!" Stuart had jumped over the six-foot side into the water. But they weren't giving out ribbons for <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">that</span>.<br />
<br />
"All I was missing," Stan concluded, "were the stick-on red nose and floppy shoes."<br />
<br />
I rubbed his shoulder. Just then some cute grade school boys came up and asked me, "Can we throw the toy for your dog in the pool?" I suggested to Stan that since not a lot of people were around, we could use the time to let Stuart try again. <br />
<br />
"I don't know..." he said.<br />
<br />
"Oh, come on, why not? There's a big empty pool sitting here." So we took Stuart up to the dock. He wouldn't jump. But he would walk down the exit ramp into the water. He acted like one of those old ladies, easing himself in, one baby step at a time. You could almost hear him say, "Oh my! That's a bit chilly." All<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> he</span> was missing were the frilly bathing cap and flabby triceps.<br />
<br />
The boys threw the toy and Stuart swam after it. He just wasn't having the whole soar-off-the-dock thing, but he happily swam and retrieved to his heart's content. "Wow. He's drinking a lot of pool water while he's swimming," I said. When the boys had to leave, we dried Stuart off. As we headed out, he squatted.<br />
<br />
"No, Stu, not here," Stan said. "I used the last blue bag and the rest are in the car," he told me. He dragged Stuart away from the grassy pool area and started walking through the fair crowds toward the street. Stuart kept trying to squat, but there was nowhere to go. "No boy, hold on Stuey."<br />
<br />
But Stuart couldn't wait any longer. He went. And he kept going, as we walked on the sidewalk along the endless line of cars waiting to enter the fair parking lot, a trail blasting behind him. We tried to find a more appropriate place for him, but we were stuck on the cement between traffic and a chain link fence, so we just kept walking and he just kept going and going and going, sick from the excitement and drinking too much pool water.<br />
<br />
Finally, we got to the car. Stuart, evidently, was done grossing out the entire attending population of the county fair. I poured him some fresh water. "Would you drive?" Stan asked me. He usually didn't ask me to drive.<br />
<br />
He climbed into the back seat with Stuart. Stu usually sat in the back by himself. I started the car. I waited for the words of defeat, the tirade of everything that had gone wrong not only that day, but possibly every minute of the last few months leading to that day.<br />
<br />
But all my husband said was, "I'm so sorry Stu." I looked in the rear view mirror and saw him stroke Stuart's ears. "You're a good boy, Stu. You're such a good boy." Stuart thumped his tail and rested his head on Stan's shoulder.<br />
<br />
Stan's eyes caught mine in the mirror. I saw not disappointment but acceptance, and not complaint but utter gratitude for the simple fact that even during hard times -- even on those days when you plan to make a big splash and instead everything goes to shit -- the love and devotion of a good dog really does make all the difference.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/THoCi7KJzvI/AAAAAAAAAQg/wR6DyVBSsic/s1600/2898_506361672007_201600740_30245152_3992412_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/THoCi7KJzvI/AAAAAAAAAQg/wR6DyVBSsic/s320/2898_506361672007_201600740_30245152_3992412_n.jpg" /></a></div><br />
So thank you, Stuart. You get a blue ribbon for helping us keep things in perspective. Sometimes life is stressful, sometimes the job sucks. And sometimes, a dog's gotta poop in the street. (Okay, okay, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">yes</span>, you can have a treat.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br class="webkit-block-placeholder" /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">This was pre-screened and approved by my husband and my dog, who both promised not to leave me if I posted it.</span>Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-11672596362131437292010-08-22T14:00:00.000-07:002010-08-23T11:25:51.120-07:00Where I'm From<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #551a8b; text-decoration: underline;"></span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/THKeYqXSVlI/AAAAAAAAAP0/0OuyDxYkhAk/s1600/Unknown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/THKeYqXSVlI/AAAAAAAAAP0/0OuyDxYkhAk/s400/Unknown.jpg" width="261" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I am from driftwood, a Mason jar of beach glass collected from our backyard shore on the Puget Sound, and wobbly figure-eights carved on a frozen backwoods pond in Connecticut -- shoveled and jump-tested first by my dad.<br />
<br />
I am from 25 houses and the inherited determination to have made each one my home and yet...<br />
<br />
I am from a persistent longing to finally find <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">home</span>.<br />
<br />
I am from Goose Lake suntans, a banged up rowboat and fishing for bluegills, grandma's rhubarb pie and sweet coffee-milk, grandpa's sign in the shower: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">hang up your wet swimsuits signed the management</span>, a fun pack of cousins, and our painstakingly choreographed shows put on for the tipsy grownups.<br />
<br />
I am from three third grades, two second chances, and one first love.<br />
<br />
I am from "The only way to make a living by writing is to work in advertising," and "Follow your dreams."<br />
<br />
I am from lapsed Catholics. I am from being a Born Again only to be reborn as a Born Only-Once. I am from the acceptance of mystery and trying to remember to find the sacred in this moment.<br />
<br />
I am from holding reverent funerals with my little sister as we buried pet moths and butterflies and goldfish under an enormous lilac bush, pressing us with its blooming fragrance and early lessons of impermanence.<br />
<br />
I am from Jan and Don, from cocktail parties where I ate the olives soaked in martinis and the maraschino cherries drenched in Manhattans, from boat trips through the San Juans, from aunts and uncles in Seattle who spoiled my sister and me every summer with Spuds Fish 'n Chips, camping, and shopping trips.<br />
<br />
I am from singing road songs like <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I've Got Six-Pence</span> while the red-orange reflections of my parents' cigarettes danced along on the windshield.<br />
<br />
I am from moving to a place where I discovered that the Golden Gate Bridge is really red and where I learned to call the beige hills of late summer "golden."<br />
<br />
I am from a kitchen timer that told me everything from how long I had to practice the piano to how long my mom had to watch us and the neighborhood kids play Marco Polo in our pool.<br />
<br />
I am from gourmet dinners served at 11 p.m. and Carnation Breakfasts blended with ice cream the next morning.<br />
<br />
I am from wordplay, inappropriate jokes, and milk-through-the-nose laughter; open arms and long hugs; honesty and admitted mistakes; and the deepest, unshakable certainty that I was always loved and always will be.<br />
<br />
I am from old slides that still need to be made into pictures, from packing and unpacking boxes, from revising and finishing and beginning again. And again.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">(This was inspired by Lindsey's beautiful post at A Design So Vast, which was inspired by a template, which was inspired by a poem by George Ella Lyon, which was inspired by a poem by Jo Carson. With all this inspiration, perhaps you'll be inspired to try your own version.)</span>Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-82582366727637241982010-08-15T21:33:00.000-07:002010-08-15T22:00:12.451-07:00Good-bye. Hello.<div style="text-align: left;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TGi4l9qPdqI/AAAAAAAAAOo/qHMrfFlFbvo/s1600/36871_1402466353400_1584576783_938156_7571271_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TGi4l9qPdqI/AAAAAAAAAOo/qHMrfFlFbvo/s320/36871_1402466353400_1584576783_938156_7571271_n.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My grandmother, expecting my father.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>My grandmother died 23 years ago. On the day of her funeral, I had a secret burrowed down deep inside me.<br />
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Days before, while my father's voice had choked out the sad news across the phone line, my first morning urine worked away in a vial on the bathroom counter, turning the plastic stick an undeniable blue. My tears had sprung from sorrow but fell with joy.<br />
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At the funeral, the happy and the sad within me circled around and up and over each other, like ingredients in a recipe that refused to blend.<br />
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I was the firstborn child, the first grandchild, the first niece in my generation of our family. And my father was the firstborn in his generation. I counted the months on my fingers; the baby would be born right alongside my father's fiftieth birthday. The firstborn in the next generation.<br />
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I placed my hand flat against my abdomen as my father and uncles carried their mother's casket past me. Everyone always said I had my grandmother's small shoulders and tiny wrists. I could see a a baby's fat cheek resting on her shoulder. I could see warm formula tested on her wrist, on my wrist.<br />
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Later, I would share my secret with my grandfather, my parents, my brother and sister, my aunts, uncles, and cousins. But for those few moments, it was just us; two young women sipping tea, caught somewhere in a folded layer of time, whispering about the mysteries of birth and death and everything in between.Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-12207983579039141652010-08-04T15:49:00.000-07:002010-08-04T20:28:09.455-07:00Six-Word Stories<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TFnnpxwqpVI/AAAAAAAAAOM/PDqI2V3T0VA/s1600/ernest-hemingway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TFnnpxwqpVI/AAAAAAAAAOM/PDqI2V3T0VA/s320/ernest-hemingway.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoHeader" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><br class="webkit-block-placeholder" /></div><div class="MsoHeader" style="tab-stops: .5in;">I've been revising a novel that runs about 80,000 words and writing web copy for a large site. So today's blog will be short on words. Which can be a good thing. No one could pare writing to the bone quite like Hemingway. He even created the six-word story:</div><div class="MsoHeader" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><br class="webkit-block-placeholder" /></div><div class="MsoHeader" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">For sale: Baby shoes. Never worn</span>. -- Ernest Hemingway </div><div class="MsoHeader" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><br class="webkit-block-placeholder" /></div><div class="MsoHeader" style="tab-stops: .5in;">A six-word story packs conflict, movement, and resolution -- all into one quick fix. Perfect for today's readers' short attention spans. It's hard to believe that Hemingway came up with the idea long before twitter was even a tweet on anyone's screen. (Not that I would compare his writing with tweeting. Ever.)</div><div class="MsoHeader" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><br class="webkit-block-placeholder" /></div><div class="MsoHeader" style="tab-stops: .5in;">But, really, brewing a cup of tea and curling up in front of the fire with a good six-word story doesn't quite do it for me. And who can get excited about slathering on the sunscreen, setting up the beach chair, and losing yourself in the summer's hottest six-word bestseller? Long live the novel.<br />
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Still, it's fun to see how much a few words can convey. Fun, but not necessarily easy. Concise writing takes time. As Blaise Pascal said, "If I had more time I would have written a shorter letter."</div><div class="MsoHeader" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><br />
Do you have any six-word stories to share? Here are four of my attempts. Then back to slaving over the 80,000-word manuscript...which is probably 79,994 words too long for its own good.</div><div class="MsoHeader" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><br class="webkit-block-placeholder" /></div><div class="MsoHeader" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoHeader" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Lost: Man</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Found: Woman</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Name: Tony(a)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Another moving day. I can’t. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Move.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Forever,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Mrs. </span><s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Leone</span></s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Chao</span></s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Schwartz</span></s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"> Leone</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">The sun didn’t rise. The end.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-808832573211319495.post-23803261972523508592010-07-21T10:24:00.000-07:002010-09-18T08:59:59.864-07:00If a Tree Falls in the Forest...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TEcj-qhby4I/AAAAAAAAAN8/8hOOea8zajk/s1600/PICT0048.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TEcj-qhby4I/AAAAAAAAAN8/8hOOea8zajk/s400/PICT0048.JPG" width="327" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">As I’ve mentioned, we recently moved, and are now living surrounded by redwoods. I am in love with the redwoods. One of my favorite things to do these days is to walk my lab, Stuart, up the steep road that zigzags through the trees. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The air smells delicious. Along with the redwoods, the fir, oak, and bay trees all mingle with a little wood smoke, sometimes a tinge of salty seaweed if there’s fog heading in from the Pacific. Walking through the dappled light, I get why fairy tales take place in forests, why the word <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">enchanted</span> often precedes the word <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">forest</span>. There’s magic in the air, sometimes even the feeling I’m stepping on sacred ground.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">About ten years ago, a landslide ravaged the lot next to us. I’ve been told that redwoods fell like a line of dominos, one knocking down the other, pounding the earth below into muddy oblivion. A road collapsed. An old empty cabin and a couple of storage sheds ended up at different addresses altogether. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This, apparently, was not the result of an act of nature, but of some type of malfunction concerning a water tank cap. Despite the big screw up, the hill has healed, sans redwoods, into a stretch of sun-drenched acreage, full of brush too dense to walk through – mostly blackberry bushes, ferns, cattails, and young bays. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But hanging on, literally, for dear life, stood – or <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">leaned</span> is more accurate – a circle of seven redwoods at the edge, nearest the road. The landslide had moved them, but it hadn’t brought them down.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The writer in me saw them as a metaphor: a redwood family that had gone through some hard times when the earth got pulled out from under them ten years ago, but had hung on and managed to thrive, albeit at a somewhat disconcerting angle. An against-all-odds bravado type of lean. I could almost hear them say, "Yo Adrian. We did it!"<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Recently, the road above their root system began buckling. When we sat out on our sunny deck, the trees creaked and swayed and leaned – a bit more, it seemed, every day.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Someone called the county. Men came out with their hardhats and clipboards and assessed the situation: Those trees had become as loose as a six-year-old’s front teeth. They had to come down. By the next morning I heard trucks. I heard saws. I heard a helluva lot of swearing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Cutting down towering redwoods is not, evidently, a walk in the park.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A man knocked on my door. He told they would be cutting down the trees. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“That’s too bad,” I said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He nodded. “Yeah. But they gotta come down. A storm. Wind. Someone could get killed.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Craning my neck, I asked, “Which way will they fall?” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“The same way they’re leaning. Up the hill that-a-way.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Not this way?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was a still, foggy summer morning. “So,” I said. “If something goes wrong, say, a storm suddenly kicks in and the wind blows this way, you’ll, you know, yell ‘timber’?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He smiled patiently. “Yeah. But don’t worry. Those trees aren’t coming anywhere near this place unless there’s a hurricane.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I stood at the window and took pictures. There was no wind, but still, I worried. I worried about the birds that might be nesting in the branches. I worried about the deer and raccoons that might have dens on the hill. And I worried that I was trusting a complete stranger that the trees would not fall down on our roof. A complete stranger, who could have, for all I knew, just that morning begun his career in tree-cutting.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One guy went up and up and up in a cherry-picker basket, as far as the crane would go. The redwood still loomed high above him. Cherry trees barely graze a redwood’s knees. He took his buzzing saw to the tree. Leaning way out of the basket, he cut a wedge into the trunk. Then he sawed a bit more on the other side, and jumped back. There was a lot more yelling from below. The tree fell straight over, just like the man told me it would. Our whole house shook. Stuart barked and ran in from the other room and sat on my feet. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One by one, the trees came down while I watched. I understood that cutting them down was a safety measure, that even I would feel more comfortable sitting on our deck without their creaking and swaying that could one day give way to a huge SNAP. But I felt melancholy. Those redwoods had been a symbol of resilience for me. Of never, never, never, never giving up, as my friend Ellen has taught me. It has been one of those times in life when I can use those kinds of reminders. I know that a lot of us can these days.<br />
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But what was I supposed to make of this? Never, never, never, never give up? Withstand life’s landslides? Live and learn and learn how to lean? But don’t be surprised if someone comes along after all that and cuts you off at the knees?<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TEckscaduVI/AAAAAAAAAOE/3Ekzpl8c6RI/s1600/PICT0061.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TEckscaduVI/AAAAAAAAAOE/3Ekzpl8c6RI/s400/PICT0061.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
See what I mean? Depressing stuff. So I decided that this was one of those times when, as a writer, I was simply here to bear witness. I didn’t need to apply a bunch of metaphors about tenacity. I didn’t need to interpret or plant my own symbols into this story. I just needed to tell it:<o:p></o:p><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TEcc2vQRScI/AAAAAAAAANc/dC4bwvYeAUc/s1600/PICT0062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TEcc2vQRScI/AAAAAAAAANc/dC4bwvYeAUc/s400/PICT0062.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br class="webkit-block-placeholder" /></div><div class="MsoBodyText">A tree fell in the forest. And I was there. I saw it. I heard it. Then six more fell. They did not go quietly. Each and every one made a thunderous sound. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">End of story.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Until the other day, when Stuart and I were on our walk, and I saw something in the concrete. Now I'm letting this redwood have the last word:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TEcfJNg49qI/AAAAAAAAANs/SljXPS0YNIo/s1600/PICT0076_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_lE91cmABirI/TEcfJNg49qI/AAAAAAAAANs/SljXPS0YNIo/s400/PICT0076_2.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br />
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</div>Seré Prince Halversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246026185756770382noreply@blogger.com8