It's Halloween!!!!

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . .

That year summer lasted halfway to forever.  The dog days of August stretched into September and beyond.  It was only in late October that a storm front finally swept through Winooski and brought in cooler weather.  When the rain ended, Kenny ran out the back door of his house and through the dying woods at the edge of town, into a meadow that crunched underfoot.  Looking up, he saw a bat struggle across a sky that storm and sunset working together had turned an eerie green.  For the first time Halloween felt near.

Out of nowhere, a skeletal hand clutched his shoulder and spun him around.  Kenny found himself staring into the ivory face of an impossibly lean man.  The face had no eyes, only blank skin over the sockets where eyes should be. The mouth, when it opened, was full of pointed teeth.  Kenny's heart hammered.  He tried to pull away, but those bony fingers held him like shackles.

"We are leaving, boy, all of us," the pale man said. Kenny didn't have to ask who he meant.  Kenny had spent the afternoon drawing monsters in his math workbook:  vampires, ghouls, giant spiders, frankensteins, werewolves.  Everything that people feared even though they knew better.  Everything that kids loved even though they knew they shouldn't. Maybe that was what had drawn this creature to him.  "Your kind has ruined this world. Soon you will be extinct.  So we are opening a passage elsewhere."  Then he added, "But we will not go alone."

“Where are you going?” Kenny asked.

The pale man raised his blind face to stare up into infinity.  "Far, far away."  Then he added, "But we will not go alone.  We are gathering the most sensitive and imaginative mortals to accompany us on our long, dark trek.”

“You’re taking me with you?”   Kenny was terrified at the prospect, but also a little thrilled.   He could not deny that.  But neither could he keep himself from asking, “Why?”

“Humanity has always had a symbiotic relationship with its monsters.  We give shape to the fears you dare not face. And you– ”  The hand on Kenny’s shoulder did not weaken, struggle against it though he did.  But the other hand now stroked Kenny’s hair gently, almost lovingly.  That terrifying mouth twisted into a near-smile.   “Think of yourself as a brown bag lunch for the voyage.”

*

And my commentary . . .

So it concludes, as it pretty much had to, a breath before the plunge into the long, dark spaces between the stars.  Today I make arrangements to put the original typescript of the story (pictured above) up on auction.  All proceeds go to the Clarion West Writers Workshop.  Obviously, I'm hoping that the auction will bring them oodles and oodles of money.  But it's equally possible that it will go for a pittance.  In which case, you might wind up with something cool for your wall at far below the market rate.

For those who are reading these things in hope of getting tips on how to write:  I came up with the final sentence before writing the first one.  That way, as I was writing, every sentence was aimed straight at the ending.  This not only meant I never had to go back and excise passages that led nowhere but that the ending (ideally) has the feeling of inevitability.  This is a trick that will not work for every story or for every writer -- I know writers who write only to discover the ending, for whom this technique would simply prevent them from ever starting a story -- but it's worth your trying.

If you want to link to the final story without my commentary, you can find it here.

*

Of Ghoulies and Storms

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . . 

                                                                              

(Part 36)

That terrifying mouth twisted into a near-smile.

(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . .

We've arrived at the penultimate sentence and, as you'll have noticed, I'm still stalling, putting off the conclusion, cranking up the suspense.  This could go on halfway to forever.  In my time, I've written stories that really milked the moose.  But I am not a cruel man, whatever others may say.  Tomorrow, all will be revealed.

You can read all of the story to date here.

And don't forget . . .

The day after tomorrow, the original typescript of this story, signed, dated, and gothically framed, goes up on auction.   All proceeds will go to the Clarion West Writers Workshop.  Even the postage will be covered by me.

Why?  Because I honestly believe we need fiction.  And to have fiction requires writers.  And CW shortens the process for them.  A good deal all around.

And speaking of monsters . . . 

 Having seen those photos of lower Manhattan, I won't belittle "Frankenstorm."  But it definitely gave us a pass.  I went into the back yard this morning to discover that leaves had been torn from the trees, and one of the lawn chairs had been toppled by the wind.  Oh, and the ground was wet.  That was it.   Even the basement was dry.

So I was fortunate and I'm feeling happy and grateful for it and I wish the same for you.


Above:  Poor Miss Hope was so looking forward to being a refugee!

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Of Ghoulies and Costumes

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . . 

                                                                              

(Part 35)

But the other hand now stroked Kenny’s hair gently, almost lovingly.  
(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . .

Okay, that's creepy.  The erotic just-barely-subtext is deliberate.  Real horror exists just slightly over the edge of what we can admit to out loud.  Once it's been brought out into the open (as Ann Rice's admittedly briliant Interview With the Vampire did), it's not a long trip to Twilight, and a hop-skip-and-a-jump from there to Count Chocula breakfast cereal.  But, as I said before, our relationship with our monsters has always been a tangled one.

You can read all of the story to date here.

And don't forget . . .

Only two more days of story!  After which the typescript goes up on auction.  Bid early and often, because the recipient of any money it brings -- Clarion West Writers Workshop -- is that worthiest of causes, one which ensure we'll have good stories when those writers currently at work falter and fall back into the relentless wastes of history.

And . . .

Saturday I went to a Halloween party where everybody had to come dressed as something beginning with the letter H.   That's me in my costume up above.  You got it immediately, right?  The toga . . . the baseball bat . . . who else could I be but Homer?

Let us pause now to remember the immortal poet's single best work, the Caseyad:

Sing, goddess, of the wrath of Casey

Hero of Mudville

That brought countless ills upon his fans . . .

Many a pitch he did ignore

For liking not its style

His Myrmidons cried, "Kill the ump!"

He stopped them with a smile . . .

O'er wine-dark sea and green oasis

Rosy-fingered dawn doth shout

Swift-footed Casey runs no bases

Alas, he hath struck out

Someday I'm going to have to write out the whole thing.

*

Ghoulies

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . . 

                                                                              

(Part 34)

The hand on Kenny’s shoulder did not weaken, struggle against it though he did.  

(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . .

This sentence serves more than one purpose.  It establishes that Kenny has caught on to the implications of what the pale man is saying and is now genuinely afraid -- he'd run away if he could.  Also that the pale man intends to do more than just frighten him, or he'd simply let him go.  Most importantly, it delays the revelation again, cranking up the suspense ever so slightly.

Note that I wrote "though he did," rather than "though he might."  The unused phrasing comes to the tongue, the hand, the mind, more easily and thus would make the sentence flow faster.  Normally that would be good.  But here, I want to slow down the reader. 

You can read all of the story to date here.

And since this is Sunday . . .

Today is a Day of Rest.  So I won't be doing any work at all.  Except for battening down the house and laying in supplies against the unspeakable horrors of Frankenstormageddon.  They're expecting huge portions of the East Coast to be reduced to cannibalism by Wednesday with the possible emergence of zombies by the weekend.  So I'd better run out and buy several bags of chips before the storm hits.

*

Ghoulies and Another Halloween Story

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . . 

                                                                              

(Part 33)

And you – ”     

(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . .

Here it comes.  The payoff, the climax, the explanation of exactly what's going on here!   We're almost there.

Which is why, right on the brink of revelation, I pause.  As Tom Stoppard put it, "There is an art to the building up of suspense."

You can read all of the story to date here.

And speaking of storytelling . . .

There really ought to be a holiday for storytellers.  And there is -- Halloween!  Charles Dickens owns Christmas.  Groundhog Day has one movie and that's pretty much it.  But Halloween is an occasion to bring out Hwthorne, Bradbury, King, Angela Carter, James  . . . oh, far, far too many writers to name!  

So I hope I won't be accused of modesty when I acknowledge that I'm not the only writer working the free-story-for-a-worthy cause grift.  Over at Audible, they're giving away a free download of Click-Clack the Rattlebag, written and read by Neil Gaiman.  But only now through Halloween, so you'll have to hurry.

What makes this particularly cool is that for every free download, Audible will give a dollar to education charity DonorsChoose.  They're prepared to give away up to one hundred thousand dollars, which I think is an eminently doable number. 

I just can't find a downside to this arrangement.

You can get the audio download here.

*

Of Ghoulies and Janis Ian

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . . 

                                                                              

(Part 32)

We give shape to the fears you dare not face. 

(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . .

Also true.  This is why, with familiarity, monsters like Dracula and Cthulhu become lovable (can Cthulhu Crunch breakfast cereal be far away?), while death and an empty, meaningless universe do not.

Halloween is coming fast!  And so is the end of the story.  Don't forget that the typescript, framed and suitable for hanging on your wall, goes up on auction afterwards.  Tell any collectors you may know.  Because if it goes for a pittance, it might as well go for a pittance to somebody you like.

You can read all of the story to date here.

And last night . . . 

Marianne and I went to the Sellersville Theater last night, to see our friend Janis Ian in concert.  I like Janis personally, and I value our friendship.  But I have one small, special connection with her that I don't have with most of my friends -- she gave me a story.

Several years ago, Janis edited Stars, an anthology of science fiction stories based on her songs.  I was invited to participate and knew immediately which song I wanted to use.  When she wrote it, Janis thought she was writing about Mary Black.  But anybody with any Irish in them at all will recognize her Mary as an incarnation of Deirdre of the Sorrows, who is in turn the great symbol of the Irish soul.  There are very few songs that can make me cry, and they're all about the Irish experience.  This is one of them.

Not bad for a Jewish kid from New Jersey.

As it turned out, I didn't make the anthology.  The story was too intensely personal and too difficult to find for that.  But the years passed and the story at last came of age and I was so intensely pleased with how it came out that I took Janis's lines "We are ships without a harbor/We are sailors on dry land" and put them, slightly altered, into the mind of someone who's leaving Earth never to return -- a damaged man and a failure, but sustained by just enough hope to keep on going.

Those words are hers forever.  But now an echo of them is mine.


Oh, and . . . 

I learned last night that the audiobook version of Society's Child, Janis Ian's autobiography, is up for a Grammy.  I read the text version and was immensely happy with it.  Janis really can write and, yes, she did have an extremely varied and interesting life.

I haven't yet heard the audio version but I will, because Janis mentioned that in it she not only does all the narration but also sings the songs that the printed book could only quote.  So this may be that rarest of literary animals, the audiobook that's better than the original.  I'll find out soon.

*

Of Ghoulies and Auctions . . .

  .

From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . . 

                                                                              

(Part 31)

“Humanity has always had a symbiotic relationship with its monsters. 


(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . .

True words.  Bradbury built a career on them.

You can read all of the story to date here.

And a reminder . . . 

There's a purpose behind this serialization.  When it's done, the original typescript, framed and signed, will go up on auction on Ebay.  All proceeds will go to Clarion West, to help train and raise up a new generaation of science fiction, fantasy, and horror writers, to take up the holy cause when I and my compeers are gone.

You have to be mad to want to be a writer.  Easing the financial sufferings of the insane is a worthy cause.

I have no idea how much money this will bring.  It could bring a great deal.  It could go for a pittance.  You can help the cause by bidding (if this is the sort of thing you'd like to have hanging on your wall) or by bringing the existence of the story to any collectors you may know.

That's all.  Thanks.


Above:  Another pumpkin, waiting to be carved.  I love this season.
 

*

Of Ghoulies and World Order

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . . 

                                                                              

(Part 30)

  Nor could he keep himself from asking, "Why?"


(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . .

Yeah, probably he wouldn't.  But for the story to work, the question has to be asked.  

Thirty sentences into the story, only three things have happened:  The pale man appeared.  He announced that the monsters were leaving.  And then he said that they were bringing Kenny along.  Everything else was to establish time-space-mood.  To make it a story.

You can read all of the story to date here.

And up above . . . 

Great video, huh?  I love those guys.  

Some years ago, bopping through Manhattan carrying an impala skull (the skull itself was in a handmade cardboard box but the antlers stuck out and the very tips were in little tiny cardboard boxes so that the whole thing looked like a sculpture by Dali), I discovered that it was possible to make New Yorkers stop and gawk, if only briefly.  But it's not easy.

So what I like best about the video is all the Manhattanites walking past without a second glance, and the very small number of them who were willing to stop for a second and acknowledge the inherent strangeness of life.  Only a miniscule fraction of those who might ever have been born ever get the chance to acknowledge this . . . and most of us never do.
 

*

Of Ghoulies and China

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . . 

                                                                              

(Part 29)

  He could not deny that. 


(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . .

This sentence softens the one that came before, making it less didactic, more ambiguous.  The essence of Fiction (as opposed to Story) is ambiguity.  There are things it doesn't quite tell you, suggestions that what it really means is not the same as what it's saying.  Story is declarative.  It's that the straightforward romantic interest who's exactly what he or she purports to be.  Fiction is the romantic interest who's really going to jerk you around.

You can read all of the story to date here.

And I am writing today . . .

My mind is deep inside a China that never was and never will be.  Darger is passing himself off as a sage.  Surplus is about to take a major city with a military force of twenty horsemen.  Everything is fluid at this point.  Yesterday I changed all the names of the countries at war, some of them twice.  I'm thinking of going back and revamping a couple of characters, changing their motives and characters.  Everything unwritten is in flux and subject to sudden alteration.


Writing, when it goes well, is a difficult and mysterious thing, akin to a waking trance.  When it goes badly, of course, it's nothing of the sort.

Above:  North Gate in Xi'an.  Much as Surplus sees it.

*

Of Ghoulies and Silence

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . . 

                                                                              

(Part 28)

 

  Kenny was terrified at the prospect, but also a little thrilled. 


(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . .

As established earlier, Kenny loves spooky stories.  In a lot of ways, he's an ideal horror reader.

You can read all of the story to date here.

And as sometimes happens . . .

I have nothing to say today.  So, out of respect for you, I'm not saying it..

*

Of Ghoulies and the Sun

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . . 

                                                                              

(Part 27)

“You’re taking me with you?” 


(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . .

Of course Kenny believes this immediately.  The only thing more egotistical than a boy is a protagonist.

You can read all of the story to date here.

And shown above . . .

For your science-based enjoyment, a film of the Sun.  Courtesy of NASA.

*

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . . 

                                                                              

(Part 26)

 

                                             

We are gathering the most sensitive and imaginative mortals to accompany us on our long, dark trek.”


(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . .

One of whom is, of course, Kenny.  We know he's imaginative because he's been drawing pictures of monsters.  And we know he's sensitive because he's the protagonist and thus the reader identifies with him and of course the reader is extremely sensitive. 

You can read all of the story to date here.

Above:  It's Saturday.  Nothing to say today.
 

*

Of Agents and Ghoulies

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . .

(Part 25)                                                                                 
                                                                                          

Then he added, "But we will not go alone."

(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . . 

 Okay, now that's creepy.  You know what's coming, don't you?  Of course you do.  That's the essence of horror -- letting the reader know the bad news just a smidge before the narrator does.

You can read all of the story to date here.

And because someone asked . . .  

Over on Facebook, I was asked how to get an agent and I promised to write up what I knew about the subject here.  The problem is that I don't know much.

No one does.

Those of us with agents have mostly just kind of stumbled into the relationship.  Somebody put in a good word.  A friend set up a blind date.  It just happened.  The simple truth is that agents are far harder to find than editors, and acquiring one is much more difficult than selling a book.

Worse, while the wrong editor can screw up a book, the wrong agent can screw up a career.  Ask around and you'll hear stories of an agent who recommended a first-time novelist sign a contract for nine books at nine times the advance for a first novel, of another who gave detailed step-by-step reports of where the novel was in the consideration process of a publishing house when actually he-or-she had never sent it out, of an agent who wrote an accompanying letter explaining why the book was unpublishable, of . . .

Well.  Never mind.  Here's what you should do.

The first step is to write a novel.  This is crucial.  Agents are not writing workshops or lifestyle coaches or surrogate moms.  Their job is to sell your novel for as much money as possible.  If you don't have a novel (or something so convincing that nobody will doubt you can complete it in a short period of time), then there's nothing for the agent to do, and they probably don't want to hear from you.

Meanwhile, go to lots of conventions, workshops, and the like.  Make friends.  Real friends, not network buddies or business opportunities or people you can exploit to advance your careers.  Talk with lots of people, get lots of advice, synthesize it.

Then figure out who you want for an agent.  Remember, anybody can be an agent.  They don't have to pass an exam or prove their sanity.  And not every reputable agent will be a good fit for you.  Consult your (see above) friends.

Apply.  A polite letter explaining that you have a finished novel, why you think the agent is right for you, and (with luck) the fact that one of the agent's clients can vouch for you.  Ask if you should submit chapter and outline or the whole thing.  Don't include the work itself in the first approach.

That's not very clever, is it?  I apologize for that.  And to make up for it, I'll share with you the decidedly clever a successful fantasist I know used a quarter century ago.  I've never done anything half so cunning myself.  But here's what she told me:

First, she went to her bookshelf and took down all the contemporary genre work she especially admired.  Then she read the acknowledgments and dedications, looking for the phrase "my agent."  One individual predominated.  That was the agent she wanted, the one who did well by the kind of writer she aspired to be.

Then she sent out her novel to publishing houses until one accepted it.  (Some still do, I believe, though I couldn't swear to it.)  They of course sent her a contract and a letter saying, "Congratulations!  We love your book and we're going to publish it."  But she knew that what they were actually doing was making her an offer, which she was free to accept or reject.  So...

Then she called her agent of choice, explaining that she had an offer from Name Publishing House and didn't know whether to accept it -- would the agent take a look?

There wasn't a lot of downside here for the agent:  A guaranteed sale, an easy few hundred bucks, the possibility of the sort of client the agent deals with.  So the agent asked to take a look.

The agent liked the book and immediately called the publishing house to say, "The offer you're making my client is an insult" and got it bumped up fifteen percent.  And as a result, the writer had an agent at no added expense to herself.

This is, as I said, much smarter than anything I've done myself.  But it sounds good to me.  And it's worked before.

Above:  The moon coming out over the Delaware.

*

Of Writers and Ghoulies

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . .

(Part 24)

"Far, far away." 

(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . . 

  

Over the hills and far away . . . East of the Sun and west of the Moon . . . Once upon a time. . .  It's astonishing how evocative a simple clutch of unadorned words can be.

You can read all of the story to date here.

And on Tuesday . . .  

Two days ago,  I spoke to the Brandywine Valley Writers Group in West Chester.   Normally I'm reluctant to speak about writing, or rather abot how to write.  My experience has been that if I agree to teach at a weekend-long workshop, I don't get to do any real teaching -- I can only talk at the attendees.  At the Clarion workshops, which last a full week, on the other hand, I not only work myself into exhaustion but can see the students growing, even incrementally, before my eyes.

So I accepted this invitation in the spirit of open-mindedness. 

I was right to do so.  I was speaking to a pub-room-full of writers or varying achievement (so far) and uniform ambition.  And it was very satisfying.  Because I could see they were all listening carefully and filing away what I had to say in order to try it out on their own writing.

All the writer can ask for is that the reader give his story a chance.  Similarly, all a teacher can ask is that the student consider the possibility that what he has to say might be useful.

Will it be?  Maybe.  I'll never know, though.  Those who become writers do so with such tremendous effort that the positive effects of teachers and lecturers are minor, and quickly forgotten. 

As, I believe, they should be.

Above:  Horseshoe crab sheds.  No particular reason.
 

*

Of Ghoulies and Nobels

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . .

(Part 23)

The pale man raised his blind face to stare up into infinity.  

(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . . 

  

The creature is eyeless, remember.  When you're trying for an eerie effect, it's usually best to write simply and hint at things you cannot say.

You can read all of the story to date here.

And because it's Nobel Prize Season  . . .  

Once again, I have inexplicably been passed up for the Nobel Prize.  So, in the spirit of the season, I'm reprinting my acceptance speech, which originally appeared on SCIFI.COM.  Some of the cultural references are a bit dated.  But I believe the original spirit shines through.

My Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech

(Presented Here Against the Unlikely Chance I Never Get to Deliver It)

It’s about time!

You lousy bastards should have given this to me decades ago, and you fucking well know it.  Look at the morons and retards you have given it to.  Okay, so Albert Einstein, personal hygiene aside, wasn’t a total loser.  But Niels Bohr, Desmond Tutu, Ilya Prigogine, the Dalai Lama?  You’d think this award was being given for having a funny name!  And whoever decided it would be a cute joke to give the prize in literature to the likes of Thomas Mann, Anatole France, and Selma Lagerlof obviously never bothered trying to read those boring old windbags.  To say nothing of that self-promoting fraud, Mother Theresa!

I could go on, but I think my point is made.

The Nobel Prize was created by Alfred Nobel, who was – I trust I’m not hurting anybody’s feelings here – a neurotic recluse and a mass-murdering Swede.  So, when one considers the source, I really shouldn’t be surprised that you only gave me the one.  There are five, you know.  (I don’t count the Economics thingie as a real Nobel, and neither should you.) It’s not as if the single greatest Writer/Peacemaker [note to self: scratch out whichever category these idiots neglect to honor me in] the world has ever known couldn’t be adept in chemistry and physics and medicine as well.  I assure you I could.  Not that I have, granted.  I’ve been busy.  But surely intentions should count for something.

Oh, and a word about the venue.  Stockholm??  In December???  No wonder your bikini team never showed up.

So here’s what I propose: Vegas, obviously, for the climate.  Ditch the king – nice guy, but no Robin Williams.  For the MC, rather than doing the safe thing with Madonna or J-Lo, go visionary with the Osborne Family.  Can you picture them wandering aimlessly about the stage?  Hilarious.  Maybe we can even convince Ozzie to bite the head off a (fake) bat.

To get television coverage in the major markets, you’re going to need music – Guns ‘n’ Roses, Aerosmith, maybe even get the Stones out of retirement and back in spandex again.  Back ‘em up with a few flash-pots and some fly-girl dancers.  Filmed testimonials from Michael Jackson and the Simpsons.  Choreography from The Producers.  A line of Elvis impersonators.  Dignified and elegant, that’s the key.  Keep the wire-work to a minimum.

I get shivers just thinking about it.

Now I realize that these suggestions might seem startling to some.  But that’s why I’m up here and you’re down there – because I’m a genius and you’re not.  So shut up and think it over.

Meanwhile, I accept this Award with a modesty so profound that pissants like you cannot even begin to comprehend it.

Thank you.

Copyright 2002 by Michael Swanwick and SCIFI.COM, where it originally appeared.

*

Of Ghoulies and Brandywine

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . .

(Part 22)

"Where are you going?" Kenny asked.

(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . . 

  

This is a single-sentence paragraph.  It's astonishing how well they work.  It took me forever when I was a young gonnabe writer to learn that.

You can read all of the story to date here.

And tonight  . . .  

I'll be at Ryan's Pub in West Chester, Pennsylvania tonight.  I'm talking to and chatting with the members of the Brandywine Valley Writers Group.  My remit is to explain how I write.  I believe they're hoping for more than "I move my fingers about on the keyboard until the words become bearable to me.  Then I do it over again."

We'll see if I have a straight answer in me.

Above:  That's the pub, I think.  I haven't been there yet and I got the image off the Web.

*

Ghoulies and Home

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From Ghoulies and Ghosties, Long-Leggitie Beasties . . .

(Part 21)

So we are opening a passage elsewhere."

(Continued tomorrow.)


And my commentary . . . 

  

It only makes sense that our monsters have time-space powers far superior to anything we can imagine.  They can pop out of closets in locked homes at will, after all.

You can read all of the story to date here.

And I'm home  . . .  

I came back from vacation with a specimen box (above) filled with exemplars of what I did on my belated summer vacation.  I collected beach glass, pebbles, driftbricks, a flicker's wing, the castoffs of the ocean.  And memories, you ask?  Did I collect memories?

Well, no.  It wasn't that kind of vacation.  In Yekaterinburg and Newfoundland I collected memories.  This past week I rested.

*