News
It would be a great gift to me if you would consider writing a review, even one sentence, of TRASHLANDS at amazon or goodreads or another book retailer. It doesn’t actually matter what it says, just a line or two and a rating to trigger the algorithm to show my book when people are searching. I appreciate every word.
If I cannot bring you comfort
When I was young, I loved this song from the 1992 movie Toys. Well, I loved all the songs from that surreal and gorgeous and deeply weird film, but this one in particular: “The Closing of the Year,” by Wendy & Lisa. It opens the show, a kind of winter pageant. I always thought—for years!—the first lyric was “If I cannot bring you comfort/then at least I bring you home.”
I’ve just learned, in the way of someone with deafness, that the lyric is actually hope. “I bring you hope.”
That lyric takes on larger meaning this year, the second pandemic Christmas, New Year, birthday, the year we couldn’t go home again. Again. I can’t even have home. I only have hope.
The format of this newsletter may be changing. It may pause, or may have to shift to only updates about my books or pieces or other writerly news, perhaps with mini remedies. Because this December, I was surprised to get some really big good writing news. I’ve taken on a new role as staff culture writer at Salon, my first full-time newsroom job since being laid-off several years ago. At Salon, I’ll write about TV, films, and yes, books and writers. I’m writing there regularly and you can read all my pieces weekly here.
Nearly in same day, I also received some good news about my next book. It turns out I have one, coming soon (!!), which I’ll share in a future update. Publishing secrets take some time.
Before I can spill that secret, though, I’ll share this one, a thing that’s helping me get through the winter holidays this year: scent. I stumbled onto a candle that smells exactly like my childhood home at Christmas—cinnamon, a fireplace, my mom’s cooking, snow on the farmhouse roof—another that exactly replicates a pine tree smell.
Maybe scent is a time machine you can use now. Maybe it can take you places when you can’t go anywhere. Maybe it can take you home.
I can’t bring you home. I can’t even bring myself home, but maybe I can bring a little hope—or some words can, now and future.
Until the new year.