Stayed in all day. Spent much more time on Mary, my character, than previously on this trip. I'm trying to approach her from another direction. I came up with a long list of questions I would like to ask her and then imagined our conversation. She was a good sport about it, once she knew I genuinely cared, I think. So I wrote for maybe four hours pretty straight. I can always jot down the random interesting thought, question, or observation, but it isn't always that I can enter into the world I'm creating. There is ettiquette involved. And pain sometimes in the time and place travel. And a lack of clamor, some space, and the knowledge you aren't going to be interrupted. In a room like this, after a couple of days of working through flu and the desire to go out all day and experience Paris, I settled down and in to my writing place. I love it here.
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| My Writing Room in Paris |
Bodies of Smoke
From
Bodies of Smoke
"The day was suddenly quieter, or maybe it just seemed to hush as Jan witnessed the spectacle of ashes falling all around him, slowly turmbling out of the sky, carried on the soft breeze from some unknown fire. He looked toward the forest, thinking of a wildfire, but the sky in that direction was serenely blue. The wind was blowing from the other direction, anyway. It was coming from town. Oswiecim. There was a railroad station there, and a camp.
Jan continued to stand, face upturned, wondering what was happening. What new calamity might this foretell? Maybe the whole world was going to light itself on fire. Maybe it already had.
Ashes continued to float down on his face, his head, his shoulders, cradling themselves in his outstretched hands. Finally, ashes covered all of the roses."
Bodies of Smoke
copyright protected, R L Johnstone-Pohlman, March 14, 2010
What Are You Reading? The Two-Minute Book Review Series
- Wallace, David Foster. A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again.
- Foer, Jonathan Safran. Everything is Illuminated and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.
- Irving, John. A Widow for One Year
- Didion, Joan. The Year of Magical Thinking.
- Dunn, Mark. Ella Minnow Pea.
- Donnelly, Jennifer. A Northern Light.
- Kingsolver, Barbara. Prodigal Summer. This is one of my favorite novels; it's lush and filled with nature imagery, humorous and thought provoking. Entirely wonderful.
- Knapp, Caroline. Drinking: A Love Story. For anyone wondering about the alcoholic experience, here's your book. Exceedingly readable and feels absolutely honest.
- Salinger, J.D. The Catcher in the Rye
- Gaiman, Neil. Neverwhere
- Zusak, Markus. The Book Thief. As my writer friend says, "This is the book I wish I wrote." A book narrated by Death about a little girl living in Germany during WWII. This book will always live in my library!
- Selznick, Brian. The Invention of Hugo Cabret. YA Graphic Novel. Some of my teen readers loved it, others found it too simple.
- Colfer, Eoin Colfer. Airman. This book was voted favorite of the year with my middle school age book club.
- du Maurier, Daphne. Rebecca
- Card, Orson Scott. Ender's Game
- Proulx, Annie. Brokeback Mountain
- Spinelli, Jerry. Milkweed
- King, Stephen. On Writing
- Hamilton, Edith. Mythology
- Lamott, Anne. Bird by Bird. My favorite book on writing!
- Gilbert, Elizabeth. Committed.
- Skibell, Joseph. A Blessing on the Moon. An amazing Holocaust tale..this book stays with me. I want to read it again for the first time!
- Anderson, M.T. The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing
- Harris, JoAnne. The Girl With No Shadow
Poetry Corner
"August in Waterton, Alberta" by Bill Holm
Above me, wind does its best
to blow leaves off
the aspen tree a month too soon.
No use wind. All you succeed
in doing is making music, the noise
of failure growing beautiful.
"Lincoln by Vachel Lindsey"
Would I might rouse the Lincoln in you all,
That which is gendered in the wilderness
From lonely prairies and God's Tenderness.
Imperial soul, star of a weedy stream,
Born where the ghosts of buffaloes still dream,
Whose spirit hoof-beats storm above his grave,
Above that breast of earth and prairie-fire--
Fire that freed the slave.
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