The man across from me made art out of solder. His hands never touched the table, sticky with spills, before the seisiún. And your outrage and your pride. It was about those, too. When we put the dog down. When we euthanized the dog. When we killed the dog. The second after he stopped breathing. The second he stopped breathing. I said, “I want him back. Bring him back to me. My friend. My friend.” All of my ugliness and my shame. That does not exist here.
- Do You Know Who I Am: On Writing and Identity April 17, 2015
- self-promotion, bookselling, blah blah blah April 16, 2015
- “I Wrote This Book Because…” – Myfanwy Collins and The Book of Laney April 1, 2015
- the bluff March 27, 2015
- pub day: today is my butter March 17, 2015
- arrival, gratitude February 27, 2015
- lesson February 16, 2015
- Tradition December 25, 2014
- I Wrote This Book Because… December 12, 2014
- here we are now December 8, 2014
this is chilling. great micro.
Thank you, Susan!