Myfanwy Collins's Blog
August 25, 2014
I was in a Mexican restaurant in Topeka, Kansas when a man taught me how to peel an avocado. We had driven downtown, past the hate signs, through the empty streets. A town without pedestrians.
This is the way you do it, he demonstrated with his empty hands. This is how you separate the skin from the meat.
It might’ve been a mango.
I learned how to peel something and then I forgot.
It was something about the texture of the skin beneath your fingers.
Something about the flesh beneath the skin.
July 24, 2014
If you don’t live in New England, chances are you don’t give a shit about what’s going on with one of our major supermarket chains, Market Basket. If you do live in New England and particularly if Market Basket is where you typically do your grocery shopping, chances are you are following the story closely and probably boycotting (by choice or because there is nothing left on the shelves at your local Market Basket) the chain.
Basically, the place where most of us shop is being crippled by a p...
July 10, 2014
The Book of Laney — available for pre-order now!
Here’s how it works. I was given some questions to answer (see below) and I was asked to nominate a few other writers so that they might answer the same questions a week after I post. Here we go…
1) What are you working on?
I am finishing up the edits on my forthcoming YA novel, THE BOOK OF LANEY....
June 28, 2014
The day we went to look at the house, she was there on the street, watching us as we drove by. Then again on the day we moved in. She was out on the cross street, a busy road, herding a child to safety. She stood tall and weighed well over 100 pounds. Her coat was pure white but often filthy after she took to the woods or the brook.
At first I feared her. Shepherds, in general, I feared. When I was a child, there was a shepherd on my street that would chase me when I came home from school. I l...
June 24, 2014
Here and now I am in this place far away from my home. Here, with the cold wind blowing down from the north and the stars piercing through the cloudless sky. Here I am.
But my story does not start here.
My story starts months ago and hundreds of miles south of where I am now. My story starts in the place I used to call home. My story starts with violence and heartbreak.
After her brother is involved in a grisly murder-suicide, fifteen-year-old Laney is...
May 23, 2014
The pines belong here, seventy feet up or more. The oaks have found their way. The greedy hemlock hugs the border, its low-slung, dead branches cover the ground below. There is no light beneath it. A survival technique. A way to keep all of the light and water for itself. The swamp maple is as diseased and twisted and scaly and ornery as it sounds, but with a characteristic blaze of glory in the fall. There are also the birches—the white and the black. They are not hardy but they are beloved....
April 27, 2014
Another year, another great Newburyport Literary Festival. I was thrilled to be a part of the festival again this year and to be able to share the day with readers and writers. It is, without a doubt, my favorite local event of the year and I am so proud that our town hosts it. And my great thanks to Vicki Hendrickson and Jennifer Entwistle for all that they do as co-directors of the festival. Amazing work, ladies!
Here’s a recap of all that I witnessed during the festival.
I was so happy to sh...
April 1, 2014
Below is a guest post written by Bonnie ZoBell.
Bonnie ZoBell: My Writing Process: Blog Tour
Today I’m taking part in the #MyWritingProcessTour. It’s so interesting and instructive to see how other writers go about their work. I was nominated by my friend, Susan Tepper, writer extraordinaire. Be sure to get a copy of Susan’s latest book, The Merrill Diaries, beautifully written and a thought-provoking romp through the U.S. and parts of Europe.
The awkward part about writing this blog post is tha...
March 27, 2014
You are treasured. Grown by bone and hair, pushing up and out. Flesh surrendering to the pull of gravity, the earth. The basil on the windowsill smells of summer and an open wound. The house smells of ash and the decay of last night’s meal in the can. The day’s frozen air smells of infinity, snaking forward, pushing you into breath, the ache.
February 11, 2014
We say we will follow the deer tracks in the snow later in the day but we never do. They all lead to the same place, back to the denuded arbor vitae. We could trace them to our windows and look in as though strangers seeing it all for the first time. The empty bed. The daffodils blooming in the jar. Dust on the picture frame. We would not see the hard line or hear the clock ticking down time. We would not know that to fear death is the worst fear of all because there is no escaping it. There...