Averil Dean's Blog, page 13

Take Me to Church

My lover’s got humour

She’s the giggle at a funeral

Knows everybody’s disapproval

I should’ve worshiped her sooner

If the Heavens ever did speak

She is the last true mouthpiece

Every Sunday’s getting more bleak

A fresh poison each week

‘We were born sick,’ you heard them say it

My church offers no absolution

She tells me, ‘Worship in the bedroom’

The only heaven I’ll be sent to

Is when I’m alone with you

I was born sick,

But I love it

Command me to be well

Amen. Amen. Amen

[Chorus 2x:]

Take me to church

I’ll wo...

Look Ma, No Hands

I have no words of my own to share this week. Maybe I’m in intake mode, maybe I just need to rattle around in my own headspace for a while. I’ve tried several times to formulate a question around this guy’s message, but you know how it is. Sometimes the topic is too big, the questions too intrusive, the brain too addled to make sense of it all. So tonight I’ll let the video speak for itself.

(I love you guys. Have I told you that lately?)

Gin at 7:07

This is what I’m thinking about today. Money, wealth distribution, and the death spiral of a capitalist economy.

“I may earn a thousand times the median wage, but I don’t sleep on a thousand pillows.” – Nick Hanauer

Any ideas how we fix the mess we’re in? Also, is it too early for gin?

Seven Questions

What’s the most physically dangerous thing you have ever done?
What are some of the nicknames people have for you?
Where did you most often play as a child?
What was your favorite toy?
Who among your friends and family knows most of your secrets?
Who would play you in a movie?
Where would you go if you could travel for a month with no companion?

Boulders

Yesterday our friend Tetman posted a comment in which he referred to Denis Donoghue’s three levels of writing: self-expression, communication, then exploring the form of the language itself. I’m not sure this is a linear path, but I do think there are times in writing when you meet an obstacle that can only be overcome by a great heaving effort, after which you find yourself suddenly with a better view of the landscape. Blackbird was one of those obstacles for me. It taught me about structure...

Tone

This really struck me as familiar and true, especially what he says about tone. I have always framed this in terms of finding a ‘voice’ for the work, but I like his word much better. It’s about how you want to feel when you read the paragraphs back to yourself, about the mood you want to settle into as you write and read the story, and whether you are writing for the head or the heart or the body. (And I do think a book is usually written for one of the three over the others.) That’s the tone...

Skin/Trade

The wheels of the big machine are starting to move. Blackbird is coming out in a little more than five months and I’ve got a ton of work to do on its behalf. Right now I’m sweating out a blurb-request letter, and after that I’ll be making the rounds with my ARCs, trying to convince some hapless bookstore owners to let me crash their party. (I’ve got wine and cupcakes…anyone?) Of course this is not my favorite part of the writing gig, but I have to say it’s a lot easier when the book you’re pu...

Olive

Why don’t I believe it when people tell me a book is great? Does anyone else have this problem?

Unlovely

I’ve been thinking about beauty. Physical beauty, that is. The kind that other beholders bestow upon us or that we claim for ourselves, and what it means to be a woman in our culture when physical beauty is altogether absent. The protagonist I’m writing is alone and unlovely, lost in a world of images the way Vivian Maier must have been in her attic bedroom after a day of caring for another woman’s children. I wouldn’t have been able to write about this character twenty or even ten years ago—...

Doorstep

I guess it’s time to start writing this thing. I could probably do some research, add to my playlist, and get more detailed with my outline, but all of that is just procrastination and nerves. I always imagine the first page as the moment when you arrive alone at a party and pause outside the door, smoothing your skirt, twisting the strap of your purse or bra or fidgeting with the back of your shoe because what you really want is to turn around and run back home to where your slippers are wai...