Friday Feedback: Fear is a Thing on Hummingbird Wings & How Philosphers Lie

The big fat liar, RWE .The great philospher Ralph Waldo Emerson said, " Do the thing we fear, and the death of fear is certain."
Ralph Waldo Emerson is a big fat liar.

Sorry, but it's true. In a second you'll see what I mean.  And, seriously. If you take the "Waldo Emerson" away, how philosphery-ish does the name Ralph really sound?
 At any rate.  
I have a guest writer/pal on Friday Feedback today, and trust me, you're in for a treat ( HERE ARE THE FRIDAY FEEDBACK RULES . If you've never "played" before, please read them before you participate).

Anyway, when I read Lena's excerpt for my blog, it practically made me cry. It definitely made me covet. Plus, "guest author" means double trouble, as she and I will BOTH be back to give you feedback this weekend, so be on your best behavior.


Lena does her own fancy schmancy introduction so, without further ado, I give you author Lena Roy.

Hello Gae and *people of Gae’s world* - Lena would never lie to you. I am both honored and terrified to participate in Gae’s Friday Feedback, but I am turning 44 next week and I am about to send a PDF of my current manuscript, India Flips, to my agent (Edward Necarsulmer of MacIntosh and Otis) so it behooves me to jump in. Even though I’m terrified. Even though I am a creative writing teacher myself with Writopia Lab. (I am the Manager in Westchester and Fairfield Counties.) Even though I have one published book: Edges (FSG). Even though I am already used to rejection and I still write through it. ML'e - not a liar
And, even though, AND especially because, 
I am Madeleine L’Engle’s granddaughter.
How dare I attempt to follow in her footsteps?
I’d love to meet all of you! You can find me at www.lenaroy.com and on my author page on Facebook.Now what excerpt will I choose? I will be brave and choose the opening lines, because that is what I have the hardest time with. Oh, who am I kidding – it’s all hard! But I wouldn’t have it any other way as it makes my heart happy.
From India Flips:

"How many birds have been sacrificed to this death trap?” I mutter to myself. I am staring out of the windowed door to a large deck of a house for rent, for sale, for living and dying in the exurbs of New York City. I am staring out this false sense of security, this symbol of change, of possible carnage. Some birds don’t sense boundaries and end up getting hurt: some birds like me.As if on cue, a tiny hummingbird flies toward me and I long to pull the door open, but for once my hands are paralyzed. Am I hoping that it will mistake the glass for open space? Could I be that cruel? As the bird gets closer - its ruby neck, exposed and vulnerable - my hands start to twitch into action and reach for the sliding door. My fingers tug, pulling the force up my arms and I give up. Unwilling to take my eyes off the hummingbird, I put my hands on the window, hoping that my physical presence will be enough of a boundary. The hummingbird’s natural habitat is lush with trees, grass and even a pond. Why would it want to come inside? Go away birdie, I will silently. Stick with what you know, where it’s safe. Where you are safe.Am I ready for this disaster? I mean, it’s the cycle of life, right? It’s all happened before, and it will inevitably happen again. Except that this time it doesn’t. The tiny beak makes an ell turn just in time and the air in my throat hisses with relief. It must have been loud because Janie calls out from the living room where she is trying to ‘visualize her own furniture’ - maybe she’s even imagining us all sitting on her couch. I can’t tear myself away from the window, where the hummingbird has come back and is staring at me, flapping it’s wings ferociously. What are you looking for, buddy?“Indy? You okay?” “Um, yeah,” I manage to say as she walks through the room.“This dining room is pretty sweet.” “Come look at the bedrooms!” And she disappears.I don’t want Derek to move to this house or any other in Westchester. I want him to stay living across the street from me in our little corner of Manhattan.  My hands move over my plaid skirt tapping out a rhythm, my purple Doc Marten’s stomp as I drum to Radiohead’s Creep. I may not be able to stand still, but at least I stay in one place.- Lena Roy (& gae)