I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page.
It’s hard to reconcile this August with the other one. and to be honest I don’t try very hard. I’ve seen flashes of this August before-This brightness, this conviviality, this generosity of spirit-but I know what he’s capable of, and I won’t forget it. The others can believe what they like, but I don’t believe for a second that this is the real August and the other an aberration And yet I can see how they might be fooled-.
She had been warned away from it her entire life, for its depth came quickly, its coldness was fierce, and the Kelpie lay in wait.
I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page. If I don’t know what’s going on in their lives, how am I supposed to insert myself in the conversation?
Anna’s parents were staunch Wee Frees, and she wasn’t even allowed to wear face powder, never mind attend a dance. Music itself was not allowed, except on Sundays, and then it had to be for the sake of worship only, and sung unadorned. The senior McKenzies were so strict they confined their cockerel under a bushel basket on the Sabbath so he wouldn’t get up to anything untoward with the hens.
In the entire history of our marriage, it was the only secret I kept from her, and eventually it became impossible to fix. With a secret like that, at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it does not.
But my darling was as frail as a bird. She died nine days later. After sixty-one years together, she simply clutched my hand and exhaled. Although.
You call your child by the names of all your other children and finally the dog before you get to his.
She’s not your friend. She’s a barmaid.
That’s my girl,” he said, struggling upright. “Always up for adventure. You’re not like the other girls, you know. There’s not an ounce of fun in them. That’s why Hank won’t marry Violet, of course. He’s holding out for another you. Only there isn’t one. I’ve got the one and only.
At home, she sulked with extravagance, and I learned early that silence was anything but peaceful. She was always upset about some slight, real or imagined, and more than capable of creating a full-blown crisis out of thin air.
Maybe it was me. Maybe I wanted to hate him because I’m in love with his wife, and if that’s the case, what kind of man does that make me?
I usually know what the crisis of the book is going to be, though I don’t know how I’m going to get there. I try to make it bad enough that I don’t know how I’m going to get out of it. And when I get there, I have to get out of it. I just get myself geared up, and I write every day and see what happens.
I’m glad nothing requires my intervention, because I’m trying hard to maintain my composure. This is the first time I’ve ever seen a woman naked and I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.
I sat in silence, absorbing this. They’d wagered that Mr. Ross wouldn’t throw me out if I was on my own, and no thanks to them, they were right. I wasn’t just their plaything, their pretty, fake wife. I was their unwitting pawn, theirs to strategically play.
And then I laugh, because it’s so ridiculous and so gorgeous and it’s all I can do to not melt into a fit of giggles. So what if I’m ninety-three? So what if I’m ancient and cranky and my body’s a wreck? If they’re willing to accept me and my guilty conscience, why the hell shouldn’t I run away with the circus?
That moment, the music screeched to a halt. There was an ungodly collision of brass, reed, and percussion – trombones and piccolos skidded into cacophony, a tuba farted, and the hollow clang of a cymbal wavered out of the big top, over our heads and into oblivion.
Ellis had slept through the entire thing. That, or he was dead, but I saw no reason to check. If he was dead, he’d still be dead in the morning.
I did not take enough care with my hair, but a permanent wave would fix that. I was not thin enough, but for that, alas, there was no quick fix. I should never put more than the equivalent of three peas on my fork at a time, or one small disk of carrot. I should always leave two thirds of my meal on my plate, and was never to eat in public.
At the edges, near the tracks, tall weeds have taken over – tough plants with stringy stalks, small leaves, and compact flowers. Designed to waste energy on nothing but getting their blooms up toward the sun.
If I had to choose between making love and corn on the cob, I’d pick corn on the cob.