Please move on with me to www.sandragaillambert.com
Please move on with me to www.sandragaillambert.com
Here's the word onThe River's Memory. Many review copies are out to reviewers. The meeting with the website designer went quite well. I've written a decent draft of the book group guide which meant I was pretty much interviewing my own dang self which was odd. And so far I have four book events scheduled for the fall. Best I can tell, this is some sort of sweet spot before it gets real what with reviews coming in or not, positive or not, and sales happening or not and finding out if any book festival anywhere wants me and maybe no one will come to the launch party (It's probably on August 16th, just so you know.)
This is Renee Ashley's newest collection of poems - Because I Am the Shore I Want to Be the Sea. Such a luscious title. Read it. Read it now. They have copies down at Wild Iris Books. Go get one. Yes, I'm being a bossy pants about this (my girlfriend calls it me being "directive."), but ask Erica down at Wild Iris. She agrees. And here's a snippet from the poem [essay on observation].
". . . The air swells is nickel
then silver with rain—soon white with a downpour that
beats the caladiums into the earth Rose of Sharon onto
its knees A whole world coming down onto the world"
The advanced readers copies of The River's Memory are scattered out into the world, and now (my nerves are wracked) we wait for those first reviews. In the meantime, here's a preview of the acknowledgements page.
"The generosity of strangers—that's what any writer who does research knows about. My generous strangers include the staff of the SilverRiverMuseum, the MarionCountyHistoryMuseum, the MathesonMuseum, and the libraries of AlachuaCounty and the University of Florida. I also have to thank the people who make Ocali Country Days such a grand celebration of the area's diverse history. And whoever it was who put those oral histories of Ocala online—you should write your own book.
I'm also lucky enough to live in a community of friends, a lot of them lesbians, some not, some writers, some not, who have supported me in all the ways there are to support a person. So to those who bring me birthday presents of ink cartridges and reams of paper or just straight out give me money for writers residencies, to the dog sitters and apple pie bakers, to the writers who squeal with me at each small success, to the ones who drag me out of the house to have fun, to those who edit draft after draft of manuscript after manuscript—thank you, all of you, for the unrelenting belief in my work, in me. And to the monthly Lesbian Readers Group and Potluck, thank you for the twenty-six years of listening.
Much of this novel was written propped up in various beds at a variety of writing retreats. The bed in the back of my wheelchair-lift van was parked at the EvergladesNational Park as well as the Silver Springs, Collier-Seminole, Little Talbot Island, Kissimmee and Paynes Prairie Preserves and the Ochlockonee and MyakkaRiversState Parks. I'd recline into my pillows with the van's back doors thrown open and write for days while bobolinks scurried past or turkeys scratched around the tires. I procrastinated by watching cinnamon ferns unfurl or alligators lounge in the mud. Thank you to all the rangers, volunteers, and activists who love and protect these natural places. The beds at the Corporation of Yaddo and the AtlanticCenter for the Arts came with food and a long tradition of support, and saying thank you to them will never be enough. My bed at home, under live oaks and palms, is my, well, I was going to say bedrock, and perhaps I just will.
Finally, Joan Leggitt, editor extraordinaire, had this dream of starting an independent literary press. And here we are. I'm so proud to be part of Twisted Road Publication's debut year."
"At night he walked through the fanciest part of the neighborhood: blinds crossing vast windows, enormous foyers, each with one shining fixture suspended like the only planet in the universe of one house after another, expanses of plaster, vaulted ceilings, the geometries of staircases, rugs on walls."
And from my favorite apocalypse "FREEZE BOX (MAMA'S GOT A)
"Those of us awake on earth walked peacefully, and when we couldn't walk we slept until we awoke to the clean air of past sadness."
Right now, if this post posted when I scheduled it to, my gal and I are camping in the Everglades. We have no internet. We have no phone service. No Word for me, no Garage Band app for her - it's just yellow pads and a guitar. I'm thinking we're having a great time. And maybe, between the roseate spoonbills and crocodiles, I'm re-immersing in this next novel.
Y'all have a good time while I'm gone.
In Nicola Griffith's Hild there's a scene where two sisters in seventh century Britain are making butter. It was perfect. It made me stop reading and whoop out loud, startling the dog. Griffith ties the sensory beauty and details of scene (That bare arm holding back the cream!) to the forward movement of her plot. How great is that?
Because that's the problem—as we research for our novels, we gather up all these facts but then don't get to use them unless we can wrap them tight around the plot. I, for instance, know the many uses of raccoon penis bones, but did not get to include them anywhere in the novel. Really, I tried, but it just didn't work. But it works, over and over again, in Hild.