a moment in the day: halloween

The first knock on my door. Halloween night, streets full of rain through my window, and I've been hovering here waiting and wondering if we'd get anyone at all. I grab the candy bowl from the chair and go to the door, pull it open. 

A little devil in red, and, even smaller, a... what is she? All in white, her head and limbs sticking out of a big plush puff. A marshmallow? A round angel? They call "trick or treat" and ask how many they can take as they reach into the bowl. There are waves and thank yous all around as they and their costumed parents head down the porch steps into the rain. No umbrellas.

They turn to head to the next house. Mom says, "We’re going to go to the end of the block and then we’ll go home, okay?"

I linger on the porch. Scan up and down looking for children.

A man dressed as a taco and wielding a baby carriage trucks by, not stopping. 

I call out, "You're a taco."

No umbrella. He turns his head and smiles and nods and continues on.

Coming the other way, passing him, is another man. No costume. No umbrella. Just walking by.

I call out, "You're not a taco."

Book Cake: a photoplay

A couple weeks in the life of the lovely surprise book cake Stephen got me for the pre-event party my good friend Liz Scott threw before my book launch at the beginning of this month. 

The cake was huge. There was no way it was going to get close to being completely eaten during that party. In the whirlwind of all of us heading over to Powell's for the event, the leftover cake got left, in full, to Stephen and me. I shouldn't have continued eating as much of that cake as I did in the days that followed, but it felt too special. 

I don't remember what piece I got at the party.

This is the piece I had at the end of the night to celebrate the book launch.

Eating the moon.

Remnants. If you look close, you'll see the sign of the beast in there. Yipe.

A last little piece before I bit the bullet (pun intended) and put the last of it out for the squirrels to pick over.

a moment in the life of my book: radio

I come down the stairs, teacup in hand, step into the kitchen. It’s a work day and I have a meeting in five minutes, zoom style. Time to top off my cold tea and warm it up.

I can hear my own voice coming from around the corner where Stephen’s sitting in his little office. It’s me on the radio. KBOO’s program Jonesy, which I recorded last Friday, a really fun conversation with host Ken Jones about my book and other books and film noir and old-time radio, a lot of talk about old-time radio, a conversation about radio coming over the radio, or at least streaming live out of Stephen’s computer.

I put my teacup in the microwave. Start it humming.

“Hey!” Stephen’s voice. “What are you doing down here?” And not off somewhere listening to myself, he means.

“I’m warming my tea before a meeting,” I call.

There's a pause and then he calls back, “I’m not listening to you because I’m listening to you.”

Fair enough. I pull my tea from the microwave and start back upstairs.

a moment in the life of my book: dream launch

In my dream, it's book launch night and I've just finished up with my event at Powell's. I am so happy. Everything went well. I read well. I answered questions well. I was surrounded by friends and loved ones.

Oh, but wait! We forgot all about the part where I sign books! 

I look around, and oh no, the crowd is leaving. The room already mostly empty. But we need to sign books! Powell's brought in all these books and they need to sell them!

Quick, I sit down behind a little table. Someone brings over the book cart and sets it up to the front and to the right of the table. The people who remain are trickling around the table, past the cart, not grabbing books, heading for the stairs to leave.

I lean forward over the table. Look at the front of the book cart. It's full of stuffed animals.

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(Book launch is tonight! I'll try to remember to sign books. Powell's downtown, October 7, 7 PM. More information is here.)

a moment in the life of my book: advice

We've been pre-celebrating a little. Thai food and an old film noir. But mostly, tonight, my brain has been wound up tight with where am I going to stumble over my words while reading Tuesday night and what question is someone going to ask that I won't know the answer to and what very good friend am I going to blank on a name for as they hand me their book to sign.

We walk into the kitchen carrying our empty plates. 

"Tell me again," I say, "what you said before?"

"What before?" Stephen asks.

"To make me feel better."

I've forgotten the words he used. By Tuesday night, I will have lost all the words that exist in my brain.

He cracks a smile. "There's nothing you can do to make it bad."

Like a little magic incantation.  

"There's nothing I can do to make it bad," I say. "OK."

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(If you want to see me do nothing to make it bad, join me for my book launch of Who Killed One the Gun? at Powell's City of Books, October 7, at 7 PM. More information is here.)

a moment in the day: thread

It's garbage day and I've dumped the recycling from the can to the bin, dumped the compost from the little kitchen container to the other bin, and as I set the empty compost container in the sink to soak, I go over to our calendar, tacked to the wall, to see if this week is a garbage week or a non-garbage week. The city takes the compost, the recycling, the glass every week, but the garbage only every other. I have garbage day notated on the calendar on every other Monday with a little g.

This Monday has no g. Not a garbage day. But my eyes tick to Tuesday, where Stephen's handwriting says:

Nicholas Day

The words hit like a warm, soft thud in my chest. A whole year tomorrow since we said goodbye.

I think about this as I drag the garden-clipping-and-compost bin down along the side of the house to the curb. My little boy. I should pay some sort of tribute. Share some pictures. What would I say?

What comes to mind is that I feel Nicholas in all the little beings I see, somehow. The squirrels that run across the fence with their question mark tails, the birds that hop in the trees.

I walk back from the curb and along the side of the house.

What comes to mind is, sometimes I worry that I let go too soon. Sometimes I worry that I held on too long.

As I grab hold of the handle of the big blue plastic recycling bin, I see the asterisked translucent threads of a spiderweb running from the bin to the fence. The spider sitting dead center trembles with the movement as my hand tips the bin up just so slightly and then stops.

I stand there holding the bin at that little angle for a moment.

Then set it back down. I'll take out the recycling next week.

a moment in the life of my book: first

My first reading is done. That's what I think as I walk, with my publisher Laura Stanfill, up the steps of movie theater four, where we just finished our presentation, and turn to go into movie theater three, where the novels and memoirs and poetry collections of the authors of the Sisters Festival of Books lie stacked up across a row of tables. My first reading, in public, from my actual book, not my manuscript-in-progress, but my actual, physical book (three weeks ahead of the official publication date but festivals get special privileges), is done.

Laura and I step past the tables of books and down the aisle, past the raked movie theater seats, to the little stage in front of the movie screen, to sidle behind another row of tables, and take a seat next to other festival authors who are waiting to sign books. And before I know it, someone is standing in front of us holding a copy of both Laura's book, Imagine a Door, and mine. Holding mine out to me to sign. 

It occurs to me that I haven't thought about what I'd write to people if they asked me to sign their book. My book. My book that is now their book. Back in the day when I signed copies of City of Weird, I sometimes drew a little cartoon of an octopus like the octopus on the cover. What cartoon could I draw now for Who Killed One the Gun? 

A... gun? 

I take my book from the woman's hand. I ask her name. When I put pen to paper, I write, Thank you for being at my very first reading.

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By the way, if you're in Portland, join me for my book launch of Who Killed One the Gun? at Powell's City of Books, October 7, at 7 PM. I’ll be in conversation with Margaret Malone (People Like You) and my reading will be accompanied by the crackerjack old-time-radio-style sound effects of foley artist David Ian. More information is here. My novel can be preordered now.