So, this is nice: I received notice on Friday that The Audacity of Goats has received Honorable Mention in General Fiction at the 2017 San Francisco Book Festival.
My thanks to the judges.
Where Writers Write Update
I have posted details about my usual writing situation in the past. My work is almost always enhanced by the company of dogs.
At home…
On the Island…
And on the road…
Even at Barnes & Noble…
But somehow, I can’t help feeling that after a few months this new arrangement isn’t going to work…
I mean, where am I going to put my feet?
In the Prayers of a Stranger
I recently realized that my life had become rather narrow, and that music, once the central focus of my existence, had been reduced to passive listening. So, most days, now, I spend some time playing the piano badly.
It doesn’t matter that I can’t play as well as I used to when I was serious, just that I play. It is both engaging and mentally clarifying.
To assist in building this new habit, I am using an app that tactfully nudges and rewards for building habits. The app also includes a portion I don’t generally use, an opportunity to be part of the app’s “community” of people messaging others who are working on the same things.
These kinds of things are not to my taste. Community means real people that you can see and touch. But last night I casually started glancing through this section, and along with the people needing to study for their exams, or lose weight, I came across a message from someone trying to escape an addiction to Meth. It was more than a cry for help, it was a howl of despair.
We all live in our little bubbles. We write. We sleep. We go to work. We make dinner. We try to be kind. We are people, presumably of good will. But then something happens, and the reality of real people in the anguish of suffering and surviving breaks through without warning.
Modern life expands our boundaries beyond our capacity to cope. We are not meant to bear the suffering of the whole world. We are meant to see what is before us and to act. This is why anonymous technology and non-stop news is so hollow and soul-crushing. It both puts the suffering of the world before us, and makes us powerless to attempt any help.
I doubt my message made any difference. Disembodied words are no substitute for being present. But maybe there can be some small comfort in being in the prayers of a stranger.
Puppy Countdown
Auggie Practices Terrorizing
Tomorrow is Meet the Puppy Day. Neither he nor our dogs at home have any idea what’s about to happen.
My husband keeps telling Pete and Moses that The Black Terror is coming. Auggie looks pretty laid back for a Terror, but I will admit that I am in denial.
Let the puppy destruction commence.
St. Augustine the Younger; Foe of Coyote Pagans
So, for those of you who have been kind enough to enquire, Book 3 is coming along nicely. A small distraction will be developing soon, however. My husband and I will be traveling to Georgia next weekend to pick up our new puppy, St. Augustine. He is a cousin to Moses, and will, no doubt, be an annoyance to Pete.
My husband had had misgivings about a third dog until we caught a coyote stalking Pete, who, at 13, is spry and happy, but nearly stone deaf. Moses, a fearless opponent of coyotes, chased it off without missing a beat, with Pete being none the wiser. Coyote confrontation does not exactly make me happy, and I strive to prevent it, but it has worked out well for Pete. German Shepherds are often referred to as GSDs. In our house we use the term BSD, for Big Scary Dog.
Moses, however, needs a wingman.
Please Make Me Scary. But Not Yet.
The original St. Augustine, as you know, was the author of City of God Against the Pagans. At the moment, Auggie is more adorable than formidable, and can’t be allowed out by himself. But we think he may grow into his name. His father weighs 140 pounds.
Learning to Love Again
To the both of you who follow my blog: by now you are probably used to the reality that when I am writing a book, I don’t post many blogs. It’s a husbanding your resources thing.
Nevertheless, I interrupt this novel for a brief announcement:
We are in the queue again for a puppy. He has been born. He will be two weeks old tomorrow. We hope to pick him up and fly him home (on our laps) on May 6th. He is a cousin, of some sort, of Moses.
My husband insists that his name will be St. Augustine the Younger. He gets to pick, since I picked Moses, but I am still lobbying for St. George, the Dragon Slayer.
He will win.
So, watch this space for puppy pictures. Because my life needs a complication, albeit a delightful one.
Here is one of the puppies from the litter. Who knows? We may become friends.
Slow Turning
I was up before dark this morning, as I am almost every morning. But today I was caught by the beginning light, and I stopped to watch the sunrise.
I kept checking to see if I was mistaken, but it became increasingly clear how far north the sun has moved. Or, more correctly how much we have moved toward the sun. Every day this week the sun rises one minute earlier, and sets one minute later. By now it’s enough extra light to mean the dogs get a run in our favorite woods rather than a mundane walk.
I have dogs to feed, reports to read and meetings to attend, and an unfinished novel. My days are mostly the same.
Still, the cosmos moves in its slow turning toward spring.
Meanwhile there’s still time for a blizzard. It’s what I want for my birthday.
The Compassion of Friends and Strangers
Thank you to everyone who sent my husband and me notes of sympathy over the death of the two-week old puppy we never met.
Not everyone understands how much it matters. I am grateful to those of you who do.
One Tiny Light Goes Out
We lost our two week old puppy today. It’s not exactly clear what happened, but he died a terrible death, crushed.
We never held him, or knew him beyond his photographs, but we had named him. He was real. And we were waiting to bring him home to us.
Loving anything means that you can be wounded by its loss, and we already loved this small creature, his soul shining with innocence.
I don’t believe that the universe is indifferent to miracles, no matter how small. His life seems, to me, wasted. But he lived. And somehow that matters.
I need to believe that for even the smallest life, the angels weep.
Island ice
J.F. Riordan 