Book release zoom parties, the NBA, and a lost song…

I have been blown away by the kindness and support I have received from people during this first week of my novel’s foray into the world. Thank you. Independent bookstores and writers and friends have all made a huge difference. I’m posting a recording of the virtual event I did for Elliott Bay Bookstore in Seattle with my pal, Lidia Yuknavitch. It takes a few minutes to get going but is worth it because Lidia is always the best.

I’ll post the ones with Kristen Arnett and Emma Donoghue when they are available.

Raindrops on Whiskers

The best of the week was talking to readers, and the NBA.

LeBron James’ voting rights group converting arenas into polling places

The worst of the week was…

The continued pounding by capitalism

Below is a song from the “lost years” of my music life. I offer it here as proof that I am trying to be less weird about it all. “It” meaning many things.

The gorgeous piano is being played by Johnny Sangster. He also recorded it. I wrote it on guitar and had him play along with me then I loved what he did so much I took out the guitar until the end. Stefan Jecusco cut it to video with found 16mm.


  1. I saw the interview in Willamette Week and am now very sorry I missed the Powell’s event. I think I would have found it fascinating. The interview reminded me of this poem by Adam Zagajewski that we went into at Havurah Shalom one night when we were doing a deep dive on the word “praise” and what it might mean. Perhaps you know it, but if you don’t it seems like something you might enjoy. It’s called Try to Praise the Mutilated World.


    Try to praise the mutilated world.
    Remember June’s long days,
    and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
    The nettles that methodically overgrow
    the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
    You must praise the mutilated world.
    You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
    one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
    while salty oblivion awaited others.
    You’ve seen the refugees heading nowhere,
    you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully.
    You should praise the mutilated world.
    Remember the moments when we were together
    in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
    Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
    You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
    and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars.
    Praise the mutilated world
    and the gray feather a thrush lost,
    and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
    and returns.

  2. Your friend is right. When you read the paragraph about the stained glass and the shattered rose, I shut off the video and went to the Powell’s site and bought the book. It’s not just the prose, which is magnificent, but the stubborn refusal to abandon hope, and by extension hope in all of us.

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