Time for another installment of Book Spine Flash Fiction, crafted especially for you from Erin’s Bookshelf. Here goes:
Her magical thinking spit back a boy, burning down the house, world and town. Rosemary’s baby was falling into place, wrestling the angel. Her parched son, on the road —— a pagan’s crusade. We swim that rock, seeing red, down the long valley to the invisible city. We were liars getting over the rainbow.
I’m sure most people have strange nuggets buried in their Google search histories, but the other day it occurred to me that writers are uniquely susceptible to Google searches that could raise a few eyebrows. I realized this after I spent the 12-hour #RosemontWriteaThon working on my most recent project: a dark, literary novel-in-stories that incorporates Louisiana folklore with various weird goings-on.
Here’s my Google search history from the November 1 writing session, which took place in various rooms of Rosemont College’s wonderfully domineering library.
In the early 1800s, a five-story milking house and barn was built in West Chester, Pa., packed with cozy nooks, creaking stairways and stone walls. Today, it’s known as Baldwin’s Book Barn, a used and rare bookstore that carries thousands of old titles, maps and prints.
Baldwin’s is the best kind of used bookstore. You have to duck your head from low walls, slide narrowly between towering stacks, and patiently tilt your head to siphon through the spines. It was here that I found a true treasure: Masako Matsuno’s Taro and the Tofu, published in 1962.
There’s a semi-regular Facebook game that asks people to list ten books that have stayed with them in some way. The rules: Don’t think too much about it and don’t worry about being “un-literary.” Just list books that left a lasting impression.
[As a sidenote: You should never worry about being “un-literary”].
I decided to turn my list of ten books into a blog post instead of a Facebook post, because I have a booknerdy blog and it’s the perfect place to release such a list in all its glory.
Once upon a time I wrote a book about big dreams, the occasional suckiness of middle-school life, and learning how to be yourself by stepping into the great unknown. By some stroke of super-radness, HarperCollins decided they wanted to publish it. Being the wise publishing gods that they are, they figured it should have a cover, so they sent the book to Sylvie Le Floch, who has designed book covers for HC/Greenwillow for more than twenty years. Then: Voila! My book had a cover!