- #325 on Best Indie Books Author
- #5 on Best Illustrated Book Covers
- #1177 on Can't Wait Books of 2012
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Bring It Home
My upcoming poetry book is on three Goodreads lists right now. If you are a Goodreads member, please consider helping Home to become more visible, and vote for Home:
Monday, September 24, 2012
Listen to the stories My Father Told Me
"The longer I live, the more I realize that each one is only unto himself... Sometimes I shudder to see how lonely is a man in the universe. Only the noise, the tumult and the constant competition make him overlook this realization. The condition of the artist is immeasurably superior. The joy of inspiration puts his feeling of loneliness at a remote distance, and he imagines that life shall never end. But to create is possible only when a man can trust that he creates for someone or for some thing, that he is not surrounded by lies, and that he is not building upon a deceptive foundation."
These were my father's words to me on-tape, which he sent me when I moved to New York. For some reason, every time I listen they remind my of a time in my childhood: I remember him reading poems for me in languages I could not even understand. He would recite a few verses in Russian, stop, translate them for me on the fly, and continue with the next verse. By some trick, the images appeared before my eyes even before they words were decoded. His voice was grand with pathos. The pages would turn, each one a mystery, each one scribed in symbols I could not decipher on my own.
Of all the poems he used to read for me, there was one I was particularly drawn to: The Song of Oleg, written by Alexander Pushkin (the Russian poet whose career had come to an end in a duel, at the height of his genius.)
Oleg, the tale went, was a Russian prince who valued one thing above all his fine possessions: His horse. It was an exquisite animal and he simply adored it. More than that, there was a strong bond between them. But one day, an old prophet came to the prince and lifted the veil of the future for him. “O Prince,” he said, “it is from the steed which you love and on which you ride that you shall meet your death.”
His life was at stake, so Oleg felt compelled to make a painful sacrifice. He determined never to mount this horse or even to look upon it again. So he gave a command that the horse should be properly fed and taken care of, but never again should it be led into his presence.
Years passed, until one day he heard that the horse had died. “Soothsayers tell lies,” he said bitterly. “Their words are naught but falsehood. My horse is dead, but I am still alive.”
The prince rode to the place where the bare bones lay upon the earth. He dismounted, and remarked with a laugh: “Am I to receive my death from this skull?” Then he stood there, lost in abandon, reflecting on all those wasted years during which he and this beautiful being could have been close. Meanwhile, slithering out of the hollow of the skull, a snake crawled forth and with a single spurt, stung him to death.
Of all the poems he used to read for me, there was one I was particularly drawn to: The Song of Oleg, written by Alexander Pushkin (the Russian poet whose career had come to an end in a duel, at the height of his genius.)
Oleg, the tale went, was a Russian prince who valued one thing above all his fine possessions: His horse. It was an exquisite animal and he simply adored it. More than that, there was a strong bond between them. But one day, an old prophet came to the prince and lifted the veil of the future for him. “O Prince,” he said, “it is from the steed which you love and on which you ride that you shall meet your death.”
His life was at stake, so Oleg felt compelled to make a painful sacrifice. He determined never to mount this horse or even to look upon it again. So he gave a command that the horse should be properly fed and taken care of, but never again should it be led into his presence.
Years passed, until one day he heard that the horse had died. “Soothsayers tell lies,” he said bitterly. “Their words are naught but falsehood. My horse is dead, but I am still alive.”
The prince rode to the place where the bare bones lay upon the earth. He dismounted, and remarked with a laugh: “Am I to receive my death from this skull?” Then he stood there, lost in abandon, reflecting on all those wasted years during which he and this beautiful being could have been close. Meanwhile, slithering out of the hollow of the skull, a snake crawled forth and with a single spurt, stung him to death.
This image of the snake crawling forth to lay its claim upon the victim (who knows his fate and yet denies it) is still with me. This is, perhaps, the reason I hinted at it in a detail you can find at the bottom of my charcoal drawing, The Place Where I Played. Waiting there for me is the snake, ready to sting when while I am idling, yearning for what is gone, yearning for what I wish to have happened.
Such is the venom hidden in the gap between memory and reality.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Saturday, September 22, 2012
You Are My Ambassadors
Please carry my message, near and far
Let the ripple spread north and south
'Cause all I can hope for is your word-of-mouth
So if you you come here--if you find what you like
Please take your finger out the hole in the dike
Let the flood happen, let me float home
Like, tweet and chirp, from LA to Rome
From Tel Aviv to San Diego, from Sydney to Delhi
Don't hesitate, dear friends: go ahead, share me!
★ Inspired by poetry? Treat yourself a gift ★
The Pen: Scribbles from Childhood
When I was a little girl, my father kept an on-going diary in which he jotted down his conversations with me. It was written almost like a play, centered on the dialog between us. Six years ago, when I came back to my childhood home to mourn him (during the Shiv-aa, the seven days period after his passing) I unearthed many of his long lost documents, and among them--the diary.
It is in a surprisingly great shape, despite the yellowing pages, and even if you don't know a word of Hebrew, you can appreciate his strong, fluent pen stroke and beautiful handwriting. It is firm even in the process of crossing out a few words.
This handwriting must have been on my mind when I wrote the opening lines of a short story, And Then She Left Him:
"He looks at the line. It is written in blue ink, pressed into the sheet of paper—vigorously here, faintly there—with his usual stroke, a stroke that drives through the spikes and valleys in the shapes of the letters at a steady slant. The line reaches the margin, where it is punctuated, unexpectedly, by a red stain.
Blotting it is bound to leave fingerprints, and so Mr. Schriber decides to leave it alone. He lifts the paper by its corner—and a drop bleeds down; he lays it down on the desk—and the stain goes on spreading. Going back to his writing, he applies too much pressure on the pen—and the pointed nib digs into the paper. Taking a deep breath, he tries to compose himself. The pen is his weapon. The simple act of pulling it over the soft, white surface has never failed to calm him down. Letter by letter, mark by mark, it will soon draw him into a different state of mind."
Excerpt from Home.
It is in a surprisingly great shape, despite the yellowing pages, and even if you don't know a word of Hebrew, you can appreciate his strong, fluent pen stroke and beautiful handwriting. It is firm even in the process of crossing out a few words.
This handwriting must have been on my mind when I wrote the opening lines of a short story, And Then She Left Him:
"He looks at the line. It is written in blue ink, pressed into the sheet of paper—vigorously here, faintly there—with his usual stroke, a stroke that drives through the spikes and valleys in the shapes of the letters at a steady slant. The line reaches the margin, where it is punctuated, unexpectedly, by a red stain.
Blotting it is bound to leave fingerprints, and so Mr. Schriber decides to leave it alone. He lifts the paper by its corner—and a drop bleeds down; he lays it down on the desk—and the stain goes on spreading. Going back to his writing, he applies too much pressure on the pen—and the pointed nib digs into the paper. Taking a deep breath, he tries to compose himself. The pen is his weapon. The simple act of pulling it over the soft, white surface has never failed to calm him down. Letter by letter, mark by mark, it will soon draw him into a different state of mind."
Excerpt from Home.
Friday, September 21, 2012
The Best Review Ever
There are over thirty eloquent, beautiful reviews on Amazon for my novel Apart From Love, but I have received the one I consider the most rewarding of all! Check it out; this is why a writer writes:
I have learned that Jt Sather describes his life this way: "you know...been here...there...done this....and things I won't tell my mother!" I am very honored by his choice to read my novel and to share it with her, because he is the author of How to Survive When the Bottom Drops Out, a motivational guide to help you through the rough patches in the road of life. His book won five 5-star reviews from readers, so far.
I have learned that Jt Sather describes his life this way: "you know...been here...there...done this....and things I won't tell my mother!" I am very honored by his choice to read my novel and to share it with her, because he is the author of How to Survive When the Bottom Drops Out, a motivational guide to help you through the rough patches in the road of life. His book won five 5-star reviews from readers, so far.
Treat yourself to a gift!
Thursday, September 20, 2012
How to Get the Vibrant Colors You've Expected for Your Cover
Being new to the printing process of book covers, I've learned that it can be a challenge to get graphics with the contrast and vibrancy you would expect. Home is the third cover I've designed this year, after Apart From Love and Ropes, Separation, Tear. In each case, the covers are based on my own art, and their colors (in print) turned up as radiant, and as faithful to the design as can be. It is so rewarding for me to hear the delight of those of you who got the paperback edition of my books.
So I can share this with you: here is an excellent article, a must read for anyone interested in getting the best result for their cover in print: Better Color from Print on Demand.
So I can share this with you: here is an excellent article, a must read for anyone interested in getting the best result for their cover in print: Better Color from Print on Demand.
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