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New Books from Write Bloody

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The other day I revealed a sneak tease of the cover to my upcoming book. What I didn’t reveal is the cover to my other new book! GIMME THAT BREAD will showcase my art and “to-go” bread photos. Also coming out are new titles from Taylor Mali, Sarah Kay, and Andrea Gibson, shared today in honor of April 1st, the start of National Poetry Month. Get more info on all the books here!

Atlanta airport. #vscocam

Atlanta airport. #vscocam

Back in the saddle again. Austin airport. Heading to Sewanee TN. There are clouds today with a sun somewhere small on the other side. I see it somewhere. #vscocam

Back in the saddle again. Austin airport. Heading to Sewanee TN. There are clouds today with a sun somewhere small on the other side. I see it somewhere. #vscocam

Now I know that the sound of thousands of books falling in domino fashion is one of my favorite sounds.

Cover to new book is finished :) #littlepeek

Cover to new book is finished :) 

Cover sketches for The Pocketknife Bible. Austin, my kitchen table. #vscocam

Cover sketches for The Pocketknife Bible. Austin, my kitchen table. #vscocam

          – John Szarkowski 1976, via this post by Eric Kim on Stephen Shore

 

          – John Szarkowski 1976, via this post by Eric Kim on Stephen Shore

 

This is awesome. Utterly awesome.

An Elegy from Zadie Smith

excerpt from Elegy for a Country’s Seasons by Zadie Smith

"What ‘used to be’ is painful to remember. Forcing the spike of an unlit firework into the cold, dry ground. Admiring the frost on the holly berries, en route to school. Taking a long, restorative walk on Boxing Day in the winter glare. Whole football pitches crunching underfoot. A bit of sun on Pancake Day; a little more for the Grand National. Chilly April showers, Wimbledon warmth. July weddings that could trust in fine weather…

The weather has changed, is changing, and with it so many seemingly small things—quite apart from train tracks and houses, livelihoods and actual lives—are being lost. It was easy to assume, for example, that we would always be able to easily find a hedgehog in some corner of a London garden, pick it up in cupped hands, and unfurl it for our children—or go on a picnic and watch fat bumblebees crawling over the mouth of an open jam jar. Every country has its own version of this local sadness.

Sing an elegy for the washed away! For the cycles of life, for the saltwater marshes, the houses, the humans—whole islands of humans. Going, going, gone! But not quite yet. The apocalypse is always usefully cast into the future—unless you happen to live in Mauritius, or Jamaica, or the many other perilous spots. According to recent reports, “if emissions of global greenhouse gases remain unchanged,” things could begin to get truly serious around 2050, just in time for the seventh birthday party of my granddaughter.

What she will want to know is why this movement took so long to materialize. So I might say to her, look: the thing you have to appreciate is that we’d just been through a century of relativism and deconstruction, in which we were informed that most of our fondest-held principles were either uncertain or simple wishful thinking, and in many areas of our lives we had already been asked to accept that nothing is essential and everything changes—and this had taken the fight out of us somewhat.

The climate…. We did not think it could change. That is, we always knew we could do a great deal of damage to this planet, but even the most hubristic among us had not imagined we would ever be able to fundamentally change its rhythms and character, just as a child who has screamed all day at her father still does not expect to see him lie down on the kitchen floor and weep. 

Oh, what have we done! It’s a biblical question, and we do not seem able to pull ourselves out of its familiar—essentially religious—cycle of shame, denial, and self-flagellation. This is why (I shall tell my granddaughter) the apocalyptic scenarios did not help—the terrible truth is that we had a profound, historical attraction to apocalypse. In the end, the only thing that could create the necessary traction in our minds was the intimate loss of the things we loved. Like when the seasons changed in our beloved little island, or when the lights went out on the fifteenth floor, or the day I went into an Italian garden in early July, with its owner, a woman in her eighties, and upon seeing the scorched yellow earth and withered roses, and hearing what only the really old people will confess—in all my years I’ve never seen anything like it—I found my mind finally beginning to turn…”

read the whole thing at The New York Review of Books

What makes you a writer? You develop an extra sense that partly excludes you from experience.
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