By Amanda Cleary Eastep For the book announcement, skip down the page to The Third Tornado! The First Tornado “Is this a war?” That’s what I remember thinking when it happened. We were driving back from a family reunion on a long stretch of road that cut through Midwest corn fields . . . acre […]Read More
Amanda Cleary Eastep I don’t recall how old I was when I realized Aslan the lion was an author’s fantastical version of Jesus. I had been raised in church and Sunday school, so although this connection should have been obvious, it didn’t quite dawn on me. But once it did . . . I felt […]Read More
The frustrated photojournalist in me couldn’t resist the scene … what else could I do but hide behind a rack of something that smelled like a hamper and covertly take his photo?Read More
My father had watched the rabbit’s nest for days and didn’t see the mother return. Still heartbroken over the event and not realizing then that the mother was probably caring for the remaining babies early in the morning, he decided we needed to rescue them…Read More
As much as I hate the “tell us your name and something about you” exercise, I planned for this time of introduction with teen writers to be a little more creative . . .Read More
There is a scent. Sometimes it makes me sneeze.
The smell of books:
One like a door closed on a dusty attic that, when opened, overwhelms you with its secrets and want of discovery…Read More
“Breath is the percussion of language…” The tall, willowy yoga instructor said this to the class in a lilt that hinted at her formal actor’s training and enviable diaphragmatic control. At my age, with quadriceps straining to sustain my squatted “goddess” pose, I was just happy to control my bladder. The morning class was the […]Read More
All the seconds run together now, and clocks don’t seem to matter much. Maybe they never did in a place where time and work and rest were measured more by when the rooster crowed and the sun set . . . when the rain came or didn’t and the first frost threatened.Read More
The man made a beeline for me.
I, and a few authors, had just finished leading a discussion about the importance of the voices of “midlife” writers.
This particular writer, who had been in the audience, almost seem dazed–eyes glassy, lips parted as if what he needed to verbalize hadn’t fully formed yet and was resting between them.
This is a rare morning of solitude. Sitting in the gray light, I feel the damp air sift through the screen door behind me as the smell of rain lays itself across the skin of my bare neck and right shoulder.
I’m listening.Read More