I have written two novels, one adult and one YA.
The adult novel is about the the cost of motherhood when work is defined as wage earnings. Two young mothers form a pact of solidarity that upends both their lives when one faces homelessness and loss of custody of her child.
In my YA novel a fifteen-year-old white girl from Boston joins her white aunt and black uncle in their small Ohio college town for the summer. She’s there to study music and soak up the love; why should a city girl bend to the rules of her uncle’s rural community?
Why I Quail at Describing My Novels
Lifetimes of thought sit starving in the waiting room.
My shyness becomes a flock of gazelles, fleeing at the crack of a gun.
For years a man hawked his poems in downtown Reykjavik, bellowing “Poems! Poems!” like a newspaper boy. Some laughed; some bought his poems for pennies; all were embarrassed.
My hands go still with fear at talk of “selling the author.” An auction?
Dream: I jive, shimmy, shine like Sappho. A consultant arrives, with metrics.
Manicured hands yank fabric from the bolt, smooth it against the ruled table, and lower the blade. Whoops. A half-yard short. Into the scrap bin it goes.
Oh my love, have I told your story “aright to the unsatisfied”?
My understanding grows like a tree.
The fruit is glowing on the twigs now, scent hangs in the air: Almost ready, almost ready.