I've spent the majority of the last month attempting to put my life in order by balancing the checkbook, trying to make sense of 1040's, writing thank you notes,and making box blueberry muffins in alternating fits of boredom and domesticity. Sometimes I feel content. More often, I end up crying in the living room over mismatched laundry socks, explaining to the plants how worthless I am as an artist.
The shipment of books my old publishing house mailed me this week came as a timely affirmation. Several months ago, my editor told me that Feeling for Bones had been chosen for translation into Dutch, but I didn't hear anything more about the project until last week when four complimentary copies appeared on my doorstep:
I've been working my way through Part I (or "Deel I"), happy to absorb the story in its unrecognizable state; being unable to read my own writing drives home the conviction that a novel can live a life of its own, quite separate from its author.
