In the book world we authors keep being told we have to flog and blog our books and talents and market ourselves or else die in the dinosaur hell/haven of print.
Words are like the starlings that swarm my frozen garden, after the tiny blackened rosehips out there--flocks and flocks of them pecking the ice-spiked grass. Survivors, they are; tough (tougher) than we Canadians. (Why do we live here, again? she asks, after a stroll by the ice-caked Arm in the kind of cold that makes the trees creak.)
Sad news today as yet another indie bookstore went down.
But we writers, like starlings, are an optimistic lot.
So as long as we can keep pulling down words, this is what we do. Joyfully, and with grace (we hope).
Happy 2010 to everyone out there who loves the written word, wherever you may be,
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