Not part two of the book, but part two of the publication news.
Omaha Beach now has a different cover (fab, fab, fab!) and a better layout inside. It also has an ISBN!
Here's a link: Look here.
On a side note, I returned home last night from a trip to London, where I worked at the London Book Fair for comic book publisher Cinebook. An international book fair is a great place to embarrass yourself by trying out your textbook French, German, Italian, Cantonese, etc. on people who actually speak the language. Tee hee.
If you're blondish and mention that you live in California, expect to be asked by at least one person from another country if you surf. I am, I did and I was. And I don't.
In a narrow, crowded restaurant with uneven floors in the Earls Court section of London, I enjoyed the best tikka masala I've ever tasted. At the tables on either side of ours (we were almost bumping elbows with the diners at those tables), unidentified and highly gutteral languages were being spoken with such intensity that I could practically feel the speakers' breaths in my face. It sounded like a throat-clearing contest.
My one tourist foray of the trip was to Hampton Court, just outside London. Hampton Court was taken away from Cardinal Wolsey by Henry VIII after Wolsey failed to persuade the Pope that it was a good idea for Henry to divorce his wife and marry Anne Boleyn. Some of the outstanding features of the palace include a 500-year-old astronomical clock (taken down for renovation during my visit), the Chapel Royal (closed between church services the day of my visit), the gardens and the Royal Tennis Court (designed not for modern tennis but for the centuries-old game jeu de paume). I was really disappointed to miss the chapel and the clock, but the living history presentations around the palace (including actors preparing a meal in the palace kitchen) assuaged my feelings. I'd watched several PBS specials on Hampton Court before this trip and am thrilled that I got to visit the palace.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Omaha Beach is now in print!
To everyone who's been beating down my (virtual) office door asking when I was going to publish my Omaha Beach collection of short fiction . . . it's done! Omaha Beach is available in print and as a PDF download. These stories, many of them set near a fictitious lakeshore beach outside of Omaha, Nebraska, are about survival.
I'm revising the layout, so I've taken down the link to the preview site. :-)
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
The Fiction of Real Life
Standing on the tarmac at Munich, rolling
new words around my mouth. Hübsch. Süß. Liebling. Mein Liebe.
I like them all.
I’m not sure I like you as well, but your face
anchored by your tender mouth
floats beside me in the falling mist—
your smiles, too, rising falling rising—
a barometer ticking off the measure of my tempers.
In two days we never once
mentioned Grass, Heine, Hesse or the rest of
the 27 Deutsch writers I’d memorized
in alphabetical order
in order
to impress you
You were too busy searching for my heart.
Implacable American. (There.
I said it for you.)
I was too busy building castles.
Now the fairytale mist gathers into real rain drops.
You lean into my shoulder for warmth. Again,
your timing is off, for
I’m shivering with cold and isolation.
Your precise lips part and form the words to
the first American ballad you ever learned:
“Are you lonesome tonight?” you croon
in sweet imitation of the King.
©2006 E.M. Jeffrey
new words around my mouth. Hübsch. Süß. Liebling. Mein Liebe.
I like them all.
I’m not sure I like you as well, but your face
anchored by your tender mouth
floats beside me in the falling mist—
your smiles, too, rising falling rising—
a barometer ticking off the measure of my tempers.
In two days we never once
mentioned Grass, Heine, Hesse or the rest of
the 27 Deutsch writers I’d memorized
in alphabetical order
in order
to impress you
You were too busy searching for my heart.
Implacable American. (There.
I said it for you.)
I was too busy building castles.
Now the fairytale mist gathers into real rain drops.
You lean into my shoulder for warmth. Again,
your timing is off, for
I’m shivering with cold and isolation.
Your precise lips part and form the words to
the first American ballad you ever learned:
“Are you lonesome tonight?” you croon
in sweet imitation of the King.
©2006 E.M. Jeffrey
Monday, January 14, 2008
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
YEAH!
One person at a time, one bag at a time, one effort at a time . . . She's making a difference!
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Warp - Installment #2
“Perfectly good!” Edgar sat up and leaned back against the headboard. “Darling, they were on their last leg, if you’ll pardon the odd metaphor. Those old shoes couldn’t hold air, much less water; your feet were coated in mud each time you took them off. It’s high time you had a new pair. I don’t need to buy your new shoes for you. You’re perfectly free to go out and buy anything you need and ’most anything you want!”
They’d had this conversation so many times in the past ten years that Edgar knew every dead end it held. He scowled at his wife’s slender back as she turned from him, scooped up the offending shoes and headed for the bedroom door.
She spoke as she walked. “I know, my sweet. I know we have plenty of money for these things, but I hate to throw it around. Who knows what’s coming further down the line? Maybe the kids will need help.”
Edgar tapped the paper with his broad fingertips. “Lu, the kids are provided for. Their kids are provided for. We’re provided for. This isn’t the old days, sweetheart. There was a point to all the scrimping and saving back then. You—we don’t need to do it now.”
Luella looked back from the doorway, her eyebrows lifted in an apologetic grimace. “I know, honey. I know I make you crazy by being so careful, but . . . I can’t help it. I grew up poor, and you and I started out poor. I don’t want to play that song again. Ever.” She disappeared down the hallway to the kitchen.
She’ll probably try to resuscitate her shoes, Edgar thought. He murmured, “But you’re living like you’re still poor, Lu.” He picked up the newspaper, willing away the unsettled feeling this talk always produced, and turned to the comics.
They’d had this conversation so many times in the past ten years that Edgar knew every dead end it held. He scowled at his wife’s slender back as she turned from him, scooped up the offending shoes and headed for the bedroom door.
She spoke as she walked. “I know, my sweet. I know we have plenty of money for these things, but I hate to throw it around. Who knows what’s coming further down the line? Maybe the kids will need help.”
Edgar tapped the paper with his broad fingertips. “Lu, the kids are provided for. Their kids are provided for. We’re provided for. This isn’t the old days, sweetheart. There was a point to all the scrimping and saving back then. You—we don’t need to do it now.”
Luella looked back from the doorway, her eyebrows lifted in an apologetic grimace. “I know, honey. I know I make you crazy by being so careful, but . . . I can’t help it. I grew up poor, and you and I started out poor. I don’t want to play that song again. Ever.” She disappeared down the hallway to the kitchen.
She’ll probably try to resuscitate her shoes, Edgar thought. He murmured, “But you’re living like you’re still poor, Lu.” He picked up the newspaper, willing away the unsettled feeling this talk always produced, and turned to the comics.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Warp - Installment #1
“Blast!” Luella sang out from the bedroom closet, loudly enough for Edgar to hear.
Edgar tipped the newspaper down, turned his head on the bed pillow and looked over his glasses at his wife. In the gloom of the unlit closet, she was a vague and harmless shadow. “What is it, dear? And why don’t you turn the light on?”
She stood still, hands on her hips, staring at the closet floor. “I’ve ruined my gardening shoes. They’re completely mildewed. I’m surprised we didn’t smell them before this. I don’t need the light, thanks.” She sighed. “I suppose I’ll garden in my bare feet from now on. Hmmm . . . sounds like a book title, doesn’t it? Barefoot Gardening for Fun and Profit.”
With a monumental effort, Edgar Rawlins managed not to scream at the top of his lungs. “I suppose so,” he breathed, and pretended to return to his reading. He knew Luella’s need to pounce on ambivalent replies.
The hunter sprang. Luella stepped out of the closet and to the foot of the bed in a trice. In a composed voice that didn’t fool Edgar, she asked, “You suppose I’ll garden in my bare feet, or you suppose it sounds like a book title?”
Edgar-the-prey folded, laying his paper on the threadbare flowered comforter. “The latter, of course. I don’t expect you to garden in your bare feet unless that tickles your fancy, Lu.” He didn’t add that he remembered—with a pleasurable stir of warmth in his belly—when it had tickled her fancy (and his) to garden in her bra and cut-offs, racing for her shirt slung over a rose bush when unexpected company drove up.
There was no point in bringing it up, he thought. Nowadays Luella wouldn’t risk being caught in any stage of undress—not because her figure wasn’t still lovely (it was) and not because she was of above-average modesty (she wasn’t). Luella wouldn’t risk being caught in her ten-year-old Maidenform bra, graying and held together by two safety pins.
His wife smiled in embarrassment. “Ed, I know you’d buy me new shoes in a minute if I asked, but I’d hate to. I’d hate to be such a spendthrift. These were perfectly good until I ruined them . . . .”
Edgar tipped the newspaper down, turned his head on the bed pillow and looked over his glasses at his wife. In the gloom of the unlit closet, she was a vague and harmless shadow. “What is it, dear? And why don’t you turn the light on?”
She stood still, hands on her hips, staring at the closet floor. “I’ve ruined my gardening shoes. They’re completely mildewed. I’m surprised we didn’t smell them before this. I don’t need the light, thanks.” She sighed. “I suppose I’ll garden in my bare feet from now on. Hmmm . . . sounds like a book title, doesn’t it? Barefoot Gardening for Fun and Profit.”
With a monumental effort, Edgar Rawlins managed not to scream at the top of his lungs. “I suppose so,” he breathed, and pretended to return to his reading. He knew Luella’s need to pounce on ambivalent replies.
The hunter sprang. Luella stepped out of the closet and to the foot of the bed in a trice. In a composed voice that didn’t fool Edgar, she asked, “You suppose I’ll garden in my bare feet, or you suppose it sounds like a book title?”
Edgar-the-prey folded, laying his paper on the threadbare flowered comforter. “The latter, of course. I don’t expect you to garden in your bare feet unless that tickles your fancy, Lu.” He didn’t add that he remembered—with a pleasurable stir of warmth in his belly—when it had tickled her fancy (and his) to garden in her bra and cut-offs, racing for her shirt slung over a rose bush when unexpected company drove up.
There was no point in bringing it up, he thought. Nowadays Luella wouldn’t risk being caught in any stage of undress—not because her figure wasn’t still lovely (it was) and not because she was of above-average modesty (she wasn’t). Luella wouldn’t risk being caught in her ten-year-old Maidenform bra, graying and held together by two safety pins.
His wife smiled in embarrassment. “Ed, I know you’d buy me new shoes in a minute if I asked, but I’d hate to. I’d hate to be such a spendthrift. These were perfectly good until I ruined them . . . .”
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