tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33920226555034578562024-03-13T08:05:49.919-04:00Everything's NovelKelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.comBlogger247125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-27244630762408836292020-01-28T09:32:00.001-05:002020-01-28T09:32:58.975-05:00A few more days to save <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUHoQlwTRTOAEefaMwTc1hFvvRwzf4Pqdb6Todtnv5z6SwXKYZGck4vecRv2p6CTPbvmmMZQSuWj-c6I8p9YsQD1CSVkctGtzloAaZhvXrT2ZFP_QPn3kSAm_fcwzHUU5pcW-Eg9Czhnk/s1600/72DDAE45-2FA0-4230-AFAF-D657950CE3B2.png" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUHoQlwTRTOAEefaMwTc1hFvvRwzf4Pqdb6Todtnv5z6SwXKYZGck4vecRv2p6CTPbvmmMZQSuWj-c6I8p9YsQD1CSVkctGtzloAaZhvXrT2ZFP_QPn3kSAm_fcwzHUU5pcW-Eg9Czhnk/s320/72DDAE45-2FA0-4230-AFAF-D657950CE3B2.png" width="320" height="269" data-original-width="940" data-original-height="789" /></a><a
bit.ly/AmazonKellySimmons<a href="bit.ly/AmazonKellySimmons"></a>Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-54624169913111218612019-05-29T08:14:00.001-04:002019-05-29T08:14:23.514-04:00On the dark side of the street <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNHsSHzwgXtrdRwlenOnJCo6svG9Uf7B-L8z-Gmhj-awAihnlin6dEqzignMKwWdSd6l52Sx00lnfL7qu6EanQLxpsiZn6ImXtDtWmlJjofVNoGuQfsc2NDtMUTub95qTGT_mtAWEe3UY/s1600/05940988-AAB5-44BC-9ECB-AADA6C9ADCC2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNHsSHzwgXtrdRwlenOnJCo6svG9Uf7B-L8z-Gmhj-awAihnlin6dEqzignMKwWdSd6l52Sx00lnfL7qu6EanQLxpsiZn6ImXtDtWmlJjofVNoGuQfsc2NDtMUTub95qTGT_mtAWEe3UY/s320/05940988-AAB5-44BC-9ECB-AADA6C9ADCC2.JPG" width="320" height="213" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1067" /></a></div><br />
I have five published novels, the first pubbed in 2008, but written in 2004. Each of these novels is psychologically dark. Each narrator is unlikeable. Four years before Gone Girl, six years before Girl on a Train. The world, and its appetites, has come closer to what I like to do, and what I do best. Not thrillers, but dark psychological women's fiction. <br />
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I have not moved an inch. I have not cloaked my work in anything to be part of someone's trend. All my work is of a piece. <br />
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Whether you like it or not, whether it's stubborn or stupid or smart . . . I've stayed true. WHERE SHE WENT, coming out in October, is in my lane. If you like my lane, welcome. If not, at least recognize that it's mine. Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-55167443113736868172018-03-15T07:37:00.002-04:002018-03-15T07:38:12.197-04:00Cheering myself up today. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMkcL442_Qc9pmH31dLAjQIjThC4hD-xWmqTamt-mC3NNJXihSAOLzH6tpjmCPiGIRt_WnZT1M5tIruqHop8jBpydVknuYVG2PGAyFUjiAVeC9b7nflvCuXrf9htiBQalFPVtT8kX7y9s/s1600/chair.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMkcL442_Qc9pmH31dLAjQIjThC4hD-xWmqTamt-mC3NNJXihSAOLzH6tpjmCPiGIRt_WnZT1M5tIruqHop8jBpydVknuYVG2PGAyFUjiAVeC9b7nflvCuXrf9htiBQalFPVtT8kX7y9s/s200/chair.JPG" width="200" height="200" data-original-width="600" data-original-height="600" /></a></div><br />
Possibly the most interesting author you have yet to discover. <br />
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“Simmons brilliantly draws readers into the family’s pervasive cloud of suspicion and distrust.” – Shelf Awareness<br />
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“A cleverly dark family whodunit. The perfect read for a day at the beach.” <br />
--Library Journal<br />
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“A read as comfortable as a worn-in sofa at a beach house.” – Booklist<br />
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“Gorgeously written and fully immersive.” – NYTimes Bestseller Kate Moretti.<br />
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“A rare novel that combines intrigue and suspense with so much heart. One of my favorite books.” -- Sarah Pekkanen, NYTimes Bestselling Author of THE WIFE BETWEEN US<br />
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“Simmons hits all the right emotional notes in this wrenching ghost story.” <br />
--Publishers Weekly <br />
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“Twisty, psychologically deft and wildly original. It will have you guessing until the very end.” --NYTimes Bestseller Megan Abbott<br />
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Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-64197458820172820952017-12-14T06:22:00.002-05:002017-12-14T06:22:22.909-05:00Breaking Bargain News. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrvjEVoB_Tbmxdh4tY-cCalTI2dNQOMfYWfOSimzIP_PM9oKtZtfnfRdgafmbq1gqJyj8AdUDulMSKhhjzqXiM-XMBXO9xkjYWsTnY03SjEmK8gtRBWC5Wb85ByXE-cpuD3q77n0Txf84/s1600/2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrvjEVoB_Tbmxdh4tY-cCalTI2dNQOMfYWfOSimzIP_PM9oKtZtfnfRdgafmbq1gqJyj8AdUDulMSKhhjzqXiM-XMBXO9xkjYWsTnY03SjEmK8gtRBWC5Wb85ByXE-cpuD3q77n0Txf84/s200/2.png" width="200" height="200" data-original-width="800" data-original-height="800" /></a></div><br />
So, this happened. Kindle Daily Deal, only $1.99. That's quite a bargain at just the time we could all use one. Hope you or someone you know will download it and treat yourself to reading over your holidays. (And did you know you can gift an ebook? It's super simple. You just need their email address.) <a href=" https://www.amazon.com/Fifth-July-Novel-Kelly-Simmons-ebook/dp/B06XRKDYMX/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Buy here.</a> <br />
Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-1550717029871780482017-08-17T07:08:00.001-04:002017-08-17T07:08:02.620-04:00Partial eclipse. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2HDOV9fn02FsTGGyxUs5STt4EWU0eezgpl4doSE7c0iC2fHlrJ7iVJY5Wv_DWdxf8my7Sl4Gxs_MXnrWuSvIaUwWapd9Qsa6bxRl2Uh2Qe23lZgABEixg8o3ZySQqvRs_IgsN1ZMR7Gc/s1600/fuck+it%252C+its+nantucket+043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2HDOV9fn02FsTGGyxUs5STt4EWU0eezgpl4doSE7c0iC2fHlrJ7iVJY5Wv_DWdxf8my7Sl4Gxs_MXnrWuSvIaUwWapd9Qsa6bxRl2Uh2Qe23lZgABEixg8o3ZySQqvRs_IgsN1ZMR7Gc/s320/fuck+it%252C+its+nantucket+043.JPG" width="320" height="214" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1072" /></a></div><br />
It was not possible to grow up in the sixties without having science thrust upon you at every turn. These were delicious years for science teachers. These were the tornado shelter years, the time of Duck & Cover nuclear drills. The moon landing on every television in every home. Suddenly there were vaccines for everything, the birth control pill was invented. And these were just the things we noticed, remarked upon.Behind the scenes the whole world was being changed. <br />
But in the middle of it all, what I remember, for unusual reasons, was the eclipse.There were projects for building boxes with pinholes. There were discussions of angles, timing. There was chit chat about where we should be, what to do, and how to behave. Just like there is right now. <br />
And then there was my mother’s simple, exhausted, I just-had-a-baby-admonition: For the entire day, just to be safe, don’t look at the sun. No matter what. Not once. <br />
But it was summer, and we ran outside like untended dogs, all the neighborhood kids, which included mostly girls but a few boys, one a year older who lived next door. I was six and he was seven? Eight? We were that young. Somehow he and I were together, alone, on the hill in his backyard, pulling patches of grass up with our hands, throwing them. Braiding them. Trying to whistle with them. Making the long hot July day go by. The sun was directly overhead, which is why we were sitting, there, tempting fate. We talked about not looking. That we could go blind. What it would be like to go blind. The boxes we were supposed to use sat next to us on the lawn. Where was my brother? Where was his sister? Where was my friend who lived across the street? I don’t know. <br />
"I can't look," I said. <br />
He leaned over to kiss me, his lips garden-cool on mine, and for a brief moment, his head, with his blond crew cut and dirt streaks on his forehead, completely covered the threat of the sun. I know because I opened my eyes.<br />
Spoiler alert: I am not blind. <br />
Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-26563231630839622812017-07-07T14:22:00.000-04:002017-07-07T14:23:19.564-04:00Sleepy summer road trips and reading. Not all book blogs are equal, that's for sure. We get busy, don't have time or energy to write the beautiful essays that some love, or the funny anecdotes that others prefer, or we fall asleep with books on our chests, and don't get through them, and can't even write a post about books we've loved. But some people never disappoint, their blogs continue to weave interesting things together, and one person who does that, unerringly, is <a href="http://beth-kephart.blogspot.com/2017/07/dignity-our-fellow-americans-and-july.html">Beth Kephart Books.</a> I was honored to have her reflections on THE FIFTH OF JULY included as part of her all-American road trip. The America I am writing about looks beautiful on the surface, but has so many cracks in its foundation. But all is not lost. It never is. For the rest of this weekend, if you like my <a href="https://www.facebook.com/kellysimmonswriter/?ref=bookmarks">Facebook Author Page,</a> there's a free mini-book sampling of THE FIFTH OF JULY. If you hurry. It won't be July forever.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0-gRjN3cu5e1P-bF7yCvLqriWoX1MwMOGgFxtJAbYWY2UgAdlmNe1ESJ_LMZXaeStY6xi7Mm0cjZrZTxXwqyEFEDd29tx3snbyPhmVv_HNDFhBJTM9ekXyz00sRGGX1riZfmNmdXi3hE/s1600/lonelysunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0-gRjN3cu5e1P-bF7yCvLqriWoX1MwMOGgFxtJAbYWY2UgAdlmNe1ESJ_LMZXaeStY6xi7Mm0cjZrZTxXwqyEFEDd29tx3snbyPhmVv_HNDFhBJTM9ekXyz00sRGGX1riZfmNmdXi3hE/s320/lonelysunset.jpg" width="256" height="320" data-original-width="1280" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-35971719302289561692017-04-25T07:28:00.002-04:002017-04-25T07:28:13.066-04:00 ONE MORE DAY is on sale for $2.99 for, yes, one more day. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd_DBm4PDhJyNFZcWbiAZQlOJAWDCGa86SigwlXIfSolENYzcMwi018wD9Ay5hZcuD_kDIkov03N28RQ8bWl1_ZJU6AjA3qWzCRk39CPKLJk9gqQwTC9PVTYPKkGujnRf2rcQab2wE0UA/s1600/Kelly.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd_DBm4PDhJyNFZcWbiAZQlOJAWDCGa86SigwlXIfSolENYzcMwi018wD9Ay5hZcuD_kDIkov03N28RQ8bWl1_ZJU6AjA3qWzCRk39CPKLJk9gqQwTC9PVTYPKkGujnRf2rcQab2wE0UA/s320/Kelly.png" width="320" height="269" /></a></div><br />
A tangled web, perhaps, but a simple price. Thank you Barnes & Noble, for adding me to your 500 under $5. <a href=" http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/one-more-day-kelly-simmons/1121772395?ean=9781492618652">Here 'tis.</a> <br />
Or if you're a kindle person, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/One-More-Day-Kelly-Simmons-ebook/dp/B0169AK27A/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">here.</a><br />
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Also, I should mention the BIG GOODREADS GIVEAWAY on my novel THE FIFTH OF JULY. <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/34006779-the-fifth-of-july?from_search=true">Please add it to your list!</a> <br />
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That's more than enough linking for one day, but it's raining here, and rain means reading. I'll take that as a good sign that you will. Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-25007841744337303522016-10-21T07:50:00.001-04:002016-10-21T07:53:28.799-04:00#NotOkay<br />
I have a microblog at verysincerely.com, in which I write anonymous letters about things that amaze me, scare me, irk me. If you're interested, here was this week's: <br />
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Dear Chamber of Commerce President: <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTCSL157ltzL8NGO_Y4vVLGDvLQN9GApQi0eqWolbeG3_n9sNeJsXYs5e8KTMYJ8RhvUXqwb2j9iVbvVwU43j84UDkOK68C1X9KgsQf4P-NUuzGBBd1mbG2HEQ5Rn1OSwFcD0q_JwwTsI/s1600/IMG_0369.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTCSL157ltzL8NGO_Y4vVLGDvLQN9GApQi0eqWolbeG3_n9sNeJsXYs5e8KTMYJ8RhvUXqwb2j9iVbvVwU43j84UDkOK68C1X9KgsQf4P-NUuzGBBd1mbG2HEQ5Rn1OSwFcD0q_JwwTsI/s320/IMG_0369.jpg" width="180" height="320" /></a></div><br />
You. Yes, you. You with the boundless energy. Enough to run a business and an organization, and still coach your sons’ soccer team. Always smiling, always cajoling, the customers loved you, trusted you. Who wouldn’t?<br />
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You hired people on instinct, you said, not on experience, not on age.<br />
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What did you see in me at age 15? Energy, intelligence? Or did you see in me the shyness, the uncertainty, that would make me freeze in confusion when you rubbed up against me in the dark back stairway? Turning a tight corner into a do-si-do that always ended in a rough full frontal “hug” up against the damp wall, a move I had no vocabulary word for.<br />
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Are you thinking of me now as you watch the news?<br />
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I remember your name.<br />
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But somehow I doubt you remember anything about me but my body.<br />
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Very Sincerely,<br />
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After School EmployeeKelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-9369862733286866222016-06-17T06:01:00.000-04:002016-06-17T06:01:25.341-04:00A special price, today only. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlj_skENuDQwvONFD1lLrG-bnPpXssukiKFqb256QYuJQN7FT9LXZ2JYV0TPaAfm8XRV7QfSj76lHgNEZT9ZKb_4bjVZqn8O5Wklio9uGIKVMFyE7J9uBpW73sNyRk9PfJjhj4N5qotSw/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlj_skENuDQwvONFD1lLrG-bnPpXssukiKFqb256QYuJQN7FT9LXZ2JYV0TPaAfm8XRV7QfSj76lHgNEZT9ZKb_4bjVZqn8O5Wklio9uGIKVMFyE7J9uBpW73sNyRk9PfJjhj4N5qotSw/s400/2.jpg" /></a><br />
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Have you been waiting? Is it on your to-be-read list? Download it on any device, today, Friday June 17th, and head to the beach. Here's <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Fans-of-Author-Kelly-Simmons-291343839243/">the link to Kindle.</a> And here's the <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/one-more-day-kelly-simmons/1121772395?ean=9781492618652">link to nook.</a> Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-61408806175999159282016-05-30T09:45:00.002-04:002016-05-30T09:45:46.526-04:00 Independence Days. <br />
For many years, before I was published, I related not so much to other authors, but to musicians. Indie singer/songwriters just left of center. Not commercial enough to be commercial. The most influential for me was Aimee Mann, whose lyrics and voice I've long admired. My new novel, about halfway finished, is set in July in Nantucket, a tragic summer for one family, and the anniversary of another event that changed one of their lives long ago. The song "Fourth of July" by Aimee Mann has been something of a lighthouse for me on this book. Or a dark house, as the case may be. Long live the independent voices. <br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vOYI85anqmQ">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vOYI85anqmQ<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG9Yv_MRJ5a47v4OEef6rO9AqFUVeSPVJ5clINS7J4VdHiu1NIs1BF1UFM-knkBOJM9ivsKlhEs7jD-05_wQpn1_m00U5aJD1KqbjNN2ALs9J2j7sYQvj3winh0xNS4Jb6vRUqcwUn3_U/s1600/bike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG9Yv_MRJ5a47v4OEef6rO9AqFUVeSPVJ5clINS7J4VdHiu1NIs1BF1UFM-knkBOJM9ivsKlhEs7jD-05_wQpn1_m00U5aJD1KqbjNN2ALs9J2j7sYQvj3winh0xNS4Jb6vRUqcwUn3_U/s200/bike.jpg" /></a></div></a>Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-68499640015960484592016-04-01T11:22:00.005-04:002016-04-01T11:22:52.138-04:00Another great giveaway til April 15 only! <a class="rcptr" href="http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/6402b6cf40/" rel="nofollow" data-raflid="6402b6cf40" data-theme="classic" data-template="" id="rcwidget_ts676qa8">a Rafflecopter giveaway</a><br />
<script src="https://widget-prime.rafflecopter.com/launch.js"></script><br />
Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-88059804708996318522016-02-29T08:56:00.000-05:002016-02-29T08:56:19.462-05:00Baking, reading, remembering. At all my book events, I have been bringing along mini pies and thumbprint cookies with jam. <br />
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The baking figures prominently <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PUGAhLbyeEE">in my book trailer</a> and in my book, because In ONE MORE DAY, the main character, Carrie Morgan, bakes with her grandmother, as she did when she was a little girl. However, it's not clear whether her grandmother is dead or alive. :) <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF-gOFJoMWIGert5NKdeP00CegZ9EbvUi9g48hfZ5jBGEZHBVvroqZjar6QBfOqp9kTUYMuZzA-3_MY4T7uYpT0WX1d90AvI-ggwQgdTywHJSB3lW5KbgsvTCs5yw9IamOmE8hwcv4tHE/s1600/fuzzymom.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF-gOFJoMWIGert5NKdeP00CegZ9EbvUi9g48hfZ5jBGEZHBVvroqZjar6QBfOqp9kTUYMuZzA-3_MY4T7uYpT0WX1d90AvI-ggwQgdTywHJSB3lW5KbgsvTCs5yw9IamOmE8hwcv4tHE/s200/fuzzymom.JPG" /></a></div>As she says in the book, "How is it possible that someone dead smells so much like cookies?" <br />
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Many of my grandmother's and mother's recipes have been lost. But in their place, I have <a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/jam-thumbprint-cookies-recipe.html">Ina Garten. </a> <br />
Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-66769041991496204002016-02-21T08:04:00.001-05:002016-02-21T08:05:37.697-05:00Fab February Fiction Giveaway.<br />
If these books sound familiar to you, it's probably because you've heard about them on NPR, or in People Magazine, The New York Times, your favorite book blog or Goodreads -- now you can enter to win all 5 -- the most buzzed-about February fiction, all brought to you by the legendary Binders Full of Woman Writers. <br />
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<br />
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Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-80654070474686717302016-02-08T07:26:00.000-05:002016-02-08T07:26:19.942-05:00A fun interview. <br />
I loved this interview at Book Club Babble so much I thought I'd share it. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://bookclubbabble.com/one-more-day-an-interview-with-kelly-simmons/">Me, Babbling, here. </a>Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-36136844782097021762016-01-26T09:26:00.000-05:002016-01-26T09:26:10.633-05:00The book is coming. And lots of cool events. Here's February's lineup.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE4P0mMfU-VEwsCktq0Pa1PbF71-RHnetIlSvRKUeBRb21Glrnq8Gfahbq4-Hlo5nh0EDRUviLTiP1Qow3BSZ4s1cZGwY5QW2ozv_Rq5h4yfJdH5H7xUluO4KLWvNrbfx7fgz5Qk9SYZ8/s1600/Events+Poster+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE4P0mMfU-VEwsCktq0Pa1PbF71-RHnetIlSvRKUeBRb21Glrnq8Gfahbq4-Hlo5nh0EDRUviLTiP1Qow3BSZ4s1cZGwY5QW2ozv_Rq5h4yfJdH5H7xUluO4KLWvNrbfx7fgz5Qk9SYZ8/s640/Events+Poster+copy.jpg" /></a></div>Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-36910194646415510172015-12-30T14:09:00.000-05:002015-12-30T14:09:04.074-05:00Empty Nest: New things vs. Old things. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOJ5lny-qRQJ_HOzEtmo9jqXmVNblB0crVFJWnu8wrDqW3sY5CrpMHA_qhv5dd69ZDrKRsr_8raXUbj_7KnqVXX70mquB3ZUUG5CGGTC5OKPMsS_WPWUSYiBissbpJv5fpI2H5bD6e6Dg/s1600/forest.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOJ5lny-qRQJ_HOzEtmo9jqXmVNblB0crVFJWnu8wrDqW3sY5CrpMHA_qhv5dd69ZDrKRsr_8raXUbj_7KnqVXX70mquB3ZUUG5CGGTC5OKPMsS_WPWUSYiBissbpJv5fpI2H5bD6e6Dg/s320/forest.JPG" /></a></div><br />
When scheduling gets tight, and favorite things go undone, new things get crowded out. "Hey, let's do Pilates together!" becomes "Hey, let's do the dishes together!" <br />
<br />
Also, it struck me on vacation that even the things we do the same, we do differently. Like hiking. Since I love scenery yet fear heights, I sometimes have to cover my eyes on the drive leading to the hike. He does not do this (which is a good thing, since he is driving.) And he does not slow down, until I yell, "Hey! slow down!" <br />
<br />
We have hiked all over the world together, over many years, through various levels of fitness, pregnancy, and state of mind. My friends have all witnessed my breakdowns around the 5-mile mark. I have screamed a lot more than "Hey slow down!" over the years. I have screamed, "I'm hungry! I'm going back down to the cafe!" I have screamed, "I can't do it! Go get a ranger to carry me down!" And other times, I have simply said, "You climb hand over hand to the top. I'll wait here and you can tell me about it." And then, after watching elderly handicapped people pull themselves to the top, I followed, surprising him, shocking him, that I got over my fear. <br />
<br />
But sometimes, going at my own pace, hanging back, affords me the opportunity to see something beautiful. Like my family, my gaggle of sprites, running through the dappled light. <br />
<br />
Sometimes, there is a wonderful reason I am lagging behind. Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-51688771841274740892015-12-09T08:20:00.000-05:002015-12-09T08:20:21.659-05:00Sofa dreams My home is filled with my husband's parents' furniture. It's not difficult to imagine how this has happened. Things are inherited. Things are difficult to part with. Three children are in college and who has money for furniture?<br />
<br />
But last night I dreamed of my childhood living room sofa. We had a family room with a TV and cozy seating and a basement/playroom and no one claimed the emptier, more formal living room. No one except me, who used it as a reading spot. I read a lot, so I was there a lot. Laying down and looking out the bank of windows in between chapters. I remember that sofa so well. Dark turquoise. A slightly nubby silk shantung, a word my grandmother, who had bought the sofa, told me. It itched slightly against my legs but I didn't care. It was easily the most expensive thing in the house, and my parents never said don't sit there, don't lay there, go read somewhere else. Never. It's something I'm thankful for. For what would I have become if someone had told me to leave my reading spot? <br />
<br />
And I wonder what that sofa would look like in my house now. If I would find comfort in it, if I would find peace. And I wonder if its the reason I love the color turquoise, I crave the color turquoise, so much. <br />
<br />
<br />
Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-14379955991207471802015-11-23T10:05:00.002-05:002015-11-23T10:05:29.005-05:00It's the climb. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI7Ogh9oPgiqsMiEGjGC9HEyOv7oISsWBxI6oehiIgk_s2a196VdN8Vctck7h7qKRWGmQaguk-RpqtkrabDNShv_v8ZLKl06Yy49tSLOdM3_YaRLTEbzmMSM-IYfM21plyd5N1EXRQuwE/s1600/e9crqou9k0y-andras-toth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI7Ogh9oPgiqsMiEGjGC9HEyOv7oISsWBxI6oehiIgk_s2a196VdN8Vctck7h7qKRWGmQaguk-RpqtkrabDNShv_v8ZLKl06Yy49tSLOdM3_YaRLTEbzmMSM-IYfM21plyd5N1EXRQuwE/s200/e9crqou9k0y-andras-toth.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Everyone thinks writing that first draft is the steep side, the rough crossing, the hand-over-hand on icy terrain that rewards you with a view at the top. And -- that revising is the easy glide down the other side. When. in. fact. The opposite is true. Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-70401906613245441702015-10-23T07:35:00.001-04:002015-10-23T07:42:12.004-04:00Win an early reader's copy of my new book! (And 4 other fab ones)<a class="e-widget" href="https://gleam.io/IvvZd/thriller-giveaway" rel="nofollow">Thriller Giveaway!</a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKWHMg2FFpmxfQxiT1hq8bkLKsQzIeY1QxE6Zsdb1yyW439Yl7S27r-O-gG08STY0nrZY9KqAoFSB4TIL1eMzFiqmtrvzb3kxYrBHPddfEv-qVD7lOVIY8MpqSaVD4WqKxVKXJ25m6qng/s1600/12178073_10205468028123729_1986793376_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKWHMg2FFpmxfQxiT1hq8bkLKsQzIeY1QxE6Zsdb1yyW439Yl7S27r-O-gG08STY0nrZY9KqAoFSB4TIL1eMzFiqmtrvzb3kxYrBHPddfEv-qVD7lOVIY8MpqSaVD4WqKxVKXJ25m6qng/s320/12178073_10205468028123729_1986793376_n.jpg" /></a></div>Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-5702318091277511372015-10-18T10:52:00.000-04:002015-10-18T10:52:06.463-04:00Let's remember this sky. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqqXg1ATJ0Ef5PsGRC06Ae7OA2f3vRB8fTVgFpTxarVT5iRBbo5f9vgMCHlX_iyhhbjcWbMOXNziAH9Xk-WEJFFM-z8eM8z6ubTg_Fsn2HC0i0uUq_HM3e5srFVsNetchLuQe8JZH8s58/s1600/light.tree.Sue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqqXg1ATJ0Ef5PsGRC06Ae7OA2f3vRB8fTVgFpTxarVT5iRBbo5f9vgMCHlX_iyhhbjcWbMOXNziAH9Xk-WEJFFM-z8eM8z6ubTg_Fsn2HC0i0uUq_HM3e5srFVsNetchLuQe8JZH8s58/s320/light.tree.Sue.jpg" /></a></div><br />
We were at her house when the light across the neighboring horse farm turned darkly beautiful. This, I said. This is the in-between almost-autumn that I wrote about in ONE MORE DAY. This always-cloudy never-rainy October sky. The still-green leaves that stubbornly won't change color. The metallic gray clouds that can't quite stop the golden slivers of sun. Remember this sky, I said to her. When you read my next book, remember this sky, and this day. Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-89023182946387567412015-09-03T13:02:00.001-04:002015-09-03T13:23:19.688-04:00The best laid empty nest plans . . . <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihVKlFsDMyT2WxN2zX-5CQHBau2M0PW2NECxZuRJx9X6kTLQHRUvM91r1x9rhf8Y-1xp8TX33bfl3kub74LH74uXXQJEF407en4GwqoekXL-iJQm5ibQkJpopzPUTEKNbTbteY_yPGEFo/s1600/Girl.Birds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihVKlFsDMyT2WxN2zX-5CQHBau2M0PW2NECxZuRJx9X6kTLQHRUvM91r1x9rhf8Y-1xp8TX33bfl3kub74LH74uXXQJEF407en4GwqoekXL-iJQm5ibQkJpopzPUTEKNbTbteY_yPGEFo/s200/Girl.Birds.jpg" /></a></div>It's September. The empty nest is upon us. To avoid it as long as possible, we dropped off our younger two children in Massachusetts, and headed up to New Hampshire to see friends we've been meaning to see. To get to their house, you pass by a lake, twice, and I was dumbstruck each time by the sudden beauty of it, to emerge from the green forest and stumble upon all that blue. <br />
<br />
A town fair on Saturday. A boat ride on Sunday. Exploring the inlets, the gulches and glens, winding through the water in a way you don't do in the ocean, was calming, like being in a canoe. We docked at another friend's cabin, explored their property, with its own jetties and landings, and a special sunset-y patio on the edge of their property, connected to nothing but waves and roots, jutting out into the water for dinner parties. A rocky landing just for dinner parties, with a tiny spit of sand a few feet wide, and a small dock for friends arriving to the party by boat. It was simple, and simply gorgeous, and seemed the height of empty nest fabulosity. <br />
<br />
Looking for things in common in our marriage, for a new place to live, for activities that last and connect, I land on a single word: Harbor. I grew up in a small harbor town in Illinois. I lived the happiest five years of my life in a harbor town in California. We spend our summers, as much as we can, in another harbor town. The thrill of arriving, of stately marine traffic, the snap of sail and flag, the welcome of whistle. It's in my bones, and in his. <br />
<br />
And every time I've seen a town like this, whether its Annapolis or Tiburon or Perth, I think: Home. And I think now, of the small craft my husband sold when the college bills started to come, and the upkeep outstripped our use. And I know, each in our own way -- he the navigator, the fisherman, the keeper of the tides -- and me, the observer, the dreamer, the chronicler of memories -- that we both are happy when we are in the same boat. Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-80133013627012892202015-05-25T09:00:00.000-04:002015-05-25T09:11:01.833-04:00Objects in rearview mirror are larger than they appear.The photo arrived innocently. A look-what-we-found-in-a-box. A reminder of a high school classmate who died driving to the bars just over the state line, where the drinking age was 18 instead of 21. <br />
<br />
When strangers ask where I grew up, they're surprised when I say Illinois. They say they hear Wisconsin in my voice. That's how close that border was. We were blends, all of us, of those two states. We drove up to party all the time, sometimes smart enough, and flush enough, to take cabs. But not always. <br />
<br />
The night Vera died, she was supposed to give me and another friend a lift home. I left early, with someone who seemed more sober. The snapshot breathalyzers, the cop-like calculations we all make when we drink, still. My other friend went home with someone else too. Plans came together and came apart easily at that age, when you never knew who you would meet or what would happen.<br />
<br />
When the news came to me the next morning that Vera's car had collided with a tree, my other friend and I felt the horror and the relief at the same time. That we had made, accidentally, the right decision. <br />
<br />
I was recently reminded of these choices after a story told to me by college girls. Listening to them talk, the morning-after forensics, reminded me how easily it is to lose track of one another, even with cell phones. How the girl code and "hos before bros" can melt away when you pour the wrong substance on it. <br />
<br />
And the relief I felt about making the right decision that night in Wisconsin slips away from me now, on Memorial Day. Because how is it the right decision to leave someone else, impaired, behind? <br />
<br />
I think of Vera whenever I see a roadside shrine, the balloons bobbing in the wind, the stuffed animals clinging to trees and rocks. Every makeshift cross reminds me of how the people who serve this country do so many things right. <br />
<br />
It's not the girl code we need to remember, but the battle code. You don't leave the fallen behind. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoMv0nPrGxuf2BsYf_Z_DuoqaDzUxmGgBZnA1S56a4deNzmBxkC83YUgJarny3x_jK5XRLauvDsKaH2XxxMmIxF6f5VCXTNG322htNSnOirzltjlqVoxJg_sEbuOzbb6yWLq6xQM7OOyU/s1600/DSC_0049.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoMv0nPrGxuf2BsYf_Z_DuoqaDzUxmGgBZnA1S56a4deNzmBxkC83YUgJarny3x_jK5XRLauvDsKaH2XxxMmIxF6f5VCXTNG322htNSnOirzltjlqVoxJg_sEbuOzbb6yWLq6xQM7OOyU/s200/DSC_0049.JPG" /></a></div>Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-10997206409545500452015-04-30T07:08:00.000-04:002015-04-30T07:11:01.607-04:00Fan Fiction. For one I've loved and probably lost. Brian, Before<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
He was nobody special. None of us were. <br />
There were seven or eight of us at college, mostly sophomores, some juniors, who kept running into each other in the same places – the bakery near the White House, the cheese shop, the ice cream stores -- pretending we weren’t there for the free samples. <br />
After Labor Day when I went down to the blood donation center I saw him coming out, sipping the telltale orange juice, the money safe in his pocket. It was 1981, and his hair was unfashionably short, his blue jeans not faded enough, his button downs worn at the elbows. His sleeves were rolled up, as if he’d been hard at work at something, and his forearms shone with golden hair. He held the door for me with his free hand, and said, “Hello, Robin,” in a way that made my name sound prettier than it was. I still don’t know how he knew my name. <br />
I saw him again in late September. It was still hot in Washington and there was a line at Baskin-Robbins but I went in anyway, wincing when the door jingled, trying to look nonchalant. My hair pulled up because it was nearly ninety degrees -- and because I didn’t want to look like the same girl who had been there yesterday, pretending I’d never tasted butterscotch ripple. He made no such attempts at subterfuge. He was already at the counter, greeting the staff by name. He asked Rebecca for spoonful after spoonful of different flavors, and she deftly obliged him while taking orders from other people. I was fifth in line, and had no money in my pocket. Not a dime. <br />
Finally the manager came out and took a long glance at the cluster of spent pink spoons in his hand. <br />
Great, I thought. Now he’s going to ruin it for the rest of us. <br />
“Jesus, Brian, why don’t we just give you a free pint?” <br />
“Well, Gary,” he said, handing the spoons back to Rebecca to throw away, modulating his voice down to a practiced whisper, “if you have any pints that are close to their sell-by date, I’d be happy to take them off your hands.” <br />
The manager motioned him into the back room. My stomach gurgled with hunger and my face burned with envy. <br />
I couldn’t ask for anything when I was nineteen. <br />
<br />
* * * <br />
<br />
The mint-chocolate-chip was still lingering on my tongue when I walked outside. He stood near the curb, the pint in one hand, two full-sized spoons in the other. He stepped forward and handed me a spoon. Up close I saw his eyes weren’t completely blue, but held a little green, and there was a boyish scattering of tiny freckles on the bridge of his nose, but nowhere else. His teeth were good but not great; like me, he hadn’t had braces. <br />
“Free ice cream,” he said. <br />
“Free expired ice cream.” <br />
“It expires tomorrow.” He opened the lid. <br />
“What flavor is it?” <br />
“Baseball Nut.” <br />
I wrinkled my nose. “Nuts?”<br />
“What’s wrong with nuts? An excellent source of protein.”<br />
“I don’t like embellishments. I don’t want to stop and chew.” <br />
“Ah, but there are chips in mint chocolate chip. Which is your favorite.” <br />
“How do you know that?” <br />
“I’m a journalism major. Being observant is part of the job.” <br />
“Being accurate is a bigger part of the job.”<br />
“Are you saying mint chocolate chip is not your favorite?” <br />
“No,” I said. “I’m saying the chips melt in your mouth, and require no chewing.” <br />
“Not if you’re in a hurry,” he said. <br />
“Are you in a hurry?” <br />
“Yes,” he said. “Always. Perpetually. Now . . . have some Baseball Nut before it melts.” <br />
<br />
* * * <br />
<br />
We were both on part scholarship. We both had loans. I worked in the library ten hours a week, and he worked at a pancake house, where at least one free meal was guaranteed. He took me there and the waitress slipped us cokes and orders of hash browns. He used the pancakes like bread, sandwiching his eggs and sausage and peppers in between them. Like so many adolescent boys, he was hungry all the time. Hungry all the time, and broke most of the time, was a terrible combination. At least I didn’t have his hunger. <br />
Washington in the eighties was a great place to live if you had no money. There were always festivals, free concerts on the Mall, and beautiful places to walk. We walked everywhere that autumn, watching the colors change in the trees down at the Tidal Basin. He loved traipsing over the bridge to Georgetown and sitting on the lawn as if we went to school there instead of GW. He told me simple stories about his hometown in New Jersey, about walking through backyards with his dog, passing beneath the trestles wrapped with lilacs and honeysuckle. It seemed like the most restful and charming place you could ever imagine. I was stunned, years later, to pass through it on the way to New York and find a rusty city clinging to the edge of the train tracks as if it didn’t want to be there. <br />
We didn’t hold hands. We didn’t kiss. That first month, we walked, and I wasn’t sure if I was there to listen, or learn, or wait for more. Was I an audience? I didn’t know which of us was auditioning, or for what. All I knew was that I fell asleep remembering the stories he’d told me, and carried the memory of his blue-green eyes like a pair of lucky marbles. <br />
He found an old theatre that showed classic black and white movies in Dupont Circle for a few dollars. He knew all the bars that had free appetizers, and we’d split a beer and eat eggroll after eggroll, mini hot dog after mini hot dog. He seemed to know all the hidden places, and shared them with me. He noticed details and when he spoke, he used evocative words like ‘fragrant’ and ‘lush’ and warmed them further with the whisky of his voice. <br />
When I think of him now, that’s what I remember most, not his earnest eyes or strong forearms but his voice. I think of how things spilled out of him, his willingness to share, to share just a little too much.<br />
I told my roommate Talia I couldn’t tell if we were friends, or heading toward something else. She did not approve. “He’s just using you until something better comes along, something he’s more sure of.” <br />
“How do you know that?”<br />
“He’s like a penny that’s too shiny,” she said. “Sooner or later, he’s going to tarnish.” <br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
My dorm was planning a marathon dance for charity, and everyone signed up for shifts. The more popular girls had boyfriends, and the rest of us scrambled to find someone willing. <br />
On one of our nightly walks, I ask him if he’d be my partner, and he said yes, then asked for the date and time. It’s two weeks from Friday, I told him, and he nodded. <br />
“Good, I’ll still be here then.” <br />
“Where are you going?”<br />
“I’ve been meaning to tell you – I’m leaving after this semester.” <br />
I blinked. I told him he was being short-sighted, foolish. That if he needed help with his homework, I’d help him. If he needed another job, I could vouch for him at the library. <br />
He smiled at me without showing his teeth. It’s how I knew he was being serious. A boy who is trying to get everyone to like him always smiles, but there are different smiles. <br />
He said that with or without a degree, he knows he’ll end up on radio, or who knows, maybe on television. You don’t need a degree for that, he said, just an audition tape. “Plus I already have an internship at The White House in January.” <br />
“How can you have an internship if you’re not in school?”<br />
He said that he didn’t get it through the career center, but through someone he met at the cheese shop. <br />
“But -- where will you live?” <br />
“I’m still working on that.” <br />
I thought of my narrow bed, my small closet, Talia who was never there at night. I wanted to offer, but didn’t. That is the one thing I didn’t do. <br />
“You can’t leave school without kissing me,” I said suddenly. <br />
“What?” His smile was wider, and I wondered if that was his plan all along – make me ask. Make me want it. <br />
“You heard me.” <br />
He leaned in without using his hands. His lips were soft but thin. I could feel everything behind them, the ridges of his teeth, his tongue, every word he had ever said to me. <br />
<br />
* * * <br />
<br />
At the dance marathon, I had an enviable shift -- 8pm until 11. Not too early, not too late. I laced up my sneakers and walked to the gym, wondering if he was a good dancer. I imagined he was -- he walked lightly and quickly. I think about whether he knows any specific skills: how to moonwalk, how to two-step. I picture his mother teaching him the waltz in their narrow ranch home, the two of them smiling matching smiles. <br />
In the gym I watched the other dancers shuffle through disco songs that were beyond the reaches of their ability. The twirling silver lights cast long shadows across their exposed skin and I realized they were probably tired. I glanced at my watch. I’d told him to meet me at 7:45, and it was two minutes to eight. He’d never been late before. <br />
At eight o’clock a chime went off and the dancers came off the floor. The coordinator asked where my partner was and I said he was running late. She told me to let her know when he gets there. I waited an hour, pacing at the gym entrance, my mind speeding through the scenarios, before I decided to walk to his dorm a few blocks away. <br />
I buzzed his door and his roommate answered, sounding muffled, and said Brian wasn’t there. <br />
As I walked back down the block I heard him call my name behind me. <br />
“Robin, wait,” he said. <br />
I turned, frowned. “You were home? He said you--” <br />
“I can explain.” <br />
I let him. It came out in a swirl, a paragraph of phrases tumbling over each other. I had to meet a professor for a recommendation and he was running late and then he suggested a drink and I couldn’t say no and I had no way to reach you and then. <br />
“And then what?” I said.<br />
“And then,” he said, taking a deep breath, “then the White House chief of staff came in the bar and of course I had to introduce myself.” <br />
I blinked at him. This was my fault, I realized later. I had asked for it, the embellishment, the thing neither of us needed to make it more wrong or more right. <br />
I turned on my heel and went home, knowing he wouldn’t follow me, knowing he wouldn’t call, knowing I wouldn’t run into him again. <br />
His days of free samples were officially over. <br />
Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-67087430809847122642015-03-07T07:24:00.002-05:002015-03-07T07:25:25.346-05:00In my virtual travels. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugWgialYmIjm-nxYYJWdwwvjkGtbc765hfbnW_UfEzQTPPbrJAeg0jqXFK0sPFkNQZff9SUOv4hrveVB1_QFvpZyB27Ugn1UUOy6VihOjRU9xNHj87rIYdkeRAZfQ7hTMxmiO6F6Haw8/s1600/P8290165.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugWgialYmIjm-nxYYJWdwwvjkGtbc765hfbnW_UfEzQTPPbrJAeg0jqXFK0sPFkNQZff9SUOv4hrveVB1_QFvpZyB27Ugn1UUOy6VihOjRU9xNHj87rIYdkeRAZfQ7hTMxmiO6F6Haw8/s200/P8290165.JPG" /></a></div><br />
I "go" places a lot more online these days. Thought I'd share a few "places" I love visiting every week. <br />
<br />
Simplicity: <a href="http://www.assortmentblog.com/">http://www.assortmentblog.com/</a><br />
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Fashion: <a href="http://www.iwanttoberher.com">http://www.iwanttobeher.com</a><br />
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Design/Living: <a href="http://www.remodelista.com/">http://www.remodelista.com/</a>Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3392022655503457856.post-25900381355955380872015-03-05T09:02:00.003-05:002015-03-05T09:03:57.200-05:00Winter gardening. I’ve been thinking a lot about eyebrows lately. That’s what winter will do to you, allow you to think about details you have no time for the rest of the year. <br />
<br />
A close friend suggested a few months ago that she’d love to see me do my eyebrows, that it makes “such a difference.” Later that week, a friend who does facials, and is one of the most impossibly fashionable women I know, said she knew EXACTLY who I should see, and that I would LOVE it. <br />
<br />
Since I’ve never let another person near my eyebrows, I figured, why not? I don’t cut my own hair, after all. I made the appointment. I nestled into her beautiful chair and had to hide my shock when this extremely glamourous eyebrow person said she wanted me to grow them out. <br />
<br />
Grow? <br />
<br />
Images of my awkward middle-school years flew by me – bad haircuts, bad blue eyeshadow, badness on every level -- before I grew into my long-haired, freckled, Bonne Bell lip-smackered, Love’s Baby Soft self. <br />
<br />
“You used to have a youthful, naturally full brow, and that’s what I’m going for. We can always make them more sleek, if you really want that. But first, let’s let them fill in and go a little wild and see what you have.” <br />
<br />
It strikes me as being a lot like gardening, this brow stuff, and when I tell her this she laughs and confesses that it’s satisfying in exactly the same way. And after a few appointments, when I start to see the difference, I realize that her advice is a lot like writing advice. <br />
<br />
First you have to go a little wild and see what you have. <br />
Kelly Simmonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12000890535930589183noreply@blogger.com0