April 2018

Photo by Theresa Barker.

I am sitting at my desk this Sunday morning, looking out at the overcast sky that promises sun later on. The 100-foot Douglas Fir tree outside my window is popping forth with small orange mini-cones – pollen pods? – on the tips of its green-needle branches, like little kernels of orange popcorn dusted across its boughs. A squirrel prances along a long branch inside the sheltered-needle casing of the tree, two – no three! – stories above the ground.

Squirrels are so amazingly unafraid to scamper along waving boughs of maple trees in my neighborhood, or atop the thin wire of an electrical connection to the power pole outside. They seem to think nothing of it. It makes me think: what am I afraid of, and how might I overcome my fears? Years and years of evolution have probably given the squirrels in my yard their tight claw-grip paws, the body-balance to scurry across slender passages of twig and wire to obtain what they need. Years and years of evolution. I am reminded that while their acrobatic feats are impressive, squirrels do have the deftness and agility to make their leaps and death-defying treks across branches and wires without falling.  Thinking about this, I can be inspired to continue to overcome my own fears, if I have the strength, determination, and preparedness to go forward in spite of my fears.  How about you?  What fears would you like to overcome?

Photo by Theresa Barker.

In Celebration of Earth Day, a poem

Today is Earth Day!  I came across this wonderful poem, aptly named, by Jane Yolen, “Earth Day,” and I thought you would enjoy it as well.

Earth Day
By Jane Yolen

I am the Earth
And the Earth is me.
Each blade of grass,
Each honey tree,
Each bit of mud,
And stick and stone
Is blood and muscle,
Skin and bone. . . .

Just reading this first stanza, I can feel an enduring connection between us and the earth.  “Each blade of grass, each honey tree, each bit of mud . . . ”  Even though it is only words on a page, you feel drawn into the natural world when you read it.  Ah, the power of poetry to transport us into another reality!  Isn’t it amazing?

Poetry Study – William Carlos Williams

I have been studying poems by William Carlos Williams in a course I’m taking at the University.  Spring and All is a collection containing twenty-seven poems, along with bits of prose and prose excerpts, Williams’s reflections.  These poems that include his famous “The Red Wheelbarrow” (No. 22):

XXII (The Red Wheelbarrow)
By William Carlos Williams

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens

The instructor in our poetry course talks about Williams’s conviction for paying attention, for noticing what is before us.  Williams believed that if we want to write poetry, or if we want to simply live in the world, we need to pay attention, notice things, not just go through life with our minds elsewhere.  He began a movement:  at a time when his contemporaries, notably T. S. Eliot, were writing about literary allusions and the decline of humankind, following WW I, Williams chose to focus on the real, the what’s-in-front-of-you details of his world.  – His work was the inspiration for the Beat Poets, thirty years later!  In this poem, “The Red Wheelbarrow,” it’s as though he’s saying:  so much comes out of the simple sight of a red wheelbarrow shimmering with rain from a recent shower, surrounded by bright-white feathery chickens.  Pay attention! he’s saying.  There is so much to gain from a small pleasurable sight, right outside our back door.

What do you see outside your back door?  What do you notice on your way to work, or school?  Are you noticing the small budded branches of trees and shrubs that may be starting to form spring leaves?  Do you hear the sudden chirping of birds returning from winter migrations?  Or perhaps you’ve seen small bumble bees or honeybees starting to visit spring flowers!  (I heard on Science Friday the other day there are more than 100 different species of bees native to the U.S., from bumble-bee size all the way down to the size of a grain of rice.  Green bees, too!)  There is so much to see around us, isn’t there?

Writing Tip – Improvisations

Are you sometimes hesitant to start something new?  Or, perhaps you are eager to write a new story, but can’t quite bring yourself to go back and finish a story or poem that you started a while back?

This month I learned that William Carlos Williams did an amazing experiment when he first began publishing his books in the 1920s.  His first book was composed of what he called “improvisations.”  Being a busy physician in rural New Jersey (he has said he delivered over 1,000 babies over his lifetime), he did not have much spare time in which to write.  So instead, for one year, he would jot down something in writing each day on little slips of paper, something like a snatch of dialog, or a brief image of mother and daughter, or the scene outside his car on the way to see a patient.  He put all those slips of paper into a shoebox at home, and at the end of a year, he took out all the papers to see what he had.  He organized them into themes – and then he wrote his own reflections on the snippets he’d written down.  This became his first book of poetry.

Let’s take a look at an example to illustrate how this was done:

[By the road to the contagious hospital]
By William Carlos Williams

By the road to the contagious hospital
under the surge of the blue
mottled clouds driven from the
northeast-a cold wind. Beyond, the
waste of broad, muddy fields
brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen

patches of standing water
the scattering of tall trees

All along the road the reddish
purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy
stuff of bushes and small trees
with dead, brown leaves under them
leafless vines-

Lifeless in appearance, sluggish
dazed spring approaches-

They enter the new world naked,
cold, uncertain of all
save that they enter. All about them
the cold, familiar wind- . . .

Here we have in the first three stanzas simple visual observations.  Mottled clouds, broad muddy fields, dried weeds, stuff of bushes and small trees.  The cold pre-spring things he would see driving along the road to the hospital. THEN in Stanza 4, we see Williams’s thoughts and reflections on what he wrote on those little slips of paper (I’ve put them in bold font):  “Lifeless in appearance, sluggish/dazed spring approaches-/They enter the new world naked,/cold,uncertain of all/save that they enter.”  That is, spring slowly comes into the world.  Tiny bare shoots come out of muddy fields, bushes and trees, etc.  Without knowing what’s happening, the shoots arrive.  So we have in this poem:

  • First:  the poet’s observations, what he sees, images of nature and the outdoors.
  • Then:  the poet’s reflections, his thoughts, what he thinks the sights mean to him.

Improvisations.  Williams didn’t have a lot of time each day, but he took the step to jot down something memorable, something he had seen or heard or touched, and he put it away for future use.

If you’re like me, you sometimes wonder, how can I get my writing done when I’ve got so many other things to do?  And more importantly:  how can I write something that matters, if I don’t have a long time to sit down and really write?  Like me, you may find it immensely reassuring to think that if we immerse ourselves in the small images and bits that we see and feel around us, if we pay attention, we can use those images and bits of our lives to make our own improvisations out of those little moments.  And that those improvisations can lead us into writing that can move, inspire, and evoke emotion in our readers.

You may want to try a similar experiment, perhaps for a week jotting down something each day from your daily life.  At the end of a week, spread out what you have written.  Does it suggest something?  Can you create your own poem – or prose piece – from these improvisations and your own thoughts and reflections?  Let’s give it a try!

Happy April!

March 2018

Ah!  It just turned to spring, didn’t it?  (March 21st)  Does it feel like spring where you are?  Thinking of my writing colleagues across the country and across the world, I’m sitting at my desk imagining what spring is like for them in Phoenix, Los Angeles, New Jersey, India, Australia, Tanzania, and Cambridge, England.  And even though the calendar says it’s spring, this week we had snow.  Big sloppy snow flake packets dropping from the sky to the ground, not sticking, but still – present.  This morning the sun is out, there are sounds of birds in the budded or blooming trees outside, and the grass shimmers green, almost vibrating in the early-spring light.  That kind of light makes you feel like you can do almost anything.  Doesn’t it?

I would love to share this inviting poem from Joy Harjo, “Don’t Bother the Earth Spirit”, courtesy of The Poetry Foundation’s “Poem of the Day” (have I convinced you to subscribe to POTD yet?):

Don’t Bother the Earth Spirit
Joy Harjo

Don’t bother the earth spirit who lives here. She is working on a story. It is the oldest story in the world and it is delicate, changing. If she sees you watching she will invite you in for coffee, give you warm bread, and you will be obligated to stay and listen. But this is no ordinary story. You will have to endure earthquakes, lightning, the deaths of all those you love, the most blinding beauty. It’s a story so compelling you may never want to leave; this is how she traps you. See that stone finger over there? That is the only one who ever escaped.

I love that in this poem Harjo shakes up the “typical” poem form.  She doesn’t use line breaks, she talks to the reader conversationally, but at the same time, the poem goes into compelling and dramatic places.  “If she sees you watching she will invite you in for coffee, give you warm bread, and you will be obligated to stay and listen.”  And then:  “You will have to endure earthquakes, lightning, the deaths of all those you love, the most blinding beauty.  It’s a story so compelling you may never want to leave; this is how she traps you.”  What is it that makes us want both the comfort of warm bread and the stunning sight of blinding beauty?  It is interesting that we, as humans, endure deaths of loved ones AND earthquakes AND beauty.  What do you think?

Happy Spring!

Works-in-Progress

Here is a 101-word story from my “Eleven Stories” writing course!

Marley & Marley, by Theresa Barker

The twins named the gerbils the same name:  Marley.  They saw that movie “Marley” a few years back with the silly yellow labrador retriever named Marley.  They’d fallen in love with the dog in the movie, goofy as he was, and that’s where the name came from.  These were only two small hamsters, but they were golden and they did race around the cage, much as Marley the dog had raced around in that movie.  Their father and I objected to the same-name strategy, protesting, – how would we tell them apart?  But the twins were set on it, so the names stuck.  We had no problem telling them apart a few months later when one of the Marleys had a litter of pups.  Plenty of Marleys now.

– The twins and their hamsters will be very happy.  The parents?  Not so much, perhaps!

Ah, I see in my notes from this story that I wrote this for a different purpose.  For this story I opened a book of short stories and I picked several titles that jumped out at me, then I wrote  my own (brief) story for each title.  This title was from “Marley and Marley” by J. R. Dawson and it appears in the November/December edition of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science FictionDo you ever try writing from “found words” or sayings that you encounter?

 

Writing Tip

Have you ever fallen in love with someone else’s writing, but you’re not sure how to study their work or learn from it?  You might give this a try:  pick a story you enjoy or admire, and then rewrite the story from the point of view of a different narrator.  It might be another person in the story, it might even be an inanimate object or an animal.  In this way, you can study the author’s writing – where does this narrator come into the story?  What is important to this narrator vs. the original narrator?  What insights does the new narrator provide, what secrets does it have?  – And as you pore over the original story, picking up clues to your new narrator’s story, the rhythm and the lilt of the author’s original writing can become a part of your thinking, which helps you work new techniques into your own writing.

Let’s take an example, Hemingway’s “Hills Like White Elephants”.  Here is an excerpt from the opening:

. . . The American and the girl with him sat at a table in the shade, outside the building. It was very hot and the express from Barcelona would come in forty minutes. It stopped at this junction for two minutes and went to Madrid.

“What should we drink?” the girl asked. She had taken off her hat and put it on the table.

“It’s pretty hot,” the man said.

Suppose we wrote a new section from the woman’s point of view.  It might go something like this:

We sat at the little table outside in the shade, though it was too hot even then.  He always wanted to be outdoors.  It was like he was watching for something, some sign.  He didn’t say anything, like usual.  I put my hat on the table.  I said, trying to be nice, “What should we drink?”

He said, “It’s pretty hot.”  He was looking at the white hills across the valley.

Granted, this may not be brilliant text.  But it gives you the idea; we are in the viewpoint of the woman, and as narrator she’s telling us she’s irritated with him, she’s tired but trying to get along.  He seems to be ignoring her, “as usual.”  We’re hearing what’s important to the woman, what she does not tell the man, how she’s feeling in the heat and isolation of the train station.

As an exercise, let’s try narrating from an object’s point of view.  Maybe the white hills?

Down along the valley, in the small adobe train station, the man and woman sat outdoors at a table.  The white hills along the valley of the Ebro had seen eons of human and non-human history.  The station and the train had only come into the valley recently, in a blip of time.  But the hills watched everything:  sky, valley, train station, people.  There was some interest in the goings-on of humans.

Even though this seems unpromising – what could enormous hills have to do with the story of a man and woman waiting for a train? – the exercise could take you into a different frame for your writing.  For instance, the hills could be angry toward the intrusion of humans, the scratching of earth and the disruption of the natural system.  Or they might be philosophical that humans are nothing compared to the long timeline of the hills and valley.  Because the narration of an object (or in this case, landscape) is so unusual, it may lead you into a poetic or lyrical approach that you wouldn’t have otherwise discovered.

Next time you run across an intriguing story or piece of literature, stop and think:  what would happen if I rewrote this story using another narrator?  Even if you only write a couple of pages in the new narrator’s voice, having studied the original story and attempted your own version will lead you into new writing and new voices.  Try it!

February 2018

 

At my desk this morning. About 7:00 when I got up this morning, I heard the smallest sound of raindrops tapping on the roof.  I was delighted.  I know, I know, rain can be dreary and made you feel blue.  But for me, the sound of rain is one of the most pleasant sounds on Earth.  What is is about the tap-tap-tap sound that makes me feel so delighted?  I think it’s the feeling of being enclosed, enveloped, surrounded by a natural curtain of rain.  It’s like being in one of those old-fashioned four-poster beds from the 1800s, those Dickensian beds, where you draw the curtains all ’round (to keep in the heat, I suppose?).  Cozy.  Snuggly.  Hearing the sound of rain is like that for me.

I am enjoying the poem by Margaret Atwood, “February.” It starts like this:

Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead. . . .

What is it about winter that makes us crave comfort food?  Pewter mornings, those are what we get here in Seattle in winter.  Like the cat in Atwood’s poem, my own cat, Pickles, black with green eyes, jumps on the bed every morning, yowling her greeting.  February is the month of Valentines, it’s the month of Groundhog Day, it’s Black History Month, it’s Washington’s and Lincoln’s birthday month.  Here’s another poetic take on it, and excerpt from “February,” by Bill Christophersen:

The cold grows colder, even as the days
grow longer, February’s mercury vapor light
buffing but not defrosting the bone-white
ground, crusty and treacherous underfoot.
. . . hope’s a reptile waiting for the sun.

“Hope’s a reptile waiting for the sun.”  Nice line!

If you haven’t already done so, you should consider subscribing to Poetry Foundation’s “Poem of the Day” emails.  I’m a neophyte poet, but just getting exposure to all kinds of poems and poets, noticing what I like and what I’m less moved by, hearing the lyrical and musical and strident and flowing words that come from a poet’s mind, just reading a poem a day has made me a better writer.  Try it!

Works-in-Progress

This month in my “Eleven Stories” writing course we’ve graduated from 55-word stories to 101-word stories; still lots of attempts, still lots of different viewpoints, still a journey.  Here is one story that stood out this month:

Photograph, by Theresa Barker

There was something about the soldier that made me cry.  You don’t think your own son will die so early.  The soldier’s eyes are behind sunglasses, on his head a military helmet made for the desert.  You hear that soldiers, these boys of our hearts, come home from the battlefront broken.  Broken in the mind, broken in their hearts.  What is it that makes us send out young men to war?  What is it that makes them want to go?  There is a primordial sense of belonging in a group of men who go off to war.  But the mothers, we wait.  We hold them in our eyes, and we sing them to sleep at night from afar.

Books I’m reading

Phoenix DanceA friend recommended The Phoenix Dance, by Dia Calhoun.  In this young adult fantasy novel, the heroine is an apprentice shoemaker who wants to become the Royal Shoemaker for the twelve dancing princesses of the kingdom.  It’s an updated take on the fairy tale, “The Twelve Dancing Princesses,” in which a king has twelve beautiful daughters who mysteriously dance holes in their shoes every night.  The most intriguing aspect of this book is that the heroine, called Phoenix Dance, has an affliction, bipolar disorder, and the author describes how Phoenix experiences and struggles with this disorder, eventually saving the day and defeating the enchantment of the princesses.

Writing Tip

Sometimes I find it hard to sit down and write, actually write, in my home office.  Everything seems dull at my desk at times.  Yesterday I had to be downtown for an appointment, and I had about 20 minutes of time before the appointment started.  I stopped into a little tea-and-coffee place (confession:  they specialize in custom-made cupcakes and macarons) called The Yellow Leaf.  I was good – only bought a cup of loose-leaf English Breakfast black tea and a small macaron cookie – and when I sat down at one of their tiny tables (they are very small inside), suddenly I felt like writing.  I wrote two very short flash fictions, no more than exercises, but still, I liked them when I got done, and when I got up to leave a few minutes later I felt delighted and refreshed.

So if sometimes you feel like I do, ugh, sitting at my desk seems so boring! – consider going out, stopping into a place that feels right and cozy and comfortable, and pull out your pad and pen and write.  – It may be a coffee house, but it might also be a park bench, a diner, a bar (!), or a neighbor’s front porch.  Enjoy!

January 2018

Into the Sky

Sketch by Theresa Barker.

I’m sitting at my dining room table this Thursday morning.  I sometimes like to write here, away from my desk where I can spread out, and not only that, but the view out the window is onto our lovely side yard with native plants, rhododendrons, sword ferns and Oregon Grape, a Japanese blood maple tree and Rose of Sharon tree (both bare this time of year).  The weather has been chilly, for us, in the low 40s most days.  Brr!  Even with these cool temperatures, the Japanese flowering cherry trees are starting to put out their pale pink blooms, unbelievably.  A whisper that spring is on its way already.

The other day I read a brief lament by the month of January, saying how it is a month that is misunderstood and underestimated, that “everyone loves April” in all those poems written about that month, and that no one gives January credit for being the first month of the year, for being a strong month with 31 days in it, asking us to think of how all that snow and ice (in northern climes) gives you ice skating and other fun outdoor activities.  I don’t know about you, but I love January!  It’s a month for new starts, it’s a peaceful month after the holidays, and in particular, January 31st is one of my favorite days of the year.  I’m not sure why, but it just seems like a lovely date, like the period at the end of an enjoyable sentence in a wonderful book.

Works-in-Progress

This month I’ve been writing a series of stories that are only 55 words long, through the “Eleven Stories”project offered by Kahini retreats.  Wow.  Fifty-five words is very short.  Lots of attempts, lots of different viewpoints, it’s been a journey.  Here is one of my favorites:

Visitor, by Theresa Barker

Can you see my eyes?  I trot through your suburban yard of green grass in my shaggy yellow coat, disguised.  You think I am a dog; no.  The word is coyote.  I’m almost not here.  The sharp up-points of my tufted fur belies a dog’s pelt.  I only hunt food for my young ones. Can you see my eyes?

This month I’m working on a story about a sentient AI being, like the iPhone Siri or Echo’s Alexa, a being who is attempting to understand her role in the Creator’s world and how she might escape his control.  And I’m continuing my “Little Book of Lies” project.

Good News

I have two microfiction stories out this week in the UK’s Grievous Angel.  Both stories are about monsters who live in – or travel through – graffiti walls.  Take a look!

My collaborator Anne Jailene Aguilar, a South African blogger and writer, and I are proud to announce our anthology of re-told Cinderella tales, Cinderella Reimagined, is now available on Amazon Books!  This anthology is a compilation of fifteen new stories drawn from the Cinderella fairy tale from blogger-writers all over the globe.  You can read two of my stories and two of Anne’s stories among them.  Anne and I created this project last year, inviting bloggers from near and far to contribute stories.  We selected the best among them, edited them into an anthology, and we’re excited to share it with you.  More information here.

Writing Tip

Sketch by Theresa Barker.

Do you ever find that something you are searching for a story idea?  You’re wracking your brains, but you can’t seem to come up with anything to start writing about.  Here’s a an idea that I’ve been trying this month with promising results.

Take another story, for example, The Enormous Radio, by John Cheever (originally published in The New Yorker on the 1940s).  Go ahead and read it, I’ll wait!  Okay, you’re back?  Now, think about rewriting the story from a new perspective.  What if you wrote the same story, but this time narrated by the husband?  Or the Sweeneys’ nurse?  Or – the radio?  That’s what I did; I wrote a new draft from the radio’s point of view.  While it’s largely the same plot, I found a really interesting ending, in which the main characters of the original story, Jim and Irene Westcott, become addicted to the stories of the neighbors around them broadcast through the radio.  So addicted they start turning in their neighbors for being communist sympathizers, informers, etc., never going out to the theater or concerts, while at the same time turning a blind eye to social injustice like domestic violence and bigotry on their own block.  Hmmm.

A side note, if you try this exercise, I have it on good authority you can consider publishing the story as long as you give credit to the original story, and as long as your new story is original enough to be distinct from the author’s version.  Your story will form part of the conversation begun by the first story’s publication.

Thanks for reading, and happy writing!

p.s.  The sketch above is of a tea flower.  Did you ever think they were that complicated?  Like writing…!

December 2017

Sketch by Theresa Barker.

I’m sitting at my desk this Monday morning. We had fog this morning and it gave a mythical look to the world outside, a spooky feeling, as though anything could come out of the mist – elves, ogres, witches . . . or just the coyotes that live in the ravine behind my house. This morning I feel like the bird I sketched above, standing on a rock, hunkered down against the wind.

Works-in-Progress

Sketch by Theresa Barker.

I’m working on flash fiction, some realistic and some science fiction/fantasy. “Medusa,” a retelling of the Greek myth in modern-day, “Arctic Refuge,” a near-future tale of a parent too wrapped up in virtual reality visits to his ancestors’ homeland to see his daughter’s need for face-to-face connection, and “Before the Storm,” a tense drama of two sisters striving to reconnect after a mother’s illness in spite of, and because of, their shared childhood bonds.

And, I’m learning to sketch! =^.^=

Good News

Sketch by Theresa Barker.

Three of my flash fiction stories have appeared this year, two in UK Grievous Angel and one in Every Day Fiction.

Our monthly reading series in Seattle, Two Hour Transport,  found a new home at Ada’s Technical Books in November.  😀

 

Writing Tip

Sketch by Theresa Barker.

Do you ever feel stuck when you want to start writing?  Consider subscribing to a “poem of the day” from a poetry organization.  I get daily poems from The Poetry Foundation and from poets.org (Academy of American Poets) delivered to my in-box.  When I want to start a new piece of writing, I pull up that day’s poem-of-the-day, find a phrase or line that intrigues me, and start writing.  Bonus:  set a timer for 10 minutes and write as much as possible.  When the timer rings, go back and pull up a new poem, find a good line, and continue your writing.  The rhythm of the poem, the intensity of emotion in its content, the richness of its language will all infuse your writing newly and take you in unexpected directions!

Thanks for reading, and have a wonderful holiday season!  *<<<-   (holiday tree?)

Sept. 2017 | Eleven keys to being more creative

by Theresa J. Barker

Sketch by Theresa Barker

Are you looking to be more creative?  I know that I’m always searching for new ideas or new ways of thinking that will enrich my creativity.  This is a list I wrote last year.  I would love to hear your thoughts!

Always be as true as you can be.  Even if it is not quite as true as it will be next month, next year.

Don’t be afraid of imagination.  It will take you places only you thought of, but that other people will wish to go, too.

It’s okay if you can’t think of what to create next.  Eventually you will.

It’s never trivial to do exercises.  They are often more important than Serious Projects.

Breathe.

Seek out fellow creators to hold the space for creating.  But don’t waste time with unpleasant, nasty, or mean people.

Try not to obsess.  It will work out, one way or another.

Don’t be afraid to give time to your work.  Even if it seems like play.  (Especially so.)

You can always learn from coaching another.  Also from studying the work of another, even if they are famous, dead, unknown, or just around the corner.

There is trying too hard.  Keep in mind that it often comes to you when you let go but still remain engaged.

Design is magical.  So is creation.  So are you.

Fiction: Eve’s Tale

by Theresa J. Barker

Author’s note:  This story was inspired by Ursula Le Guin’s story in the New Yorker, “She Unnames Them,” in which Eve leaves Adam by giving him back her name.

Eve’s Tale

The interviewer sat across the desk, shuffling papers. “So, you left your last position because . . .”

Eve shifted in her chair. “Let’s just say it didn’t work out.”

He looked at her dubiously.

She shrugged. “The management and I didn’t get along.”

“I see. References?”

“Uh … not exactly.”

He jotted notes on the yellow pad in front of him.

“Previous experience?”

“I’ve done a lot of housesitting,” she said, leaning forward. “Been a caretaker all my life.”

He jotted more notes. “Experience with animals?”

“Yup. Tons.”

“Oh?” He looked skeptical. “Dogs? Cats?”

She took a deep breath. “Dogs, cats – yeah. Horses, pigs, cows, chickens, ducks. Yaks. Birds, parrots, cockatiels – you know – all those exotic breeds.”

He was scribbling notes furiously. She chuckled to herself.

“. . . spiders, gnats, mosquitoes,” she went on. “. . . termites, ants, bats, owls eagles – let’s see, seals dolphins, whales . . .”

He put down his pen. “Really.”

She grinned. “Oh, yeah.”

“Whales?”

“Some of my best friends, in fact.” She relished his look of disbelief. “They tell the best stories.”

“Uh huh.” He was leaning back now, arms crossed.

She cocked her head thoughtfully. “I think it’s because they live such a long time. You know, over a hundred years. And talk about family. Aunts, grandmothers, cousins, nieces, grand-nieces, all over the place. “

“And do they move!” She flung out an arm. “Way down south in the winter, up north in the summer. They see most of the planet.”

“Well.” He leaned forward, picked up the papers, glanced through them, looking down. “I think we have everything we need.”

“So do I get the job?”

“We’ll be in touch.”

On the way out, she thought about the interviewer for a moment. She knew he didn’t believe her. They never did. Without a past, without references, it was hard to get anywhere in this town.

But she was a woman who made her own future. She was a woman who beat the odds, bested a serpent, and got kicked out of the Garden of Eden by the deity, after all. She was a part of the world. She was the world.

She did have one thing on her side. Walking down the sidewalk toward the bus stop, she sent a message to the mosquitoes. A little surprise for the interviewer when he arrived at his office tomorrow morning.