Karl, that is gorgeous.

Karl, you remind me of that scene in Ghandi, where Mohandas told the grieving Islamic father to find a Hindu child who had lost his parents and take him into his home as his own son--and raise him as a Hindu, for that way he would truly heal the wounds the war had left.

Although what you wrote isn't that, exactly, I think it bears the same spirit, and the same possibility for healing.

I can't imagine devoting decades of my life to throwing off the Raj without violence, only to have my home and people be swept up in the violent passions of Partition. My heart would have broken; I wonder how Mr Gandhi avoided bitterness.

"Love your neighbour" is so easy to say. I've heard neighbour-loving words spoken in synagogues, Buddhist temples, more pagan gatherings than I can shake a smudging stick at, Anglican and Catholic cathedrals, and even the little community church in East Tennessee that my mother used to jokingly refer to as "The Church of God of the Upraised Fist, Reformed." I've listened to an American convert to Islam tell me why she covers her head, and been delighted at her wit and her too-accurate readings of the reactions of her co-workers. And been horrified and relieved with a Hindu colleague as she told me that her family survived the tsunami in Sri Lanka, but that everyone they knew had lost someone.

And how lucky I am, to know these people, because it only takes one to show every "All (of this group) are (adjective) ... well, these people have a different culture ... they don't think the way we do ... they don't understand anything but violence" excuse for the shoddy little sham it is.

Sorry, I'm going on and on here. Mostly what I wanted to say was: I'm glad you liked it, Sail, and Bev, I'm extraordinarily chuffed and honoured to be mentioned in the same breath with a luminary like Mr Gandhi.

Wow, a girl's away for a couple of months and not only do gorgeous drabbles pile up but MORE BUFFISTAS HAVE BOOKS COMING OUT!!!

Congrats, Gus, Allyson, and Jilli.

(Anybody else I missed? Damn you people have shiny brains.)

Aw, Karl, So modest... but it makes me wonder if Gandhi wasn't also a big flirt in his younger days. I hate my *actual* neighbors...they report on us. Metaphorically, I may have a better track record.

Karl, that's wonderful.

Yowsa!

Cruel Sister is available for pre-order at Amazon.

Order early! Order often!

edit: EEEEEE! Nice cover...

[link]

Open to all.

Same Time, Every Year

I don't cry.

I've always despised tears, you know? Just a cheap way of pissing away pain and feeling and comprehension.

But after 6 September 1994, something broke in me. I can't seem to stop the tears.

The date comes around and there I go. I weep for what I had, what I lost, what I threw away and didn't fight for. Tears may be cheap but my eyes leak saltwater, splashing my feet, tears like a river, pain and grief and regret and guilt, flowing to the sea.

And yet, every 6 September? I realise I still have tears.

The biggest event in your life never got commemorated, because of the last time, when your words failed and it made you sad to answer every friendly “How’s the book coming?” with a glum but realistic “It’s not.”It had some humor and warmth but no real foundation. It was more like...book batter, really. It was supposed to fail, because you were barely twenty then, but it was a blow to your considerable, but misplaced pride. So this time, you write like a secret agent, not buttonholing people to read them good paragraphs, keeping plot points a tight secret. Because this isn’t like being a kid and putting a spelling test on the fridge...there is pain and violence in this one.

Creating Traditions

My birthdays were always the same: same cake, same weather, same friends. Mallory’s birthday won’t ever be the same more than two years in a row: we'll move every couple of years. Ingredients for cakes will change, friends won’t be there, heck, his birthday might not always be in the spring.

But continuity is necessary. Some touchstone, some temporal checkpoint, something to say "This is mine and I know this."

Entire cultures choose how they celebrate events. We are a culture of three, and rootless. What thing can we do once a year that Mallory will know is his?