Jennifer Weiner has fulfilled the dreams of many an aspiring writer: take an unfortunate situation, write a book about it, and watch it soar up the best-seller list (Good in Bed). Write another book, and have Cameron Diaz star in the movie version (In Her Shoes). Write a third book (Little Earthquakes), and watch it appeal to the challenges faced by thousands of new mothers.
Harry is home now. He slipped in on a perfect spring afternoon while hundreds of thin yellow ribbons fluttered like tinsel on the Japanese maple. He didn’t want any fuss, so he and his family spent the rest of the day quietly at home.
He is twenty years old and he has killed since I saw him last. On Christmas morning, he returned Iraqi fire to save his own life and continue with the job he was sent to do.
My mother was already convinced she was the mother in two previous novels (women to whom she bears no resemblance, both of whom I’d killed off in violent ways). How could I tell her that I planned to showcase her in the new book?
A sixteen-foot blowfish stuck her spiny yellow claws into my arm
Then planted her fuschia balloon lips on my chest
The shiny seven-foot dolphin offered a smoke.
All my books are set in Philly. I love Philly for its neighborhoods, dialects and heavy dose of reality, and thought it would be terrific to put it on the literary map. The law was also born in Philly, so what better place to set legal fiction books?
I first see the cat on my way out to the Super Fresh to pick up Portobello mushrooms. He’s lying on the other side of our one-way street, a single lane narrow enough to be an alley really, a place where he never would have lain normally, smart stray that he was. I didn’t look for long, only enough to confirm that his body had been crushed, though not which part, to acknowledge the red pool spreading slowly beneath him, the flies already buzzing inside the mouth that the car wheel had forced open.
You describe your dream:
Recurring images of chemo-stallions racing across your night sky
I’ve burdened my son with this now.
He misses strides, kisses the silence,
twists himself into a wretched mess.
The piano chord most adjacent to the inexpressible is the
one that dissolves into flocks of flying birds
The tree as it moves through the breeze most
I wanted to talk jive.
I wanted to be funky
like the white boy who sang