Read the First Chapter of Stony Kill

Read the First Chapter of Stony Kill

Not long before my mother died, she told me a story I’d never heard before. It was 1965, the year before she married my father. Spring had come to the Northeast nearly a season ahead of itself.

Memorial Day

Memorial Day

Today, amid the parades and family gatherings, I recall the many Memorial Day services I attended, often in churches and at cemeteries where clergy, local veterans, and officers from the VFW and the American Legion Post spoke about hometown heroes lost in past and current wars. I always think of my father on this day. […]

Where Do the Children Play?

Where Do the Children Play?

Back then, we lived with the magic of play and exploration; lying under a backyard tree reading books, one after the other and the walking the mile to the library to borrow more books. We played marathon games of monopoly and sandlot baseball, or red rover.

Wisewomen and Trauma

Wisewomen and Trauma

  My novel Stony Kill tells the story of a complicated family, opening with the revelation of a family secret—the tragic story of a long ago shooting. The protagonist Joss Ryckman, a thirty-something Brooklyn baker, copes with the mystery of this shooting— was it accidental or not? This revelation soon follows the sudden death of […]

We the People

We the People

“. . . Maybe I have learned some personal lessons. Twice I have married into republican families complete with edges of racism, a belief in creationism, and misogyny, not to mention a penchant for guns. . .”

Pie as Antidote

Pie as Antidote

“. . . My grandmother’s pies were another story. Her piecrusts had more flavor and were tenderer and more flakey. I wanted to know why?”

Small Things

Small Things

. . . My husband asks me from time to time, “Why did you marry me?” My answer is always the same, “Because you had a gas grill.” It’s as good a reason as any, because I cannot explain why or how I love him. I just do. . .”

The Stories We Tell

The Stories We Tell

. . . I laughed, recognizing Dad’s prank of leaving a narrative for the next user—an Irish trick he often practiced. There were others, as well: wrapping a toilet roll in fancy Christmas paper and gifting the most important member of the family with a useful item. . .

Banning Books and More

Banning Books and More

. . . We waited most of the afternoon, my mother fidgeting and sighing through her worries, while I read sporadically. I happened upon an article about banned books, and in the juxtaposition of that day—my sister’s cancer surgery and another school shooting—it struck a chord. . .

Verba Mea

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I have people to kill, lives to ruin, plagues to bring, and worlds to destroy. I am not the Angel of Death. I'm a fiction writer.

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