New Poetry: A Different Seed

texas-bluebonnets-081

 Photo by Texas Parks & Wildlife

So … I’m knee-deep in poetry right now, still.  And I feel almost guilty. I have so many people waiting on my next novel, but I’ve set it aside (again). I’m drawn to poetry and I’m gonna ride this pony til she stops.

Here’s one of my latest that I worked on in a recent Lighthouse Writers workshop. I can’t seem to get the line spacing right on this blog, but it’s close.

Let me know what you think. Thanks for reading!

 

A Different Seed

I was born in fields of bluebonnets,

ink-well-sapphire             dense petals spiked in sun-blind white

short-lived in the Texas spring —

each dew-soaked stem

flattened just yesterday

by the sharp nose of the coyote

the hoof-step of the Hereford

hiding the hiss and slither of the rattler —

always bouncing back

seemingly singular,

good for early-morning picking

before the heat sets in.

 

Yet by high noon

it’s never easy

to detach a wilted loner

from the rest      held together by a nest of roots

entrenched in the holy dirt

of Saint Sam Houston

el malvado Santa Anna

battle-blood of the Alamo

sweet bread of the German siedler

rusted barbed-wire of fences

oily cotton boll of the farmer

weather-worn skull of a fire-ant-stricken calf

my grandfather would’ve tried to save.

 

And even though Lady Bird’s highways are lined with them —

musky-sweet flowers,

family ties,

good intentions —

 

not every seed will grow

where planted.

 

Is it easily spread on the wind?

Can it tolerate full sun?

 

And what happens

when

the parched and crisp soil

becomes suddenly drenched,

clay-like —

unable to breathe?

My Kid Has Lost His Mother to a Sleep Number Bed

First, the history: I have slept on the floors of friends’ apartments where smells of cats past were strikingly fresh. I have slept on hotel room floors (I’m gagging thinking about it now) and pull-out couches (those springs can hurt like a mother dog) and non-pull-out-couches (there’s a joke in there somewhere) and even, once, a blow-up pool raft (tequila helped). I have slept on the cold, hard, bumpy ground in Yellowstone National Park and Rocky Mountain National Park and a few hundred other campsites from Central Texas to Montana. And for the last nearly 20 years, in my own home, I’ve slept on a mattress that was so old and misshapen that it required special gymnast moves just to get out of it in the mornings. True story. But I didn’t really mind all that much. Gymnast moves keep you young.

But then I hit the mid-40s. And my body became sore from things like, say, unpacking groceries.

I started to make those legit moaning sounds when I would get up from sitting on the floor after playing Hot Wheels with the kid for a long time. I began to hear unnatural creaking sounds in joint areas where I’m pretty sure there should be cartilage. And then, after 14 years of manual snow removal without one injury to my name, I hurt my lower back tossing a big shovel-full of heavy snow over our deck railing. As in, “ummm … holy hell, I may not be able to walk now, or ever again” kind of hurt. And then, several days later, during an epic snowball fight (turns out I could walk again – hallelujah!), I landed smack-dab on my hip, on a bank of concrete-ice.

Suddenly, what I slept on kind of mattered.

And suddenly, the evil advertising gods told me that Sleep Number was having a sale.

And then, I found myself strolling unknowingly into a Sleep Number store to test out their product and witness my body’s pressure points with their whole heat-sensor technology thing.

I was a goner once that remote hit 55.

I’m still a little worried about what that salesman was thinking when I let out a When Harry Met Sally-kind of reaction. (You know the scene.)

Granted, in the week between purchase and delivery, I mourned the impending loss of my dilapidated BeautyRest. After all, I brought my baby home to that bed, and we did the whole family bed thing until he was 4 years old, like the good hippies we aspired to be. I’ve snuggled with hoodlum puppies and held aging, sick old dogs next to me in that bed. My husband and I have had some pretty fun times in that bed (reading and talking and laughing, of course! What were you thinking?). I wrote a lot of my second novel propped up in that bed, writing by the light of the laptop. That bed has spent many a night dragged in front of the woodstove in our log-cabin great room when the power went out for days and we needed to sleep near the flickering warmth. And that bed was where I spent a lot of time last year recovering from some seriously bad flu/pneumonia/liver and kidney failure juju. That bed served me well.

But now, the Sleep Number P5 has entered my life.

I have changed.

I used to make the family pancakes or migas or biscuits and gravy on the weekends. Now, the kiddo’s eating cold cereal and, most probably, Cheetos. I don’t really know because I’m still in bed.

I used to lay down with him in his bed as he fell asleep each evening. Now, I tend to just yell “good night!” from the comfort of my Sleep Number.

I used to get up early to take the dogs for sunrise walks. Now they’re constantly giving me these accusatory looks, as if they are puppy-mill-level neglected.

I used to read in the great room, near my family as they did other things. Now, they can usually find me curled into that P5 like a kangaroo baby in a mama’s pouch.

My husband and I actually joke that we may never, errrr, talk and laugh in bed again because once you sink into the glory of this new mattress, you don’t really want to move unless the house is on fire or something.

In fact, when the dogs go bark-shit crazy (I’m trademarking that phrase) at 3 a.m., instead of going to reassure them and get them settled down to avert internal damage to our home, we nudge each other, then ignore each other, and then simply hope they don’t tear down the back door to get to the mountain lion before morning.

I’m sure one day I’ll reclaim the life I was once led. My son will get his mother back. My dogs will get another sunrise walk.

Until then, I plan to celebrate a lower back that doesn’t ache, a once-injured hip that feels young again, and the fact that I no longer need professional climbing gear to remove myself from the prone position each day.

P.S. Sleep Number didn’t pay me jack-anything for writing this. Which only proves I’m not smart enough to figure out how to ask them. #blogfail #bigmoneyfail

 

This is a Sleep Number bed. It is not my Sleep Number bed because taking a picture of my bed would be weird.

This is a Sleep Number bed. It is not my Sleep Number bed because taking a picture of my bed would be weird.

Four Really Good Books I Read in 2014

Just in case there aren’t enough “best books of 2014” lists out there for you this time of year, I thought I’d gather just four of my favorites from a year of reading, as well. Because, well, EVERYONE wants to know what I’m reading, right? <sarcasm>

My brief list below is a little weird, though, (no comment necessary) because it contains not only two new books that came out this year, but also “old” ones I picked up again to reread. I think it says a ton if, out of all the books I read in a year, some of the best are ones I’ve read before. Oh, and the reason it’s only four books? Four words: Too busy to live.

Here you go:

How to Build a Girl by Caitlin Moran. This book came out in September, and I read it in October. Today, I still think of the main character and wonder what she’s up to. The publisher’s description says: “Imagine The Bell Jar — written by Rizzo from Grease.” I think that’s fairly spot on. The writing is lovely and poignant and provides so much to think about beneath the surface of the story. The storytelling is excellent; one of those rare instances where a character-driven novel, with no real driving plot, makes me can’t wait to turn the page. It’s a coming-of-age story about a young British girl, and I usually have issues with coming-of-age stories where the character’s voice feels far older than than the fictional age. But Moran makes this one work. And work oh so well. I laughed out loud repeatedly, which is always a good sign. (It should definitely have an “R” rating, though, so be ready for some shagging and fagging, as they say in the UK, and a rather overly descriptive scene involving a man named Big Al.)

Where Rivers Change Direction by Mark Spragg. This is one of those books — a memoir — that left me breathless about 12 years ago. Spragg’s stories beautifully capture a boyhood spent on a ranch in Wyoming and a deep, spiritual connection to animals and the land. Some people think the book is too slow. Too much focus on the landscape and not enough action. And I would agree it’s not a book that you’ll want to plow through. It’s one to be savored in hardcover or paperback. So you can dog-ear those pages and underline those sentences that speak some essential truth that you always knew was out there, but couldn’t put your finger on before. This book will change a small part of you, if you stick with it.

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain. My son and I have been reading this classic together, and I’m amazed at his young age, that he’s as into the story as I am. I think I didn’t read this novel for the first time until junior high school. Of course, he loves the idea of sneaking out of school to fish, of trading frogs for a slingshot, and tricking friends and adults on a daily basis. It’s also a great conversation-starter about race issues in America’s past and present. If you haven’t read this in a while, take another look. It’s free as an Amazon Kindle book. And for the record, we don’t say the “N” word out loud in this house, but we do read the original, unedited version.

Prelude to Bruise by Saeed Jones. This is poet Jones’ debut collection, and it’s moving and touching and oh-so-brilliant. The poems capture tenderness and harshness. They are fierce and hope-filled. The collection has such energy and such a story to tell about the connection between one’s history and one’s identity. Some of the poems are difficult to read, yes. But they hit you somewhere between your heart and your intellect, and that’s somewhere, as a reader, I want to be hit every now and then. This is probably one of the best poetry collections I’ve read in a long time. A sampling of why (from Postapocalyptic Heartbeat):

After ruin,

after shards of glass like misplaced stars,

after dredge,

after the black bite of frost:                you are the after,

you are the first hour in a life without clocks;   the name of whatever

falls from the clouds now is you (it is not rain),

a song in a dead language, an unlit earth, a coast broken–

how was I to know every word was your name?

 

What were your favorites of 2014? Please share in the comments below!

Top Blog Posts for 2014

Happy New Year imageWow — 2014 flew the hell by, didn’t it? It was a crazy year for me in many ways … nearly died after New Year’s from complications from the H1N1 flu. Took me until April to really recover and be able to feel healthy and hike short distances again. Then we moved from our comfortable foothills experiment back to the top of a mountain in June, and I’ve been soaking that up ever since. In July, I took the kiddo on our first mom-son fishing trip. The school year started in August, and that’s been a rollercoaster ride, and not a fun one. I have to say that I’m looking forward to a smoother ride in 2015. And I hope the same for each of you!

In the meantime, here are the top posts from this blog in 2014 (based on unique views):

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer Is Forever Ruined

I Am Tired of Apologizing for My Dogs

How Do You Define Home?

7 Things People Don’t Tell You About Pneumonia

Perfect Soup Recipe for a Snowy Night

Why Thanksgiving Is the Best Holiday of the Year, or Why Thanksgiving Is the Sh*t

A Million Ways to Die in Texas

My Dear Moms of Adopted Children remains the number-one post of all time for my blog, still generating the most views of all posts, even in 2014, at nearly 80,000 over 12 months.

And the top search phrases folks used to find my blog this year (these always make me laugh) are: texas, colorado life, kathy lynn harris,  cool whip,  what are texas men like,  is dr pepper bad for you

 Happy New Year, Everyone!

Thank you for reading my work, and for sharing it with friends and family this past year and always.

Above image credit: http://www.minutemanpressnewengland.com/2012/12/happy/

Perfect Soup Recipe for a Snowy Night

What a good, good day. I read for two hours without an interruption, not even to pee. I didn’t look at my email all day. (Okay, okay, but it was only twice.) I got most of the gifts wrapped that were hidden in various places around the house, and I even remembered, after some time, where all of them were hidden. I had some awesome Pandora holiday music flowing. (Turns out, I like hipster music. Who knew?) And all day long, a gentle, light snow was falling. Basically, I was in my own little perfect snow globe. One of the good ones. Not one of those plastic ones at Walmart.

And then I had to make dinner.

I’ve been in a dinner-cooking rut of late. Everything seems old and tired, like me after a long day at work. But alas, just like there is vodka for me, there is Pinterest for dinner. And Pinterest’s got it going on when it comes to cool new recipes.

So I made a new soup.

Soup and I? We have a long history. In the beginning, we both made mistakes. I didn’t always follow the rules, and that made things complicated. But as our relationship deepened, we grew together, not apart. And now? We are soulmates destined to be together forever.

Especially soup that has any amount of cream in it.

Here’s the recipe I tried out tonight. It was the perfect soup for a snowy evening in the mountains. But it would probably taste okay where you are, too. (I mean, it could. I guess. Give it a try and see. Love, your favorite mountain snob.)

The original recipe was from the Damn Delicious blog: http://damndelicious.net/2014/10/29/sausage-potato-spinach-soup/.

I made a few tweaks and the result was pretty dang good. The kiddo ate three bowls, and the hoodlum dogs were drooling. All good signs.


 

Sausage, Potato and Spinach Soup

2 tablespoon olive oil

1 pound mild ground Italian sausage

3 cloves garlic, minced

1 onion, diced

1/2 teaspoon dried oregano

1/2 teaspoon fresh basil, finely chopped (you could use dried if you wanted)

Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

6 cups low-sodium chicken broth

1 bay leaf

1 pound young red potatoes, diced

4 cups baby spinach

¾ cup heavy cream

1 ½ cup skim milk

Heat olive oil in a large soup pot over medium heat. Add Italian sausage and cook until quite browned. Make sure to crumble the sausage as it cooks. Stir in garlic, onion, oregano and basil. Cook, stirring frequently, until onions have become translucent. Season with salt and pepper, to taste. Stir in chicken broth. Add bay leaf, and bring to a boil. Add potatoes and cook until fork-tender, about 12 minutes. (It took more like 20 minutes at high altitude, but who’s counting.) Stir frequently during the boil. Discard bay leaf. Stir in spinach until it wilts. Then stir in heavy cream and milk until heated through, about 2 minutes; test and season further with salt and pepper, to taste.

(And no, I didn’t take pictures. Even though I *am* on Instagram now. But I can’t even figure out how to put a border on my photos in the app, so …)

 

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer Is Forever Ruined

rudolph the red-nosed reindeerWhen the holidays roll around, our family usually sets aside time to watch the old favorite, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. And this year was its 50th anniversary, so, yeah, it was on the DVR. And we were ready with fresh-baked cookies and popcorn, the Christmas tree lights on, and a roaring fire in the woodstove. As traditional as it gets.

Unfortunately, this mama was stressed the hell out that night. Life hadn’t been easy that week. So I had, shall we say, a couple of glasses of wine prior to Rudolph. Yes, let’s go with a couple.

And as it turns out, a wine buzz and 1964 claymation do not a good combination make.

In a mere 40 minutes, it seems I pointed out everything that’s completely wrong about the show. As in pausing it and rewinding and pausing and pointing it out again and again. And laughing hysterically.

Yep, I have pretty much ruined the show for my kid and all future generations of his kids.

But at least he was laughing along with me. He even took pictures of the screen.

Here are a few of the highlights of our analysis.

claymation snowmanFirst, the Snowman narrator plays a banjo. And while that is hilarious on its own perhaps, because real-life snowmen don’t have fingers and such, what’s really funny is that the song he plays the banjo to is Silver and Gold. There is no banjo music in Silver and Gold. Piano yes. Cello maybe. No banjo. Also, he has a porn mustache going on. (No, I did not teach my kid what a porn mustache is. Not this time. That can wait til he’s 9.)

Secondly, Santa is a serious asshat throughout the whole movie. He doesn’t like the song the elves sing for him. He tells Donner he should be ashamed of Rudolph and his nose. He’s a total steaming pile of turd to Mrs. Claus. And he looks like he’s been on the Paleo diet during most of the movie.

santa claymationFurthermore, if you look closely, Santa only has three fingers and a thumb. No lie. Where is the other finger? Did he use it during a period of road rage when sky traffic got bad one night? And then did he get into a bar fight where someone taught him a lesson? It could happen. I bet a lot of guys who dress up like Santa and go to bars get beat up.

Yukon Cornelius, who was my first boyfriend really, turns out to be a problem. You see, this is a kids’ movie, right? Even in the 1960s, he really shouldn’t have been packing visible heat in a children’s holiday special. But yep, right there in his holster is a big ol’ shiny gun. The Moms Demand Action and gun violence activist in me was quite disturbed by this. He had a gun. A gun not used for hunting. In a children’s Christmas program. And we wonder what’s wrong with the world.

My testosterone-laden family members, however, were more concerned about the fact that he had a gun with him and yet never tried to use it to defend himself and his friends from the Abominable Snowman monster dude.

Also, he had a flask. And I’m pretty sure he didn’t have apple juice in there.

photo 2Yukon’s team of dogs also poses an issue. Early on, he has them and is mushing them and all, while being chased by the Abominable Snowman monster. But then all of a sudden, Yukon, Rudolph and Hermie are on an iceberg floating away from the monster. And no dogs. They were obviously left behind at a kill-shelter or they were eaten by the monster. I cried a little. But then they suddenly reappeared later. Where were they during the adventure on the Island of Misfit Toys? Did someone give them food and water? Also, amidst the Saint Bernards and Huskies, one of the dogs is a bona fide Poodle.

Yukon's poodleHermie may or may not be gay. Which is absolutely fine. Love who you love! But did they use “dentist” as a code word for “gay” back in the 60s? I need to look that up.

Also, Bostonians take a hit in this move. Because one of the mean-ass little bastard reindeers who is so clearly bullying poor Rudolph had a distinct Boston accent. Was that necessary? I guess I should be grateful they didn’t make him a Texan. Although now that I think about it, Hermie had a bit of a drawl.

Sexism was alive and well in the special, too. Donner has a name but his wife doesn’t. She’s only Mrs. Donner. And when Donner, Mrs. Donner and Clarice are out looking for Rudolph and can’t find him, Donner decides the best thing to do at that point is to “just get the women home.” Oh yeah, Donner? Like we’re so frail and useless? Well, I hope Mrs. Donner burned her bra in 1972 and found fame and fortune (without you) at Disneyland where she currently surfs the waves, reads Chaucer on the beach, owns a high-rise luxury condo, and goes out at night with J-Lo and a number of nice bucks who know how to treat a lady. And I hope you waste away alone in that little cave of yours or that Yukon mistakes you for supper. (Too harsh?)

I also have a little bit of a problem with the way the Abominable Snowman was tricked into coming out of his cave, with Hermie pretending to be a pig and “oinking” to get his attention. Yukon says if there is something any snowmonster can’t turn down, it’s a fresh side of pork. But I’m pretty sure there are no pigs, domesticated or wild, in the North Pole region. I googled it.

I’m just saying that I could handle the whole reindeer born with a glowing nose and an island of misfit toys and a flying sleigh better if there had been some fact-checking going on in other areas of the plot.

Finally, the movie ends with Santa flying off into the sky with his reindeer pulling his sleigh and Rudolph leading the way. It’s a touching scene, really. Until you realize that the sky is beautifully clear without a cloud in sight. So that kind of blows the whole a-blizzard-is-the-reason-why-Rudolph-was-needed story climax. That’s just lazy writing, people.

santaNext up, look out Charlie Brown.

Why Thanksgiving Is the Best Holiday of the Year, or Why Thanksgiving Is the Sh*t

Thanksgiving funnyI usually don’t name favorites when it comes to holidays because a holiday is a holiday and any reason to be away from work for a day and/or celebrate with people I love is groovy, regardless of the reason.

It’s kind of like picking your favorite kid. (Actually, I can totally do that because I only have one. Next analogy please.)

It’s like choosing your favorite dog of all time or your favorite coworker at the office. You could probably think it in your head, but you shouldn’t say it out loud.

Yet.

I’m going to go out on a limb and say that Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.

Unlike Christmas, there isn’t the whole heavy religious thing going on that makes some people uncomfortable, and that makes a lot of people post sort-of mean stuff about those of us who say “happy holidays,” instead of “merry Christmas.” And there’s no pressure associated with purchasing gifts for people or making cookies with frosting or doing pipe-cleaner ornament crafts because I never get any of those right anyway.

Easter is also heavily laden in religious undertones and a mandate to get up to see a sunrise, both of which can bring a gal down. And, let’s face it, it’s a holiday that can involve outright lying, i.e. the Easter Bunny. (Now that I think of it, Easter is very much like Christmas, only without the twinkly lights, the ginormous inflatable snowmen at Home Depot, and the two weeks of ABC programming.)

Fourth of July is awesome because of fireworks and burgers and that Lee Greenwood song, but it’s during the hottest time of year, which means I usually get sunburned and beer-bloat. And that marks it down about 20 notches in my book.

Valentine’s Day makes me unable to breathe even though the days of drinking a bottle of wine alone, watching bad sitcoms are (mostly) behind me.

Columbus Day? Too much guilt.

The presidential holidays and civil rights holidays and veterans’ holidays and made-up Hallmark holidays are all fine and dandy, but the commercials undoubtedly make me cry. Soldier coming home and seeing his baby for the first time? Mother and grown daughter sharing a moment over coffee? That speech by Dr. King? STOP IT ALREADY. I have hormones going on here, people! I do make an exception for the ads about saving $500 on a Tempur-Pedic with no money down. Those are okay.

So, to recap, Thanksgiving is the One.

I like that it’s a holiday that emphasizes being grateful. We need more of these kinds of holidays.

I don’t even get annoyed at all the gratitude challenges going on via social media right now. I kinda like them. I like that Jane* is thankful that her knee surgery went well. I like that Robert** is thankful for Starbucks pumpkin lattes on a cold morning. I don’t mind that Anna*** is thankful for the little things, like her husband leaving her love notes when he goes on a business trip. In fact, I don’t even say sarcastic things about any of these kinds of posts.

It’s a Thanksgiving miracle, really.

I like that Thanksgiving really does just revolve around sharing food. Unlike other holidays, there’s no pretense here. It’s all about the grub. Heck, even that first Thanksgiving was founded in raising fork to mouth. I know, I know. We’ve taken it a bit in the wrong direction since that whole initial soiree likely involving waterfowl, venison, berries, corn, and squash. But I don’t think there is anything wrong with evolving our traditions to include the trifecta of butter, cream and gravy. That’s just one more thing to be thankful for — the ability to eat our weight in homemade dinner rolls one day out of the year. (If you substitute “cranberry relish” in for “dinner rolls” in that last sentence, we can’t be friends.)

I like that Thanksgiving usually includes a good football game or two. Growing up a Texas Aggie, Thanksgiving Day used to be sacred because of the A&M vs. t.u. game. The world stopped at kickoff, we knew not to walk in front of the TV unless it was a commercial break, we got to eat more good food even though we were stuffed (Sue’s sausage balls, anyone?), and we got to see my dad get out of his recliner to kiss my mom when the Aggies scored. Or for a while there, when they got a first down.

I like that there are very few expectations for this holiday, other than to thank whoever’s cooking, eat with reckless abandon, help clean up the kitchen, and maybe keep your mouth shut when your uncle drinks too much and tells an off-color joke at the table, or when a family member wants to discuss the evils of Obamacare and why Barack is a Muslim and how we all know his birth certificate is fake.

It’s not a perfect holiday, of course. Sometimes I think American culture has turned Thanksgiving into nothing more than a prelude to greed, and that it will soon lose the name “Thanksgiving” altogether and just be called “Brown Thursday.”

But until then, I’m going to enjoy the food. I’m going to enjoy the fact that people are nicer for about a week leading up to the holiday. (Twitter does not count.)

And I’m going to enjoy the fact that I have a gratitude list much longer than any holiday shopping list I’ve ever had.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

thanksgiving funny ecard

* Jane is not a real person.

** Robert is not a real person.

*** Anna is a real person and sometimes I don’t like her. I’m kidding. She is not real, either.

Colorado Aspens: Just One Reason Why I Love Early Fall in the Rockies

colorado aspens in the fall

Even when I lived in South Texas, fall was my favorite time of year. Because despite the fact that you couldn’t really wear a sweater of any kind until December (if at all), there was the excitement of Friday Night Lights and Saturday afternoon Texas Aggie football, the first cold front of the season, pumpkins for carving, my mom’s chili, and the chance that she might bake one of her world-renowned apple or peach pies.

But here in the high Rockies, fall is even better. There’s a briskness to the air that can’t really be described, only felt — even when the sky is a bright blue and a cloud is nowhere to be found. Bear sightings increase because they are in heavy foraging mode to prepare for hibernation. There is nearly always the scent of wood-burning stoves in the evenings. The foxes and coyotes begin to get their thicker coats. The birds are gorging on my sunflower seeds. And the squirrels and chipmunks are climbing the lodgepole pines, picking out the centers of pine cones and tossing the cones down to the ground in what sometimes feels like a battle zone in the forest.

And, of course, the aspens turn the most saturated, breathtaking colors of red and gold. Our fall colors don’t last nearly as long as they do in the East, but while they’re here, they are brilliant.

Here are a few shots from around the neighborhood right now. And the leaves aren’t even at their fall peak yet!

(And yes, I know it’s not officially fall yet until September 22. But don’t tell that to the bears.)

fall in colorado - aspen trees

aspen and pine trees in coloradofall in colorado mountains

colorado aspen leaves

10 Books That Impacted Me

An author friend, Lauren Clark, challenged me to quickly come up with 10 books that impacted my life. Definitely not an easy task, but I took a shot at it. (Lauren has a new book out, too [Pie Girls]. If you like southern fiction full of sassy, smart women, you should check it out!)

Meanwhile, here’s my list. I really need about 200 more spaces to work with here, folks.

1. Little House in the Big Woods – Laura Ingalls Wilder

2. Birds of America – Lorrie Moore

3. Waltzing the Cat – Pam Houston

4. Larry McMurtry – The Last Picture Show

5. Annie Proulx – Close Range

6. To Kill a Mockingbird – Harper Lee

7. The Poisonwood Bible – Barbara Kingsolver

8. White Oleander by Janet Fitch

9. Beloved – Toni Morrison

10. Gone with the Wind – Margaret Mitchell

Now, I’d love to hear your lists in the comments! Then I’ll psychoanalyze you. (Kidding. Mostly.)

Also, I am already revising my list in my head … Stegner, Steinbeck, McCarthy, Salinger, Lopez, Smiley, Conrad, Lamott … oh and The Solace of Open Spaces (G. Ehrlich) …and so many poets like Mary Oliver …heck, even Encyclopedia Brown and Nancy Drew books … I’ll stop now.

Which Novel Should You Read First? Take the Quiz

The infographic craze is, well, crazy. I think it’s safe to say that I’m about as tired of infographics as I am the #IceBucketChallenge.

And yet …

Let me know your result of this quiz, would ya? I’ll psychologically analyze you later.

infographic