Simple. Elegant. Powerful. Realistic.
Lighthearted, silly and transformative.
Much too curious to be all-knowing;
Too free to linger in the clueless dark.
I’ll meet you here. The moment you feel ready.
The sequel is nearly complete. I so passionately wanted to release it in the autumn of 2017 — but, as millions around the globe know all too well, last year was a greedy bastard bearing down on focus, wearing thin our collective stamina for anything that wasn’t urgent and immediate.
On new year’s eve, my family lit sparklers and noted how brief and brightly they wrote light into the air of a dusty trail beside a shallow canal. I felt the 2017 spell crumble and dissolve. The next day — the quintessential first day — the material coming through became unstoppable. And so the sequel is rapidly realizing a completed book as fast as I can type. I’m harvesting surprises daily; entering scenes rich in anguish, loss and marvel; encapsulating territories harrowing and resplendent.
The day’s coming soon when I can hand Amie’s experiences in The POWER over to you. Not in autumn when leaves fall and trees go dormant, but in spring when micro-bursts of anger and surges of resilience result in blooms and fruit ripe for picking.
Stay close. Be ready.
My life more than once
has changed in an instant
that took years to form.
Writing book two, it turns out, is more terrifying than writing the first in the series. It’s more terrifying as the downloads of scenes and dialogues and meaningful discoveries line up to be delivered to the page – each bigger than the last (will I be able to type that fast?). It’s more terrifying as the sense of obligation to these characters roots deeper, pushing down into the unseen well. It’s more terrifying – but also more compelling. More than the first, writing the second book is something I can’t not do.
After The LOOK, The POWER of Amie Martine is a non-negotiable promise to be kept. Each new page turn effects (on a personal scale) the next rotation of the earth – a pulse essential to my heart – respect for a binding agreement to have more fun, be more true, excavate something undeniably new.
Set in the late ‘90s, Torpor tells the story of a young man searching for his father – and coming to terms with his own identity in the process.
On the 20th anniversary since I finished the book, I opened and read a few pages and once again was hooked. Here’s to you, Peter – muse who kept me sleepless so many nights and taught me how rich the process can be when you surrender completely.
Someday I want to go back to San Felipe de Jesus and find the Jesus in that place. Someday I want to trap myself in those washboard towns, Aconchi, Magdalena; I want to meet their saints someday. I would ask them if they have ever been in love.
I don’t mean the syrup they lay on you in the media. I mean the meat of love, the hardness of it, the ice water that wakes you up into the heat of day. The Mexico of love, with rocks, pickup trucks, fat men and sugary children. Cock-sure, moonlit tequila, sweet lime, metallic bed for secret touching. Did they ever reach that side of life? Those mealy saints with their crosses on their backs, did they have enough stomach for the midnight lunch of love?
At first it was enough that the tree was there
That something generous and wholly undemanding had appeared
An opening for wonderment in a beleaguered space
It was enough by itself — adding more too soon
Would have tipped it in the wrong direction
Trust had to bloom with it first
And then, primed and steady, they started to receive
From the working draft of book two in the Amie series: The POWER of Amie Martine.
The cocktail napkins on the bar were a discouraging, stylish black. Pen in hand, I asked the bartender if he could scrounge up a scrap of paper, something more inviting to the ink. He didn’t jive – smiled and offered nothing. I sat a while contemplating skin – wouldn’t be the first time I’ve made fast notes on a forearm – but knew there was a tide coming in, needing serious shore. It took a few minutes to remember: the restroom was well-stocked in neatly folded, off-white towelettes – perfect texture for a ballpoint to roll over.
Need addressed. Resources at the ready.
Prolific tangents called ink out into open air while the ice melted in a disappearing pour of good tequila. It feels good to be in the process, driven to turn thoughts into words, words into scenes, scenes into worlds.
Nod if you’ve been there. When the muse says, “Work,” you say, “Yes.”
A new bedtime tradition is taking over — it involves me improvising tales of Princess BooBoo who lives in a Bandaid box and has the most varied, spontaneous adventures. My 5-yr-old daughter, Sachi gets so tickled as I make the stories up, she demands more and wants a new one every night. Nothing written – this is strictly an oral tradition. What I love is the momentum of the story being summoned through me by her eagerness to receive it.
This is why writers need readers!
The very first reader of a book is the author herself – on behalf of the many, she opens into that state of eager innocence and from there the story begins its telling. Of all the gifts Princess BooBoo has been delivering, this pure delight in creative process is the gem for me.
Indulging a second cup of coffee in new territory – lines, scenes, mosaics of dialogue leveraging a rare moment of unfettered solitude in the wake of a great night out… I feel the second book as palpably as I felt the first — one exists on paper, the other nags me from the ether.
Once broken open
don’t endeavor to crawl back in.
Expand, raw and unscripted,
decisive and blurry in clear purpose.
Love the rise, your presence becoming.
Nothing has a hold on you, this I promise.
Supernova – quiet dream unchained – heart
awakened: let’s be stars to each other!
Where light dims, shine simply
because you remember now
what it’s like
A short list of things I’ve outgrown the need for evidence to support:
Proof is in the pulsing of my heart.
This is not a foolish statement.
Your love for me is inside my love for you. Needing proof of it is like needing proof that I myself exist. If someday it turns out I don’t (by some unimaginable standard) actually exist, then and only then can you speak to me of the need to rationalize Love.
Read my new novel, released like a valentine this month… The LOOK unravels life, love and the mysterious, precarious, perilous truths funding our existence: It’s here!