MOI DUENDE'S WOUND

Well, that sucked. Just finished bawling in the kitchen where I sat at the table proofing the proof for the book I wrote "after" Dad's death. The dawgs looked at me confused...

I hadn't read my manuscript since I sent it to the designer four months ago. So, with that distance, I opened the proof with the idea of reading it as not its author but as any other book reader.

I bawled.

So that's good, I suppose, in terms of that the manuscript retained its power.

But it's bad because...there's a reason I bawled.

Meanwhile, the designer asked for some family photos in case it helps her with design. I don't know if she'll use this one, but I thought I'll blog it. Because it's me and Dad before I became a "Prodigal Daughter." I was, perhaps, thirteen:



Look how happy we were. The novelist Jonathan Carroll once said, "...our youth is where the only gods we ever created live." I guess it's true -- things got rocky after age 13. But the love was undeniable during the early formative years, and became the bedrock for the Prodigal Daughter's eventual return.

Hence, I wrote a book that made me bawl...

...and made the book designer bawl...

...and may it also, someday, reach forth to your eyes and pluck out blooded pearls.