Tag: Sarah Lane

The 12 Blogs of Christmas: Sarah Lane

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Sarah Lane photoWelcome back! Today’s blogger is Sarah Lane.

Sarah Lane is the author of The God of My Art, the story of a young woman’s journey to become an artist, and a quarter finalist for the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. Lane’s short fiction and poetry have also featured in a number of literary magazines, including The Antigonish Review, Roar Magazine, and Quills: Canadian Poetry Magazine.

Lane’s upcoming young adult novel is a psychological read about a cerebral seventeen-year-old who struggles to learn salsa dancing only to be shown up by her doppelgänger. (You can sign up on her website to be notified when it comes out).

Sarah Lane hopes you will enjoy listening to this reading from her young adult crossover novel The God of My Art. This chapter is taken from near the end of the book, when Helene visits her mother over the winter holidays. Watch the video here. Or view on her website.

(Next up: Keith Baker)

Miss one of the days? Here are the blogs posted so far:

Dec. 13   Ellen Chauvet

 

12 Blogs of Christmas – Sarah Lane

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Sarah Lane photoToday’s 12 Blogs of Christmas contributor is Sarah Lane.

Sarah Lane is the author of The God of My Art, a quarter finalist for the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. The God of My Art is the coming-of-age story of a young artist for whom a summer fling awakens the dream of a more creative life. Lane’s other fiction and poetry have appeared in The Antigonish Review, Roar Magazine, and Quills: Canadian Poetry Magazine.

Lane is currently writing a psychological thriller about a salsa dancer and her doppelgänger. To be the first to know when it comes out, sign up to her new release mailing list.

To learn more about Lane’s writing, visit www.sarahlanebooks.com

A note from Sarah: A big round of applause for Martin Crosbie for coming up with this great idea and recruiting everyone. I feel honoured to be a part of such a talented pool of writers.

———-

Morning Light

I.

The leaves are falling, clumping on pavement, wet and mute
like the beat of lips, fluttering with a whisper in the rainstorm
black like mascara streaming down a throat, waft of a secret
curling under earlobes to the small of a neck, drizzling into the
chaos of hair and drift of fingers down the meridian of spine

II

When we close our eyes we forget our continents, yellow
silk of the setting sun, sheen of snow under moonlight, the sweet
spice of a foreign accent, damp warmth of a strange tongue pooling its
syllables behind our lips, this contrast of skin where we sit, side by side,
legs swinging off the bed in the hush of the morning light

(Read the rest of the poem on Sarah Lane’s website…)

Introducing the 12 Blogs of Christmas

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file0001863294772Among the many things I love about the holidays are the stories we all bring to the table. In that spirit, I’m happy that when my friend and bestselling author Martin Crosbie asked for victims volunteers to contribute a Christmas-themed blog for a 12 Blogs of Christmas event, I stuck my little hand in the air. And boy, there will be some terrific writers in this lineup. Starting tomorrow and going until Christmas, I’ll be posting a bit about each author and their holiday stories. I hope you enjoy the contributions of the following authors and check out their websites (I’m gathering links as fast as I can!) so you can learn more about them.

To whet your appetite, here’s a very short Christmas story I wrote this week during JD Mader’s #2minutesgo flash fiction fiesta and sewing circle. Loads of fine, fine authors contributing to this weekly writing party, too.

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He pinged onto her GPS screen; she put the hot toddies on the burner to warm and made herself comfortable in the recliner by the window to wait for him. She’d been thinking. She’d been thinking for months. Every year, he went out a little less enthusiastically. Every year, he returned more broken than ever. Grateful, yes, for what he’d been charged with, but she could see the toll it had taken. The stoop in his back, the lines around his eyes that were oh-so-merry, the color drained from the lips that were red as a cherry. When she heard the distant tinkle of sleigh bells, she eased out of the chair and filled two mugs, grinding nutmeg atop her secret potion that each year proved less effective at restoring his strength—even though secretly she’d been upping the dosage since that Kardashian woman tried to get her claws into him. Finally, the door opened. His shoulders drooped; his lovely suit was smeared with chimney ash, and the round, rosy cheeks had faded to a dull, pinkish-gray. With a deep breath, she brought the beverages into the living room and said, “Honey, it’s time. I want to move to Florida.”