Introducing... ❄️
A new project and offering for paid subscribers
Good morning, dear reader. Come close. I want to tell you something, just between us.
Why do I feel like I should be whispering?
I’ve been writing fiction!
As you may know, I am first and foremost a poet and personal essayist. But nine weeks ago, I began a new project as a creative experiment. And I’m having so much fun with it!
I’m writing a story in short, weekly installments. It’s a practice in curiosity, expansion, and literally trusting the process.
I’m not ready to share it with the whole wide world, but I’d love your company.
Writing takes time and intention. This work does not keep the lights on, but it feeds my soul (and hopefully yours). To that end…
I’ve decided to share DAUGHTER OF THE SNOW with select readers!
The Details
➵ Each week beginning Monday, May 10, I’ll publish a new “mini” chapter.
➵ I’ll share a paragraph with everyone; the rest of each installment will await kind readers behind a paywall.
➵ I may also include bits about the process itself as the story unfolds.
➵ There are three options for becoming a paid subscriber (if you aren’t already):
Monthly $8
Annual $90
Founding Member (annual) $222
➵ Alternately (or in addition if you’re a superfan – haha as the kids say), you can “sponsor” a chapter of DAUGHTER OF THE SNOW. Choose from one of the suggested amounts or enter your own, either on a one-time or recurring basis. All contributions are deeply helpful and appreciated. Thank you!!
Read on for the beginning of the story…
Chapter 1: Welcome home
Snow Alexandrovna was born during a blizzard, a total white-out, in the small kitchen of her parents’ apartment. Not even the midwife could get there, so Snow’s mother labored alone by the small stove, warmed mostly by the inner heat that threatened to consume her.
Snow was the first baby. She’d been meant to be called Sasha, after her father. But after her birth, after she’d been wrapped in a blanket, her mother, exhausted, flushed, in the trance of what she’d just endured, looked out the window and said only, “Snow, snow, snow.”
It’s all she could see. And she just kept saying it as her gaze lowered to the tiny girl’s face, asleep, more cherub than human, and as she repeated the word to herself, somehow she just knew it was the child’s name.
