Dream Review of Run, River Currents: Non-Fiction Finalist for 2013 Indie Book of the Year
September 9, 2013
I was sitting at my computer during another day of writing. I was alone…again, and I was tired. I let my head sleepily bob over my story while I struggled to find new words. A small ding alerted me to an email. It had arrived out of nowhere, the email that boldly proclaimed my dark and powerful novel, Run, River Currents, had indeed moved the oft-times quirky humorist, Sara Pritchard to write a review! Known for a high-pitched voice that cracks and twitters, as well as an off-beat sense of timing when she reads, Sara is a poster child for laughter.
It was no wonder I was bowled over. This tiny being was my nemesis. I looked like Rosie O’Donnell when compared to this wisp of a woman. I tend to dress in black nondescript clothes, while she dared to mix colorful, vintage flea market finds. I felt hair cluttered my head, while Sara donned chapeaus of every era. What would this wonderful, wacky woman have in common with an author whose first novel felt like a journey to hell and back? Could it be possible that this humorist had been moved by my book? Even more important, could I ever believe that she might actually comment on my work? Me, a self-proclaimed Debbie Downer?
I tentatively opened the email and read.
Two strong, opposing forces run through Run, River Currents—one of rage, violence and shame, the other of grace and redemption…Set along the beautiful yet life-claiming Tobique River, Ginger Marcinkowski’s novel is graced with narrative profluence and lyrical descriptions. It will leave you drenched, breathless on your knees and gasping for air.
Sara Pritchard, author of Crackpots (a New York Times Notable Book of the Year) and Help Wanted: Female (2013)
The doorbell rang and I jerked upright. I rubbed my hand across my face wiping the spittle from my cheek. I pushed the chair away from my computer and stumbled down the hallway to the front door, tugging it open so fast the postman fell inside, his hand still in the knock position.
“Hey Frank,” I said pushing both hands through my unkempt hair.
“I see you’re writing today,” he spit back. “Here. Got something for you.” His eyes showed disgust at my writing attire. Matted pink slippers that looked like a dog had wet on them. Black knee highs. Navy sweat pants I’d cut off at the knees, one leg shorter than the other. My favorite T-shirt stained with last night’s dinner. What did he know? I’m a writer for Pete’s sake!
He tossed the note at me and slammed the door. The letter was addressed in tiny letters, as though a midget had written them. Ginger Marcinkowski. I tore the envelope open and as I read, all of the air rushed from my body at once, every orifice playing like a well-tuned trumpet. It was the review I had just dreamed about! A review from one of today’s most important humorists, Sara Pritchard!
I hugged the note to my chest and twirled around and around the hallway. She’d already posted it to Kindle! I ran toward my computer, still dizzy from my dance. I slipped on the hall rug and skated head first into the dining room hutch, making the antique shudder and sending my grandmother’s fern plummeting to the floor. It hit my bad foot, breaking it in two spots…again. I’d left my cell phone in the office and was forced to slide my bottle butt across the wooden floor, down the hall and into my office to retrieve it. By the time I’d reached the office, my rear end could have produced a bucket of toothpicks. My head dropped to my chest as I’d realized I’d left the phone in the car.
Despondent, I rolled over and looked up at my desk. At least I was at home and could still get to my computer. I rolled toward the desk and tugged at the cord of my Mac. I watched it as it crept along the top of my desk, then abruptly stopped. I tugged again. Nothing. In one swift move I jerked the cord and watched it as it careened toward me in slow motion. I woke up a few minutes later, the computer screen planted squarely on my face. I took a deep breath and pondered my next move.
Pain or no pain, I decided there was no need to move any further. I was back in my office and ready to write. I propped my computer on my braless chest and started punching the keys. I was on fire! Ideas were flying through the air and forming stories that just minutes before had escaped me! No more Debbie Downer! I was happy, happy happy!
A small ding on my computer let me know another email had arrived. My editor. “Are you on track with your next book for that September date?” I gently slammed the computer closed and rolled to my side. I was going to enjoy this moment.