Vicki Glembocki is an award-winning magazine writer and essayist; author of the memoir The Second Nine Months: One Woman Tells the Real Truth About Becoming a Mom. Finally; a writer-at-large for Philadelphia Magazine; and a columnist for Reader’s Digest. Her articles have appeared in many publications including Playboy, Ladies Home Journal, Women’s Health, More, Parents, Babble, Fit Pregnancy, and, of course, Scuba Diver. She has a BA in English and an MFA in nonfiction writing, both from Penn State, and has been a guest on TV and radio shows, led seminars at conferences, lectured in college classes, taught yoga, sung karaoke, and performed in more than 100 plays and musicals (including two where she danced on stage naked). She blogs at Blunt Force Mama. She lives in Westmont, New Jersey, with her very patient husband, Thad, and is obsessed with yard sales, showtunes, urdhva dhanurasana, True Blood, her Honda minivan, fountain Diet Coke, and her daughters, Blair and Drew.

* * * * * * * *

Give a Girl a Fish

I felt like an extraordinarily good mom—wake up early, pack lunch, pack 3- and 5-year-old daughters in car, drive to friend’s house, pack her and her 3- and 5-year-old daughters in car, drive an hour-and-a-half to the Jersey shore, unfurl towels on beach by 10 a.m.

“We are good moms,” I said to my friend, as we sat on our very fancy  beach chairs, under our very sturdily stabbed-into-the-sand beach umbrella, and watched as our girls played in the surf.

Out of nowhere, the girls took off running. About fifty yards from us, a man—maybe in his late-50s—was fishing with gigantic poles that looked like they could hook Jaws. The girls stood next to him and watched with their little mouths hanging open as he cast the lines. He smiled at them. They ran back to us—all except my 3-year-old Drew. Instead, she plopped her red-and-pink flowered butt next to the white bucket where the man was probably planning to put the fish he caught. My brain immediately shot into Mama Bear mode: Child molester. Pedophile. Felon.

“Drew! Come here! Play with your friends!” I yelled, very aware that my speeches about not talking to strangers were not working as planned. It disturbed me. It seemed like all parents heard anymore were stories about abductions, Amber alerts, 2-year-olds found dead on train tracks. Good moms should be wary. Good moms should teach their daughters that the world was a dangerous place. I felt relieved when Drew trotted over and grabbed a shovel. Then, she looked me square in the eye:

“I want to be with man.”

She ran back, sat down next to him, and started digging.

I watched them like there was a hidden camera in the lifeguard chair filming the man for America’s Most Wanted, every few seconds darting my head toward the five-year-old to make sure she hadn’t been swept out to sea, then back to Drew, to make sure there was no contact. Just a man fishing. A little girl sitting.

“What do you think she’s saying to him?” my friend asked. In the second I’d glanced away, Drew had started talking. Her mouth was moving at warp speed. For a long time. She was probably telling the man where we lived and how her father was away on buisiness and howher mother sometimes let her ride bikes with her sister in the driveway alone. He nodded. She kept talking. He nodded again, then laughed. She laughed.

A few seconds later, she ran back to us, waving something very shiny and slimy.

“Look, mommy! A fish!”

“A what?” I recoiled. So did my friend.

“A toy fish!” It was, indeed, a toy fish—yellow and rubber and covered in gold sparkles. This was what he was using for  bait. And he’d given it to Drew. For keeps. The three other girls were impressed, and didn’t try to hide how insanely jealous they were. They all lunged for the fish, begging for turns. Drew looked at me for help, then at the man, then back at me.

“My friend gave me that fish!” she protested. The sand in front of the umbrella turned into a preschool cage match with a yellow rubber fish flipping through the air. Tears were fast approaching. I felt like I might cry myself. I tried to confiscate the fish, but that merely increased the volume on the tantrums-in-waiting.

Suddenly, there he was: the man, standing right next to us. He was holding three more rubber fish. He handed them to each of the girls. By their faces, you would have thought he was a actually the really cute Jonas brother.

“Thank you,” they all said, without prompting.

“Thank you,” I said, realizing that, yes, there was evil in the world … but there also was good, and kindness in strangers, and lessons for mothers to learn that only 3-year-olds could teach them. The man half-waved at us, and walked back to his poles.

~Vicki Glembocki

Next week, an essay by Reiko Rizzuto. Please submit your questions and / or Q4K essays (no longer than 1,000 words, and no attachments please) to questforkindness[at]gmail.com

Kristina Riggle lives and writes in West Michigan. Her debut novel, Real Life & Liars, was praised by Publishers Weekly for its “humorous and humane storytelling” and by Booklist as “a moving and accomplished first novel.” The book was a Target Breakout pick and a Great Lakes, Great Reads selection by the Great Lakes Independent Booksellers Association.

Kristina’s second novel, The Life You’ve Imagined, is available now from Avon and has been selected by independent booksellers as an IndieNext “Notable” Pick for September 2010.

* * * * * * * *

Sometimes, the last thing you want is kindness.

I was a cub reporter at my first real job, covering a true small-town scandal involving sex, an important man, and a mistress. The mistress claimed the man abused his position of power to take advantage. Only, the man was well-loved and admired by many. It was one of those unfortunate cases where only those two people really know what happened. Yet, people were lining up on each side, facing off.

One day, the mistress called to yell at me. The tirade went on for several minutes. My attempts to defend myself were weak, ineffectual, especially to her. She felt I was against her, ruining her, making everything worse. Part of what rendered me helpless in the face of her anger was that I sympathized with her plight. I, too, hated what my articles were doing, though I also knew my reporting was as even-handed as I could manage.

I’m older now, more savvy and wise. My older, more experienced self would have told her to call back when she’s calmer. Or I could have said I had work to do and I had to hang up now, or I would have transferred her to my boss to get her out of my hair and let him deal with it.

Instead, I was paralyzed in the face of her anger and hurt.

This was a small office, a small newspaper, small town. In my peripheral vision I was aware of the listening in the room, how from my end of the conversation everyone knew exactly what was happening.

I finally managed to hang up. I was deeply rattled, and all this was worse because it was a spectacle. I took deep breaths, trying to collect myself. I was a professional. I had work to do.

Then I looked up and met the eyes of a co-worker, a motherly woman with a sweet, caretaking disposition. Her eyes crinkled in sympathy and I don’t remember exactly but I think she asked me, “Are you okay?”

I dashed to the bathroom, unable to outrun my tears. A cluster of women circled me there, reassuring me, comforting me, when really all I wanted to do was make them all go away. I did not want to cry in front of them. I was a reporter, dammit. I felt like Tom Hanks should be yelling at me: “There’s no crying in newspapers!”

In my book The Life You’ve Imagined, a similar thing happens to my character, Anna, who is a lawyer. She, too, has a moment when she might cry or she might not, depending on what the people around her do.

I know my old co-workers saw me in distress and wanted to make it better. For some, I was young enough to be a daughter, and that was part of it, I’m sure.

I didn’t want their kindness, then. But I understand it, and with the benefit of hindsight, I’m grateful — even as I’m proud that I never again cried at the office.

~Kristina Riggle

Next week, an essay by Vicki Glembocki. Please submit your questions and / or Q4K essays (no longer than 1,000 words, and no attachments please) to questforkindness[at]gmail.com

The German version of Simply From Scratch, Weiß der Himmel von dir (Heaven Knows About You), celebrates its sixth consecutive week on Germany’s Spiegel bestseller list. Danke, Deutschland!

Tune in this Thursday, August 26, when wonderful novelist Kristina Riggle will take us back to her days as a cub newspaper reporter … and muse on those moments in life when kindness is the last thing you want.

~Al

Ken Wheaton, the author of The First Annual Grand Prairie Rabbit Festival, was born and raised in Opelousas, Louisiana. He went off to school in the Hamptons and hasn’t been right in the head since. He currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, and is an editor at Advertising Age magazine and otherwise just waiting for someone to pick up the movie rights to The First Annual Grand Prairie Rabbit Festival. It was his first novel, and it would be the kind thing to do.

* * * * * * * *

We were young once, and stupid — and kind

In October of 1991, I was a freshman at Long Island University in Southampton, New York. The school no longer exists, but that isn’t important. It existed at the time and it was my new world, a gathering of 1,200 or so souls, most of whom lived on campus. It was camp with books.

Things were different, then. We didn’t have cellphones. Hell, we didn’t have regular phones in the dorm rooms. We didn’t have TV. And it goes without saying we didn’t have texting, the world wide web, email, Twitter, Facebook, IM.

What I did have was the clap.

And an angry group of people standing outside the door of my suite wanting to pound my head in. In the middle of this pack was The Girl who’d been nice enough to relieve me of my virginity on the first day of class. She’d included something else in the bargain. Something that, at 17, I wasn’t prepared to handle. I told friends. I had to. I had no experience with this sort of thing. They ushered me through the steps necessary to get to the free clinic for the shot and the penicillin.

They also may have spread the word about The Girl—the news had gone viral.

So one October night, she and a group of toughs from the Peconic dorms had marched over to the Montauks to whip my ass. Except they didn’t. There was some blustering. She cried. I tried to stand my ground, protesting that it certainly wasn’t in my interest to spread this kind of news. After my suite mates came out of their rooms as a show of support, the intruders scattered into the night.

And I ran into the arms of The Hobbes Family, a group of 20 or so kids, mostly freshmen living in the Montauk 500s. We’d coalesced within the first few weeks of school. All on our own for the first time, we were flexing our wings, wearing ridiculous clothes, cutting our own hair, sitting nights on the beach, smoking dope, drinking cheap beer and just digging the hell out of one another.

We had two loves: The Red Hot Chili Peppers and Calvin and Hobbes. Hence the name The Hobbes Family. I’m sure I’ll leave someone out, but family members included Nicole, Colleen, Michelle, Ardis, Dave, Ervin, Liz, Jay, Jen, another Jay, Dan and, the heart of the group, Vicky.

These were the people I ran to on this particular night. And I cried. It wasn’t a sniffle here, a hiccup there. It was snot-on-my-face ugly. The confrontation with The Girl’s posse was only part of it. The truth was, I’d spent all that time trying to get out of Louisiana and I was struggling. The east end of Long Island was a weird place to me. Hell, Southampton Village was considerably smaller than my hometown.

And the food sucked. Actively. Again, I’m from Louisiana; I take food seriously. Spending my whole life there, I’d thought about it about as much as I’d thought about the oxygen I breathed. So after a month of super-bland college food-service offerings, I was at wit’s end. In fact, in those days before blogs and comments, I’d found a way to start a flame-war with the manager of the cafeteria – by posting feed-back cards on the bulletin board. I can probably trace my writing voice back to the screed I wrote when they served something they called gumbo.

So that night I was crying for home. I was crying for food. I was crying that my first time didn’t lead to true love. I was crying because it seemed that the second time wasn’t going to be coming any time soon. I was crying because it burned when I peed. I was crying because of the indignity of having a doctor stick a pipe-cleaner in my – well never mind that.

And the Hobbes family gathered around, told me it would be fine, that they were there for me, that there was nothing to be ashamed of. They let me wallow in my shame and humiliation and pain, saying only, “Let it out, man” and “We’ll kill those bastards” and “You’ll be home for Christmas.”

Eventually, I did get it out. And someone grabbed me a beer. And we drank and tried to put a smile on the pity party.

And that could have been it. Just a nice moment. Typical teenage kindness.

But that wasn’t it. Days later, representatives of the Hobbes family presented me with a gift. They’d scrounged up some money and bought me a plane ticket home for Thanksgiving.

That was the story, at any rate. I always suspected Vicky came up with the idea, marshaled the troops, whipped them into line, called up her own mom and got the job done.

I was stupefied. This was a pretty big deal. Money was precious. Money was the only thing keeping us in Piels, Meisterbrau and the GPC cigarettes we’d buy at the Shinnecock reservation. They took the incoherent ramblings of a self-pitying friend and they did something about it.

I’m not sure if they ever knew how much that one gesture meant to me.

Of course, an entity like The Hobbes Family can’t really stand the test of time intact. Some of us moved off campus, others stayed in the dorms. I found a beautiful senior girl to spend the rest of my college years with. We still kept in touch, sure. And we were always there if someone needed. Or they were there for me at any rate. Michelle, Ardis and I were lucky enough to do SEAmester together—nine weeks on The Spirit of Massachusetts, sailing from Boston to the Dominican Republic. And when I showed up at school the following semester and didn’t have a place to crash, an offshoot of the Hobbes family offered me a couch for as long as I needed it.

Then college was over. We moved farther apart. There’d be an email every once in a while. Some of us managed to show up for Ardis’ wedding—where I repaid those years of kindness by talking the DJ into playing Clarence Carter’s “Stroking.”

Then that crazy Zuckerberg kid invented Facebook, and now many of us have found each other again. Even crazy Erv, who disappeared halfway through freshmen year never to be heard from again – until last year, when he surfaced. He leads kayak tours in Norway.

It wasn’t just that these kids bought me a plane ticket home for the holidays. They encouraged me to take one step closer to whatever it was I was supposed to be. They were among the first to encourage my writing – bad as it was at the time.

That freshman year was the closest I’ve ever come to getting a tattoo: Hobbes the tiger standing behind a huge purple Aztec star of the sort featured on the Chili Peppers’ “Blood Sugar Sex Magic.” Thankfully, I was broke at the time (we all were).

But had I gotten it and was asked by a current coworker all these years later to explain what in the hell I was thinking, I’d happily tell them about The Hobbes Family.

Next week, an essay by Kristina Riggle. Please submit your questions and / or Q4K essays (no longer than 1,000 words, and no attachments please) to questforkindness[at]gmail.com

Thank you to everyone who entered last week’s baking disaster contest! I had some fantastically disastrous stories to chose from; picking a winner was tough. So instead of just one, I picked three. Congratulations to Sara DeSabato, Randi Setterlund, and Lauren Hild, who will receive signed copies of Simply From Scratch. There were some really funny disasters shared in the comments; if you missed them, click here to get caught up.

People magazine calls Simply From Scratch “tasty” in the Great Reads section of its most recent (8/14) issue. And Germany agrees: Simply From Scratch has spent four consecutive weeks on the Spiegel bestseller list. Danke, Germany!

Last Wednesday marked my first official SfS signing event. It was thrilling to have such a lively turnout. My gratitude to all who came, asked great questions, partook of my awesome cupcakes (the ones that didn’t get dropped on the sidewalk beforehand), and admired the pink pirate-themed napkins in honor of that good old greyhound, Captain Ahab. Here are some shots from the night.

For an unforgettable kindness essay by Ken Wheaton, author of the highly acclaimed novel The First Annual Grand Prairie Rabbit Festival, please visit Quest For Kindness this Thursday, August 19, when we’ll be proud to welcome him.

~Al

Therese Walsh is the author of The Last Will of Moira Leahy (Random House, October 2009), a Target Breakout Book, now available in paperback.

Therese is the co-founder of Writer Unboxed, a blog for writers about the craft and business of genre fiction. Before turning to fiction, she was a researcher and writer for Prevention magazine, and then a freelance writer. She’s had hundreds of articles on nutrition and fitness published in consumer magazines and online.

She has a master’s degree in psychology. Aside from writing, Therese’s favorite things include music, art, crab legs, Whose Line is it Anyway?, dark chocolate, photography, unique movies and novels, people watching, strong Irish tea, and spending time with her husband, two kids and their bouncy Jack Russell.

* * * * * * * *

Thirteen and Sixty-three

My grandmother was diagnosed with cancer when I was thirteen years old. Lung cancer; she’d been a cigarette smoker. She endured radiation and the grueling process of chemotherapy. She cried when a young acquaintance of mine—who eventually died from a form of juvenile cancer—had to endure the same thing, which was when we all knew the depth of the toll her therapy was taking on her.

She finished her therapy. It seemed, for a time, the cancer was gone. But then, just as swiftly, it wasn’t.

There were more rounds of radiation and chemo. I remember my father coaching her on, “Just visualize it, Ma—the army of white soldiers in your body, growing, growing stronger and larger, wiping out all of the enemies.” And she tried, I know she did.

Months later, it had gone too far; we knew then that the cancer was going to win.

I was, as I mentioned, thirteen. An awkward age. An I’m-not-sure-what-to-say-to-you age. I wasn’t able to sit down with my grandmother to talk about feelings or cancer or death or fear, and even if I had been capable of that, I’m not sure that I would’ve chosen to have that conversation. The bond between my grandmother and I had always been strong, though. “Two peas in a pod,” my father used to say, because our temperaments were so similar.

One day, a holiday—I can’t remember which—we were at my grandmother’s house, having a cookout. There were lawn chairs open all over the place—plastic laced chairs, metal chairs, an old recliner—as a sense of unwelcome closure suffused the air. My grandmother got up out of her chair for something, grabbed her walking cane, which she needed after the second round of therapy knocked the energy and strength out of her limbs. I stood up, walked beside her. I remember thinking, “Catch her if she falls. Watch her.” And I think I psyched myself out a bit, because when my grandmother took a turn around her roses, she wobbled a little—a natural wobble, nothing to worry about—and I practically lunged for her, ready to catch her. My grandmother, seeing me out of sorts, flailing as I must have been, startled, thought I was falling, and reached for me.

“You okay?” she asked, her hand on my arm, my hands on her.

I nodded. Awkward. Embarrassed. Thirteen. Letting go.

She died shortly after that day, but I will never forget it.

~Therese Walsh

Next week, an essay by Ken Wheaton. Please submit your questions and / or Q4K essays (no longer than 1,000 words, and no attachments please) to questforkindness[at]gmail.com

If you’re in the Philly area, please join me tomorrow, Wednesday, August 11, at 6 p.m. at the Barnes & Noble in Rittenhouse Square (18th & Walnut). I’ll be saying a few words and signing copies of Simply From Scratch. And, there will be cupcakes!

Here’s my interview on blogtalkradio.com, with the lovely ladies who host “Who You Callin’ Old?” We had a really fun chat about bras, dogs, and baking.

It’s not too late to enter the Baking Disaster contest to win a signed copy of Simply From Scratch. Describe your craziest baking blunder in the comments section. The contest closes Thursday, August 12, at 9 p.m. EST. Good luck!

And finally … we’ve got a lively August lineup for Quest For Kindness. Therese Walsh shares a heartwarming — and heartbreaking — story about her grandmother; Ken Wheaton offers a frank look at being sexually active during his college years; and Kristina Riggle recalls her hectic days as a cub newspaper reporter.

We’re honored to welcome these really cool authors to Quest For Kindness! And, you don’t have to be a published writer to contribute to Q4K. We’re interested in a wide range of voices. So, no matter your background, if you have something thoughtful to say on the topic of kindness, submit your brief (1,000-ish words or less) essay for consideration to questforkindness[at]gmail.com

See you Thursday!

~Al

Alicia Bessette’s first novel, Simply From Scratch, debuted yesterday from Dutton. Alicia was born and raised in central Massachusetts and graduated from La Salle University in Philadelphia. A pianist and freelance writer, she and her husband, novelist Matthew Quick, live near Philadelphia. Alicia will be speaking, signing books, and serving cupcakes at the Barnes & Noble in Rittenhouse Square, 18th & Walnut, at 6 p.m. Wednesday, August 11. She hopes to see you there! For more information on contests and appearances, join her Facebook page or follow her on Twitter.

It’s not too late to win a signed copy of Simply From Scratch by sharing your worst-ever baking disaster. Click here and leave a comment on that post before 9 p.m. EST Thursday, August 12 (thanks to popular demand, the deadline was extended).

* * * * * * * *

Joyride

As I wrote Simply From Scratch, I followed my characters wherever they went. It took something more than loyalty. It took devotion; devotion like a dog’s.

Let’s celebrate Simply From Scratch by remembering Stella B. Quick, who not only inspired a key character, but ushered the book’s creation.

I’d say Stella was special, but really, isn’t every dog?

***

When Matt and I adopted our retired racing greyhound in 1999, we were in our mid twenties, and Stella — statuesque and genteel — was two years old. With her between us, we strode across the shelter parking lot to our creaky old Pathfinder. Matt lifted the back gate, and immediately, Stella leaped inside.

From the very beginning, she wanted us.

***

In the early days, she had two favorite activities: lounging near the piano while I played, and dashing across the fenced-in baseball diamond a few blocks from where we lived. She used to spin around, a three-foot-tall black cyclone; then sprint to centerfield; then lope back to the gate, spent.

She liked Matt, but she preferred me. She followed me from room to room. She leaned on me after I came home from work. Often, when watching TV or reading books, I glanced over to find her gazing at me from the floor.

Matt and I marveled at how well-suited Stella was for us. We took her everywhere. The beach in North Carolina. The hills in New England. Like us, she loved a road trip, an excursion, and the scents of the countryside.

Through the years, Stella slept at the foot of our bed, settling herself down with a thud and a contented grunt, and falling asleep easily. That’s the only time she barked — in her dreams.

She sat only once, in protest, the moonlit night I took her snowshoeing, and her boots filled with slush.

Stella taught me the simple pleasure of strolling with no particular destination, and no curfew.

She taught me that there’s nothing wrong with being quiet.

She taught me that, if it comes naturally, you should wag your head, and not worry if most other dogs wag their tails instead.

Above all, she taught me: Cling to your people.

***

In 2008 I found myself writing a novel about a married couple, a man and a woman who’d been high school sweethearts, who are still totally in love. This couple cares for an aging greyhound. It was the beginning of Simply From Scratch.

While I wrote, day after day, Stella curled up near my desk. When I thought I’d go cross-eyed from too much computer time, or crazy with inability to find the right words, I leashed her up, and we strolled around town. Stella stopped every few feet to sniff something. The sidewalk, a weed, the air.

Back at home, Stella resumed her nap at my feet, and I — inspired by her — clung to my characters. Eventually I sniffed out the chief literary problem at the heart of Simply From Scratch: the husband has died during a rebuilding mission in post-Katrina New Orleans, and the wife needs to move on. But how?

A few people have asked, Why so sad?

Because sadness heightens joy.

Rose-Ellen, my widowed narrator, is almost completely broken. And yet, she wants to stay, to invite joie de vivre to creep back into her voice, even though it’s shaky with tears. She leans back into the community that raised her, and finds solace, rediscovers laughter, savors humor and flavor and light.

Simply From Scratch is about how to take joyrides, even when that seems impossible.

***

Lately, Stella resembled nothing of that leaping, deerlike beauty we first met on a hot July day in 1999. She was half-blind, mostly deaf, arthritic, underweight. Her toenail was busted after a terrifying spill down the stairs. Last Wednesday, when Matt took her outside for a meander, she collapsed.

He carried her home.

She was nearing the end.

He loaded her into the back of our Forester (our Pathfinder was long gone), and we headed for the veterinary hospital. A block from home, I was suddenly horrified to be riding up front, separated from Stella … but maybe I’d needed to pretend this trip wouldn’t be her last. I was just about to tell Matt to pull over so I could hop in the back, when he glanced at the rearview mirror and said, “She’s getting up.”

Behind us, Stella unfolded her lanky limbs from underneath her body. She heaved herself to standing and surfed for a moment, getting her balance, like a newborn foal testing her legs. Then she wobbled to the front passenger seat. She poked her nose in my ear and panted. Please open the back window. I’d like to stick my head out.

For the last mile of her life — her body quaking with weakness — Stella sniffed the breeze. Her ears flapped. The wind pushed her cheeks away from her teeth, so it looked like she was grinning.

Grinning and flying.

She was almost completely broken. And yet, she wanted to stay.

***

I like to think that somewhere, Stella’s sticking her sleek, feather-soft head out the back window, savoring the warm breeze on her face.

She’s behind us, like she always was.

Behind us, no matter what.

~Alicia Bessette

Next Thursday, an essay by Therese Walsh. Please submit your questions and / or Q4K essays (no longer than 1,000 words, and no attachments please) to questforkindness[at]gmail.com

Today marks the official release of Simply From Scratch — my sweet debut novel of love, friendship, and baking. It’s already a bestseller in Germany!

I’m celebrating by giving away a signed copy to whoever shares the best true baking disaster story below. Did your cheesecake look like a deflated volleyball? Did your exploding souffle splatter the oven with goo? I want to know.

You see, Simply From Scratch’s heroine, Zell — Library Journal calls her “truly loveable” — enters a baking contest. Zell is completely clueless in the kitchen, but she sticks with it, accompanied by her new buddy, nine-year-old Ingrid.

You can learn more about Zell and Ingrid⎯and their baking mishaps⎯by viewing the super-cute book trailer.

Now, about this contest: Describe your messiest, funniest, most embarrassing baking disaster in the comment thread. That’s it! Be sure to leave your email address. You have until 9 p.m. (EST) next Thursday, August 12.

Tune in tomorrow — Friday, August 6 — for a very special edition of Quest For Kindness: a tribute to Stella B. Quick, the real-life greyhound who inspired a key four-legged character in Simply From Scratch.

Thank you for sharing your stories of baking gone horribly wrong! Feel free to spread the word about this contest … and, good luck.

~Alicia Bessette

First, some brief announcements …

Two more days until the official release of Simply From Scratch! Many major bookstores have it now; before you head out, you might want to call ahead to make sure it’s there.

I’ve added some appearances to my schedule. Check out my News & Events page for details, and Dutton’s Facebook page too.

I blogged about greyhounds yesterday, at Penguin’s The Author’s Desk. (More on greyhounds here at Q4K, on Thursday, August 5.)

Finally, it’s not too late to win Simply From Scratch via The Divining Wand. To enter, leave a comment on that post before Wednesday, August 4, at 7 p.m. Eastern time.

Now, on to the Q&A:

Today’s question comes via my editor in Germany, who’s with the publisher S. Fischer Verlage.

Q: Is it easier to deal with a loss if you live in a small community? Do you have experiences with small-town versus city life yourself?

A: I grew up in Holden, Massachusetts, a town of about 15,000 people. Holden isn’t the smallest of towns, but city folk might consider it “the sticks.” It’s definitely a place of strong agricultural history, with lots of trees despite recent residential development. Many Holdenites seem to appreciate and seek out nature.

For college I moved to Philadelphia, a large international city. I went from pine needles underfoot to concrete; from strolling down the middle of potholed roads to dodging cars in between classes.

Dealing with loss is difficult no matter where you live. I think the people surrounding you can make the process easier. Not all small towns are like the very homey, very “townie” town of Wippamunk in Simply From Scratch. Some small towns feel disparate and cold, just as some big cities (like Philly) feel warm and close-knit.

Please share your thoughts on small town versus big city below. I’d love to know them!

~Alicia Bessette