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Author Insight
A Rainy Morning, a Literary Quilt
I was honored to be among the authors invited to read at the Provincetown Book Festival this fall. It was a wet, stormy morning, and with a pretty literary crowd in attendance, I wanted to choose just the right passage. I was looking for something that suited the weather, revealed a little about Silas, and showcased the lyrical side of the book’s narrative style. I settled on this passage because it offered a trifecta. First, it gives us a glimpse of Silas as a naturalist, learning to read an unfamiliar landscape, while also revealing something of his relationship with Wren. Second, it captures the strong sense of place, mood, and atmosphere that runs throughout the series. And finally, it illustrates what I’m trying to achieve with the narrative prose: a blend of close observation, rich sensory detail, and simple, earthy language. My goal is to stitch those elements together into something like a well-loved quilt: soft and comfortable, but intricately detailed when you look closely.
Book Excerpt
The Holdfast
But after taking one look outside, Wren said, “How about I pull the quilt up and just stay under the covers?”
It was gray and wet out, with a hard north wind and the kind of rain that was light but steady and relentless enough to soak you quiet.
Silas wasn’t having it. “Spent whole weeks out in weather worse than this. C’mon—we’ll make a hot breakfast, bundle you up, take hot coffee with us. This kinda day, we’ll have the whole world to ourselves. You’ll be back in time to scrub the chill off with a hot shower.”
Wren moaned softly but pushed back the covers and stood, her fiery red hair its usual morning bird’s nest. Silas stepped toward her and kissed the crown of her head, breathing in her warm, sleepy scent.
As they got ready, Silas thought about the weather. Autumn in Provincetown was something he was still learning to read. Back in the mountain West, winter came on like a switch. One minute the aspens were shimmering yellow, whispering their chorus in the wind—and the next, they were bare, and it was howling, full-on winter.
Out here, winter crept in slowly, first disguised as rain. The still-warm ocean held the cold off, so winter took its time, wrapping its arms around the town little by little. He’d read in a book of poems that the cold touched the puddles first, then the kettle ponds—freezing their edges at night, releasing them again by day.
T he natural world had always spoken plainly to him; he’d learned long ago how to listen. Outdoors, he noticed things most people walked past without ever seeing. And now, he was starting to learn this place’s rhythm too. The signs were there, all around him. The beaches, swollen with summer sand, were beginning to give it back to the sea. The seals had thinned; soon, the sharks would vanish. And by December, the last of the southbound migratory birds would move on.
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