tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63246472675320366072024-03-05T03:04:22.289-08:00Black BirdEverything you need to know about the third installment in The Fallmoore Chronicles. Black Bird is a novel by Canadian author, Alanna Rusnak, releasing in November 2020.Alanna Rusnakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16122635933133324865noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324647267532036607.post-13164875369991041012020-11-07T16:55:00.001-08:002020-11-12T17:05:10.659-08:00Black Bird [Virtual] Launch Party<p>COVID has forced authors everywhere to rethink the way they market and launch books.<i> Black Bird</i> is no exception. I had visions of another lovely night like we had with the launch of <a href="http://churchinthewildwood.alannarusnak.com/2017/06/standing-room-only-ode-to-beautiful.html" target="_blank"><i>The Church in the Wildwood</i></a>...a dimly lit café, a live band, a buzzing crowd... but alas, <i>Black Bird</i> had to be launched from a virtual platform while I sat with my family in the living room, pretending we were surrounded by a mob of supporters.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzSrJpgqY10H3PSemxkK6HDwJePt6Ykz0AoiYt_3AvxU1MJoeYxbGtZSJHNke3HcCl8wA9j-u3YTtBMkfPHCBWxGH8LXbGUK8EFqSWmC3i3b_2tGvNlD14eKuopmrmLdGbp1Or__xpaA/s2048/launch.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1162" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzSrJpgqY10H3PSemxkK6HDwJePt6Ykz0AoiYt_3AvxU1MJoeYxbGtZSJHNke3HcCl8wA9j-u3YTtBMkfPHCBWxGH8LXbGUK8EFqSWmC3i3b_2tGvNlD14eKuopmrmLdGbp1Or__xpaA/s16000/launch.jpg" /></a></div>It was strange to watch myself projected on the television, but it was
thrilling to watch the view numbers of the stream climb up to nearly 300
within the first twenty-four hours. <p></p><p> <br /></p><center><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/UV7Y0m1nS84" width="560"></iframe></center><p></p><p>Now I'm gearing up for a COVID-style masked book signing on November 13 and 14 which should prove to be another new and interesting experience. Wish me luck.<br /></p><p><br /></p>Alanna Rusnakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16122635933133324865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324647267532036607.post-91167395328635464662020-11-05T17:15:00.004-08:002020-11-12T17:20:06.982-08:00Google Translate Episode 3: "You are NOT golden grass"<p><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa fgxwclzu a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id" dir="auto">It's your final chance to watch me introduce portions of Black Bird to Google Translate. Do YOU know where Macedonia is?</span></p><p><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa fgxwclzu a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id" dir="auto"><span class="pq6dq46d tbxw36s4 knj5qynh kvgmc6g5 ditlmg2l oygrvhab nvdbi5me sf5mxxl7 gl3lb2sf hhz5lgdu"></span></span></p><p><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa fgxwclzu a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id" dir="auto"><span class="pq6dq46d tbxw36s4 knj5qynh kvgmc6g5 ditlmg2l oygrvhab nvdbi5me sf5mxxl7 gl3lb2sf hhz5lgdu"></span></span></p><p><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa fgxwclzu a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id" dir="auto"><span class="pq6dq46d tbxw36s4 knj5qynh kvgmc6g5 ditlmg2l oygrvhab nvdbi5me sf5mxxl7 gl3lb2sf hhz5lgdu"></span></span></p><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqX3s3jGzSTmIZsH2Or1P6ObMA1CAF3zLQ3ITVNNIRxEhVd2jlrSxH0HPtJJP9oY9s-flwoLx1xg_BVtERQt9_hh379577vdR8uwR4h9HcyiTIQJxbe9MUPGkO9znOC_I5vv3mqalkAQ/s1920/Episode3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqX3s3jGzSTmIZsH2Or1P6ObMA1CAF3zLQ3ITVNNIRxEhVd2jlrSxH0HPtJJP9oY9s-flwoLx1xg_BVtERQt9_hh379577vdR8uwR4h9HcyiTIQJxbe9MUPGkO9znOC_I5vv3mqalkAQ/s16000/Episode3.jpg" /></a>Pre-order your copy of Black Bird (<span><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl py34i1dx gpro0wi8" href="https://www.alannarusnakpublishing.com/bookstore/p/blackbird?fbclid=IwAR3jmh_EYm3N3aQ1gHdNWPGogXxPNHiN7MychQFLCdEFvqqrJJ8RRMuobA0" rel="nofollow noopener" role="link" tabindex="0" target="_blank">https://www.alannarusnakpublishing.com/bookstore/p/blackbird</a></span>)</div><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa fgxwclzu a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id" dir="auto"></span><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa fgxwclzu a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id" dir="auto"><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Join me this Saturday night for the official launch party! R.S.V.P. to the launch party (<span><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl oo9gr5id gpro0wi8 lrazzd5p" href="https://www.facebook.com/events/689852554958948/?__tn__=-UK-R" role="link" tabindex="0">https://www.facebook.com/events/689852554958948</a></span>)</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl oo9gr5id gpro0wi8 lrazzd5p" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/blackbirdnovel?__eep__=6&__tn__=*NK-R" role="link" tabindex="0">#BlackBirdNovel</a></span></div></div></span><br /><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa fgxwclzu a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id" dir="auto"><span class="pq6dq46d tbxw36s4 knj5qynh kvgmc6g5 ditlmg2l oygrvhab nvdbi5me sf5mxxl7 gl3lb2sf hhz5lgdu"></span></span><p></p><iframe allow="autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="true" frameborder="0" height="315" scrolling="no" src="https://www.facebook.com/plugins/video.php?href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Falannarusnakauthor%2Fvideos%2F812603446155803%2F&show_text=0&width=560" style="border: none; overflow: hidden;" width="560"></iframe>Alanna Rusnakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16122635933133324865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324647267532036607.post-20180199847312722232020-11-03T18:31:00.007-08:002020-11-04T18:41:53.648-08:00Sneak Peek at the Acknowledgement Page<p>These hooligans are the reason I can say my new novel launches in FOUR days. Without the support of a household that holds me up and pushes me forward I could not see my dreams come to fruition. </p><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpzfRudwnXac6juriMVWghiukv60RFJ2_Fw-AnXiiNvtrL4sqg6eIMaLJktRlIGnUcya6duCbdM_Q684VMBriAfx86k3HSLIwfp3p6ICe13Jnv4wMoquqzf2aXajzddNSnMSkTP8NYEA/s2048/familylaugh-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1171" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpzfRudwnXac6juriMVWghiukv60RFJ2_Fw-AnXiiNvtrL4sqg6eIMaLJktRlIGnUcya6duCbdM_Q684VMBriAfx86k3HSLIwfp3p6ICe13Jnv4wMoquqzf2aXajzddNSnMSkTP8NYEA/s16000/familylaugh-2.jpg" /></a></div><br /> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Thank you to my children who allow me space to weave new tales; for a son who still keeps the poster for my first book launch up in his room<span class="pq6dq46d tbxw36s4 knj5qynh kvgmc6g5 ditlmg2l oygrvhab nvdbi5me sf5mxxl7 gl3lb2sf hhz5lgdu"><img alt="❤️" height="16" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/ted/2/16/2764.png" width="16" /></span>; for a daughter who bubbles with ecstatic joy when she finds a spelling or grammar mistake in a novel <span class="pq6dq46d tbxw36s4 knj5qynh kvgmc6g5 ditlmg2l oygrvhab nvdbi5me sf5mxxl7 gl3lb2sf hhz5lgdu"><img alt="❤️" height="16" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/ted/2/16/2764.png" width="16" /></span>; and for the eldest boy - now suddenly an adult - who seems to know when I’m struggling and reaches out with an unprompted ‘I’m proud of you’, or a ‘you can do it’ text. <span class="pq6dq46d tbxw36s4 knj5qynh kvgmc6g5 ditlmg2l oygrvhab nvdbi5me sf5mxxl7 gl3lb2sf hhz5lgdu"></span><span class="pq6dq46d tbxw36s4 knj5qynh kvgmc6g5 ditlmg2l oygrvhab nvdbi5me sf5mxxl7 gl3lb2sf hhz5lgdu"><img alt="❤️" height="16" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/ted/2/16/2764.png" width="16" /></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Thank you to my husband who is forced to consume countless hours of NBA while I’m tucked away in my office trying to smooth out a scene that’s as ugly as a Shaquille O’Neal free throw. The way you encourage me to lean into my passions is a gift I will always cherish. <span class="pq6dq46d tbxw36s4 knj5qynh kvgmc6g5 ditlmg2l oygrvhab nvdbi5me sf5mxxl7 gl3lb2sf hhz5lgdu"><img alt="❤️" height="16" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/ted/2/16/2764.png" width="16" /></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Please join me this Saturday night (November 7) at 7:00 pm EST for the launch of Black Bird. Let me regale you with tales of the glamorous life of a writer, invite you to spy on some conversations between myself and some inquisitively creative kids, allow you to listen to me read to you from the novel, and challenge you to buy a copy of a book that just may change the way you view the world. See you then!</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Buy a book and you'll be able to read the acknowledgement page in full. <br /></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/events/689852554958948/?__cft__[0]=AZXJMPWvEpm2BK-tjpMSgwDB_yUojL1BJdH8LDRBe25gcoudi1Tki9ExdzxWqBJHuI6A48QOT3ARrB56TfWS-SJLxEEFPI3-TJNWZ9xgdpWvhNZrAekfiPCcKiuA8ctQ_ZreSKS41LvWaAf6v8BNkidS&__tn__=-UK-R" role="link" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6"><span> </span></div><div class="nc684nl6"><span>https://www.facebook.com/events/689852554958948</span></div><div class="nc684nl6"><span> <br /></span></div></a></span></div></div>Alanna Rusnakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16122635933133324865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324647267532036607.post-75307992356307413162020-10-29T17:00:00.006-07:002020-11-04T18:41:23.362-08:00Google Translate Episode 2: "taste the soap"<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFzljNJ05a_7VWZO8cml2C5UoTt_u5AF8Tpj5DzQjwHNNgycM4u8vgPFLtnkyhz_PK64fOWHnxMGCqNEcRxCq-zP8wNnCF9TvcjVVPNAvwQ1NqEDAKXEzql6ba9NMw_bYHBe6lmJzsqA/s1920/Episode+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFzljNJ05a_7VWZO8cml2C5UoTt_u5AF8Tpj5DzQjwHNNgycM4u8vgPFLtnkyhz_PK64fOWHnxMGCqNEcRxCq-zP8wNnCF9TvcjVVPNAvwQ1NqEDAKXEzql6ba9NMw_bYHBe6lmJzsqA/s16000/Episode+2.jpg" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>Another evening of introducing portions of my novel, Black Bird, to Google Translate. We're taking flight to Persia and things get a little strange...</p><p><br /><iframe allowfullscreen="true" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="315" scrolling="no" src="https://www.facebook.com/plugins/video.php?href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Falannarusnakauthor%2Fvideos%2F686785025584735%2F&show_text=0&width=560" style="border: none; overflow: hidden;" width="560"></iframe><br /> </p><p>Pre-order your copy of Black Bird (https://www.alannarusnakpublishing.com/.../pre-order...)
R.S.V.P. to the launch party (https://www.facebook.com/events/689852554958948)
#BlackBirdNovel</p>Alanna Rusnakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16122635933133324865noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324647267532036607.post-18073285081113705242020-10-22T17:00:00.006-07:002020-11-04T18:41:10.468-08:00Google Translate Episode 1: "The proclamation in the sky"<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikzrxr7ZJjRr5etEgLDh1WllTsZ_jMDKlczoNcxPl7pU68lGYdasN6Wz56u1LvUvAEQ8Uj8tytrkhPvX_qqCDAyS3sj5JRrnuqEc6I-X3rWmbZyAjxPw8AHDi3yXK9Usgszka_Z2fjJg/s1920/Episode1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikzrxr7ZJjRr5etEgLDh1WllTsZ_jMDKlczoNcxPl7pU68lGYdasN6Wz56u1LvUvAEQ8Uj8tytrkhPvX_qqCDAyS3sj5JRrnuqEc6I-X3rWmbZyAjxPw8AHDi3yXK9Usgszka_Z2fjJg/s16000/Episode1.jpg" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>Gearing up for the release of Black Bird by introducing portions of the novel to Google Translate. What you hear is not what you'll get, folks. Promise! 😆<br /></p><p><iframe allow="encrypted-media" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="516" scrolling="no" src="https://www.facebook.com/plugins/post.php?href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Falannarusnak%2Fposts%2F10157509357100913&show_text=true&width=552&appId=520418118880762&height=516" style="border: none; overflow: hidden;" width="552"></iframe></p><div class="e5nlhep0 eg9m0zos nu4hu5il"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa fgxwclzu a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id" dir="auto"><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><br /><span class="pq6dq46d tbxw36s4 knj5qynh kvgmc6g5 ditlmg2l oygrvhab nvdbi5me sf5mxxl7 gl3lb2sf hhz5lgdu"></span></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Pre-order your copy of Black Bird (<span><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl py34i1dx gpro0wi8" href="https://www.alannarusnakpublishing.com/bookstore/p/pre-order-blackbird?fbclid=IwAR1uPFv81GCT6QHN98bKQ2KYLmK3JtFIVoH8t-UpRv8MofMA6rhfZ3Z6sTQ" rel="nofollow noopener" role="link" tabindex="0" target="_blank">https://www.alannarusnakpublishing.com/.../pre-order...</a></span>)</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">R.S.V.P. to the launch party (<span><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl oo9gr5id gpro0wi8 lrazzd5p" href="https://www.facebook.com/events/689852554958948/?__tn__=-UK-R" role="link" tabindex="0">https://www.facebook.com/events/689852554958948</a></span>)</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl oo9gr5id gpro0wi8 lrazzd5p" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/blackbirdnovel?__eep__=6&__tn__=*NK-R" role="link" tabindex="0">#BlackBirdNovel</a></span></div></div></span></div>Alanna Rusnakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16122635933133324865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324647267532036607.post-57958499392670466602020-09-28T16:25:00.001-07:002020-09-30T16:29:45.803-07:00I Wish I Had a River...<p> <span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa fgxwclzu a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"></span></p><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Joni Mitchell once said that she wished she had a river she could skate away on. Many of her songs are so sad and so deep that they make me wonder if I might drown. But I get it. I get it, Joni.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">My experience with writing <i>Black Bird </i>has been so different than writing The Church in the Wildwood. I wrote the first draft of Wildwood in 30 days. That's a better approach for me. Not having time to second guess myself is so much better than taking years and years and finding myself constantly making excuses or being afraid to tackle the big issues. I've worked on Black Bird since 2011 and yes, many times I've wished I had a river I could skate away on... this story guts me, but I think it will spark some interesting and important conversations.</div></div><p></p><div class="" dir="auto"><div class="ecm0bbzt hv4rvrfc ihqw7lf3 dati1w0a" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id="jsc_c_c4"><div class="j83agx80 cbu4d94t ew0dbk1b irj2b8pg"><div class="qzhwtbm6 knvmm38d"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa fgxwclzu a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">I spent Friday and Saturday at war with technology as I tried to pull things together for the launch party for the latest Just Words anthology. My home internet couldn't handle my video uploads so on Saturday I spent ten hours at my day job office. Ten hours. Disastrous. But it was also a gift. I used that time to pull myself back into the story of <i>Black Bird</i> and friends...sigh...I'm even more committed than ever to get this book released when I promised to.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Fresh feedback from a beta reader said that <i>"the window may be dark at the beginning of this story & seems too fogged or soiled to let the light in, but somehow the sunshine finds its way."</i> That's the message. That's the messy truth of a redemption story and it is going to be coming at you guys SO SOON.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Joni Mitchell has been on this journey with me from the beginning. Her lyrics have informed many important moments throughout the book, and I don't know if you see it or not, but this photo of her skating (taken in 1976) actually looks like she may have a little bit of Black Bird in her too...</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtox5jSceGwT3YNJaQARXIJW1mzP92OeryL_qCqMtQIeR3woqa8PtKbeeB0zsGrrRRKlkBWRL-8W6vbD3CO2ld3s1dCX-YKOdOg85Skblj1OQRZqHr9lGDLCZAPOLcej7-EOJV23k8Cg/s1436/jonimitchellskating.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="980" data-original-width="1436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtox5jSceGwT3YNJaQARXIJW1mzP92OeryL_qCqMtQIeR3woqa8PtKbeeB0zsGrrRRKlkBWRL-8W6vbD3CO2ld3s1dCX-YKOdOg85Skblj1OQRZqHr9lGDLCZAPOLcej7-EOJV23k8Cg/s16000/jonimitchellskating.jpg" /></a></div><br /> </div></div></span></div></div></div></div>Alanna Rusnakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16122635933133324865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324647267532036607.post-34621320487035697322020-04-08T08:26:00.004-07:002020-04-08T08:39:02.858-07:00When a Beta Says No<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifQPQeP0PbY8nkA7Eq1P5V8Z9-VJBISJr88p_vll2eEPev3LmjDay91fGtG7g56QQeSko8jLiPb5tz0G3I2Ctr63a_e_sc4VgfqGMWioauM-DhCwAGy9XIkdio8WbmsxGAn7l2TMrbNw/s1600/BBipad+web.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="900" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifQPQeP0PbY8nkA7Eq1P5V8Z9-VJBISJr88p_vll2eEPev3LmjDay91fGtG7g56QQeSko8jLiPb5tz0G3I2Ctr63a_e_sc4VgfqGMWioauM-DhCwAGy9XIkdio8WbmsxGAn7l2TMrbNw/s320/BBipad+web.jpeg" style="display:none;" width="320" /></a></div>
Not every story is for everyone, and that's okay.
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A first round beta reader reached out to me last night to tell me he needed to be excused from the process because of...<br />
Posted by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/alannarusnakauthor/">Alanna Rusnak - Author/Publisher</a> on <a href="https://developers.facebook.com/alannarusnakauthor/photos/a.430366783726026/2790670504362297/?type=3">Sunday, April 5, 2020</a></blockquote>
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Alanna Rusnakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16122635933133324865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324647267532036607.post-33275059740878630322020-04-01T13:07:00.001-07:002020-04-02T06:51:42.849-07:00Writing in the time of CoronaMy poor beta readers have been waiting since March 21 - which is when I promised them the finished draft of <i>Black Bird</i>.<br />
<br />
But then the world broke.<br />
<br />
While many people were suddenly trapped at home, unemployed and self-isolating, I was called on to give up the March Break holidays I'd had booked for months (for the sole purpose of finishing this book) and work harder than I've ever worked before (for someone else) to build a new online infrastructure so our church could go 100% online.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, without a week of dedicated BOOK TIME, I did not have it ready. And trying to scrounge back any time during the chaos that corona has blanketed society with feels like being the parent of a newborn. There is no time. There is no self. You only know how to be tired and you only have energy for exhaustion and all you can do is weakly pray that you make it through without shaking the baby because it just won't go to sleep.<br />
<br />
But then you find a rhythm. You take a moment to appreciate a blue sky. You learn how to build boundaries and you guard them with the intensity of an ogre.<br />
<br />
And you find yourself.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG7Dd4lv8l9KYLcOBJc1xobHkY0gVee8KJHW5IofpZMiIQiZPTWPLTaITg7oi8boUb7Fgz70YhInIxSh_uKlgsHAkGQPo9Or4-hLsq_CX4juM8pU1RGz0FKLPAJy0_tuuSbFA3W0nMCw/s1600/8C65F9F9-6C51-4959-AFF1-BD9E25490A9B.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG7Dd4lv8l9KYLcOBJc1xobHkY0gVee8KJHW5IofpZMiIQiZPTWPLTaITg7oi8boUb7Fgz70YhInIxSh_uKlgsHAkGQPo9Or4-hLsq_CX4juM8pU1RGz0FKLPAJy0_tuuSbFA3W0nMCw/s1600/8C65F9F9-6C51-4959-AFF1-BD9E25490A9B.JPG" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
And now it's eleven days later. <br />
<br />
But I'm done. I just pushed SEND on the email to the first round readers.<br />
<br />
Now all there is to do is wait for their feedback...<br />
<br />
😅😳😬Alanna Rusnakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16122635933133324865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324647267532036607.post-45504186640123657662020-03-01T14:30:00.002-08:002020-03-01T14:31:59.127-08:00Black Bird and the #MeToo Movement — I am not here to be Politically CorrectLast year, <a href="https://www.alannarusnak.com/2019/05/why-me-too-movement-is-making-me-bad.html" target="_blank">I shared on my personal website</a> that I was struggling with the story of <i>Black Bird</i> because I was so afraid of how people would respond to some of the themes. In the light of the #MeToo movement, I felt I was treading too far on the "wrong side" of the tracks.<br />
<br />
MeToo is about empowering victims and shaming perpetrators. <i>Black Bird</i> will challenge readers to understand the perpetrator, and that closure, atonement, and redemption can also be part of the story.<br />
<br />
I think it's important to push people, to dare people to think differently, to put up a road block in the middle of the mob and say, "Wait! There's a whole story here!"<br />
<br />
Yesterday, a writer on Twitter (Chad Ryan <a href="https://twitter.com/writingiswar" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">@writingiswar</a>) expressed how I feel much better than I can:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0">"The P/C outrage culture that attacks writers for the things that fictional characters do & say is killing art.
Like people, characters have varying backgrounds, ideologies, and levels of education.
It is the author's JOB to portray these people accurately.
Warts and all."</span></i></span><br />
<span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0"><i> </i></span><br />
You can read his powerful Twitter thread <a href="https://twitter.com/writingiswar/status/1233851830196555776" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>My job as a writer is not to tell you what to think, it is to present a
very real situation and allow you to navigate it in your own way<i>.</i> Understanding that gives me permission to tell this story.</b><br />
<br />
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In 21 days I will be sending my manuscript to seven beta-readers for early feedback. Yesterday, I printed it off so I can work through it line by line. I am so excited to be this stage. I am thrilled that I've been able to push past the things that scare me. And I can't wait to finally be able to say, "Yes! The next book is ready!"Alanna Rusnakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16122635933133324865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324647267532036607.post-47163112711442760712020-02-24T10:12:00.000-08:002020-02-24T10:13:52.526-08:00Excerpt: Dine & Dash“Eat your fries, Bird,” Mother said. She had shadows in her eyes again and beneath that, they seemed to be made of glass. She looked at me, but I could tell she wasn’t really seeing me. I put more ketchup on my plate and the bottle made a sound Mother calls a <i>phoot.</i><br />
<br />
She ordered toast with butter, then took all the little jams that sat in the metal bowl and stacked a tower out of them. She didn’t touch her toast.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit3q3npp7VrXgW5GhUvFv-oFJwutvkEdRTNcb8tkpVwLU39BGMfzFARe7coFhJsvRpJ33AUBJRcYVtdgXfX08gPkYk31ZDk5XrZACa5c6gq6nTMoqGKoMeRg2c44MGbgrKadSIxSQyHQ/s1600/diner-1237078_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Donna's Diner in Fallmoore (Black Bird by Alanna Rusnak)" border="0" data-original-height="995" data-original-width="1280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit3q3npp7VrXgW5GhUvFv-oFJwutvkEdRTNcb8tkpVwLU39BGMfzFARe7coFhJsvRpJ33AUBJRcYVtdgXfX08gPkYk31ZDk5XrZACa5c6gq6nTMoqGKoMeRg2c44MGbgrKadSIxSQyHQ/s1600/diner-1237078_1280.jpg" title="" /></a></div>
<br />
I learned about time-lapse videos in media class and I knew if someone made a time-lapse of her toast we could watch it go from firm and steaming to a floppy, moist stack. If someone made a time-lapse of Mother it would go from beautiful girl in a pretty yellow dress to grumpy woman in a torn t-shirt that showed her bra under the armpits. She scratched at the dressing on her forearm where she’d gotten a new tattoo the day before.<br />
<br />
When Mother went to the bathroom, I stole one of her jams and peeled back the foil cover. It smelled like raspberry, but was only a jelly. I dug into it with a fry and popped it into my mouth where the sugar sent a wave of pleasure over my tongue as sweetness mixed with the salt. I palmed two more from her tower and slipped them in my pocket for a treat later. I also took some sugar packets and a round little pack of butter.<br />
<br />
“More iced tea?” a waitress asked. Her name tag said “Margaret.”<br />
<br />
I nodded eagerly.<br />
<br />
Mother stumbled back to the table when I was more than half way through my new drink. She knocked over her jam tower and then lined it up in a row. Strawberry, raspberry, strawberry, raspberry. The bandage was gone from her arm and I read, ‘Mitchell, may I?’ etched into her skin. A month before, her shoulder cap had been completed: a full colour replica of the Turbulent Indigo album cover. I thought it looked like a Van Gogh painting, the way the brush strokes showed like a nod to Starry Night. It took eight sessions with the needle. She told me it was going to help sew her back together. I told her she should tell Joni about it, but she said she knew Joni could feel it. <br />
<br />
Mother shoved her soggy toast into her pocket and grabbed a cold fry from my plate. She popped it in her mouth and watched the waitress back into the kitchen. “Now, Bird,” she said around the fry and slid from the booth.<br />
<br />
I followed her to the door, eyes to the ground. Shame burned through me as we slipped out and it continued to smoulder as we walked back to our apartment. I kicked at an abandoned dime then bent and slipped it into my pocket.<br />
<br />
Later that night, after Mother slept against the dirty couch cushions, I pulled the old relish jar from beneath my bed and dumped it onto my mattress, adding the dime I’d found earlier to the humble stash.<br />
<br />
$3.86.<br />
<br />
I’d been saving for a lunch box, picking coins up off the sidewalk on my way to and from school for over two months. I didn’t want to keep taking the same old bread bag every day when my classmates brought their lunches wrapped in Ninja Turtles or Gravity Falls. <br />
<br />
I put the coins back into the jar, checked on Mother who was drooling on the couch, and slipped from the apartment.<br />
<br />
The same waitress was still working when I sheepishly approached the counter. “You gave me more iced tea,” I said.<br />
<br />
She leaned against the opposite side of the counter, her arms crossed, dish cloth in one hand. “And you snuck away before I could bring you the bill.”<br />
<br />
I nodded, but forced myself to maintain eye contact with her. “What happens when people don’t pay?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“It’s stealing,” she said. “And stealing is illegal. And it hurts the places that get taken from.”<br />
<br />
“Did it hurt you?”<br />
<br />
She uncrossed her arms and straightened up. “It hurt my feelings,” she said.<br />
<br />
“My Mother is sick,” I said.<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry.”<br />
<br />
“No,” I shook my head. “You shouldn’t be sorry. She should be sorry because she forgets to be a grown up all the time.” I put my relish jar on the counter and pushed it over to her. “I know it’s not enough, but it’s all I have.”<br />
<br />
The waitress dumped the coins into her palm and counted them out. “This will do,” she said and her kindness surprised me. “Doing the right thing is hard.”<br />
<br />
I shrugged. “Maybe. But doing the wrong thing makes my stomach hurt.”<br />
<br />
“What’s your name, hon?”<br />
<br />
“Bird.”<br />
<br />
She nodded knowingly and smiled as she dumped coins into their appropriate slot in the cash register.<br />
<br />
“You’re getting your wings,” she said.<br />
<br />
I reached my right hand over my left shoulder, looking for them. I felt the gravity of the words written there though my skin was smooth beneath my shirt. “Am I?”<br />
<br />
“You are. Stay good. Do you want some pie?”<br />
<br />
I eyed the glass pie safe behind her but shook my head. “I have no more money, and I have to get back before she knows I’m gone.”<br />
<br />
The waitress slid the glass panel aside and lifted a piece of banana creme into a small cardboard box.<br />
She handed it to me. “Stay good, Bird.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you,” I whispered.<br />
<br />
“I hope your Mother gets better soon.”<br />
<br />
I ran back to our apartment, a burden lifted. I checked on Mother who was still asleep, though a piece of her toast now lay on the floor in front of her, one bite taken from it.<br />
<br />
I sat in the outside hallway, eating the pie without a fork as if it was a piece of pizza, and a small wave of pleasure washed over me. I pulled one of the sugar packets from my pocket and shook it onto the last bite. The sweetness made me lay my head back against the wall, sighing with the rare joy of that strange moment.Alanna Rusnakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16122635933133324865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324647267532036607.post-25331984364220956552020-01-19T12:49:00.003-08:002020-03-01T14:35:13.148-08:00Call for Black Bird Beta Readers[<b>UPDATE - March 1, 2020 : </b>Thank you for the overwhelming response! I have many more readers than I asked for which is a wonderful surprise!] <b></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>_______</b></div>
<br />
<b>If a writer is the alpha, than the first readers are the betas.</b> I feel confident in declaring that beta readers are among the most important participants in a book's journey to see the light.<br />
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<h3>
A beta reader is an active participant in the development of a book and their input is invaluable.</h3>
<br />
For me, I'm looking for beta readers who will critique story and emotion. I want them to pay attention to character, pacing, plot, and consistency. They don't need to obsess over things like spelling or grammar — that's an editor's job — but they should still make note of any glaring mistakes in that department.<b> I am interested in a reader's emotional response to the story and whether or not I've written something that will resonate with an audience from start to finish.</b><br />
<br />
A beta reader should be kind, but they must also be ruthless. Without full honesty, Black Bird will never reach it's full potential.<br />
<br />
A beta reader must understand that they are reading an early manuscript. It is NOT the final version. A beta reader has <b>the privilege of influencing the version that will go to print</b>, and as such, will find their name listed in the acknowledgements of the completed novel.<br />
<h3>
</h3>
<h3>
Do you think you have what it takes?</h3>
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<h4>
Sign up if:</h4>
<ul>
<li>you love to read </li>
<li>you have time to carefully read a complete manuscript</li>
<li>you're not afraid to give honest feedback</li>
<li>you can work on a deadline</li>
<li>you have an appreciation for literary fiction (if you're looking for high action, fantasy, or a cowboy with his chest bared, you're looking in the wrong place) </li>
</ul>
<b>I'm looking for:</b><br />
<ul>
<li> 5+ readers for the first round (beginning March 21) </li>
<li> 4+ readers for the second round (beginning May 1)</li>
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<li> 2+ readers for the fourth round (beginning September 1)</li>
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You can sign up for multiple rounds if you like.<br />
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Alanna Rusnakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16122635933133324865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324647267532036607.post-66642671246708658202020-01-13T17:57:00.002-08:002020-01-13T17:58:04.263-08:00Opening Scene: Mother had a Dress Made of SunshineMother had a dress made of sunshine, legs and arms shooting out from it like pale rays, her smile as bright and pretty as any of the girls I’ve seen on the cover of those magazines they sell down at the drugstore. The picture is faded now, one big crease erasing the colour down the centre like the big bad world couldn’t handle a thing so pure. I knew it was my own fault it looked so worn and that she was now barely a shadow of the girl once captured there; as if my fingers couldn’t help but predict her future upon her image. Mother stopped being young the moment I started breathing.<br />
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I can’t stop touching it. The picture whispers to me of gentler times. The edges are soft, pulling apart, revealing the secret that one thing isn’t one thing, it is layers and layers of many things. They are soft like a gum wrapper I’ve worried with my fingers for long lonely hours. Things like that, they turn to cotton if you touch them enough. I hang onto gum and all its trappings as long as I can because it’s so rare I ever get such a treat. Sometimes I work a wrapper so long it fades to nothing between my fingers, disappearing into my skin. Perhaps one day I’ll turn into the very paper I’m absorbing. Maybe someone will write a story on my skin to erase the one I wear already. <br />
<br />
Does touch make a person weak? That’s something people say, isn’t it? I lost myself in their arms. That makes sense to me because I see it happening with Mother’s photograph. The more of her image that fades into my skin, the more her living self turns to grey. <br />
<br />
Still I don’t stop.<br />
<br />
So what does that make me?<br />
<br />
I want to be a goldfinch, clad in sunny decadence with a little shadow along my wingtips to keep me honest. I want my call to be a song that reaches into the places where winter ends, swooping hope along my tail feathers as I tempt heaven with my freedom. <br />
<br />
“Stop your cawing,” Mother would say. “You’re no goldfinch. You’ve got a bit of crow in you though.”<br />
<br />
I’ve seen crows. I know what they do. I see they way they hop to dead things on the road and pick at the flesh. Mother doesn’t realize what she’s saying, but I know. I know she’s the dead thing and I’m the black thing at her side. I long to be in the trees with a song in my breast, but she has written my story and I stay where she puts me.<br />
<br />
I’m desperate for her love, but I’m sure she’s forgotten how. It’s packed up in a box of her childhood things, there with the yellow dress and the arms without their bruises. She has some motions her body takes her through that could be mistaken for kindness, but I know better because she’s always nicest after she’s taken her medicine. As the plunger sinks her eyes soften and she nearly loves me for a moment, brushing my hair idly, her broken fingernails catching in its gold, whispering beneath her breath about how Joni Mitchell is the only person who will ever truly understand her.<br />
<br />
It bruises her arm—there where she sticks herself with happily-ever-after; there where a silver line pushes into the midnight blue beneath skin so white and pale it seemed to glow like a ghost with its own preternatural light.<br />
<br />
I know the truth of it. I know her lies. I know her brokenness. I know she’s like a mirror smashed by an angry fist and no matter how long I try and how careful I am and how perfectly I fit those pieces back together, the reflection will always be distorted and cracked—a weak remembrance of the beauty she was, walking through the park in a dress made of sunshine.Alanna Rusnakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16122635933133324865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324647267532036607.post-86699825810863152352020-01-02T11:09:00.000-08:002020-01-21T11:13:38.256-08:00Paradise and the Peri<b>Thomas Moore</b> (1779-1852) was an Irish poet, satirist, composer, and political propagandist. In 1817, Moore penned <b><i>Lalla Rookh</i> </b>(meaning "tulip-cheeked" in Persian) a narrative poem set in the Orient which became one of the top paid pieces of poetry for its time (£3000). The bulk of the work consists of four interpolated tales sung by the
poet: "The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan", <b>"Paradise and the Peri"</b>, "The Fire-Worshippers", and "The Light of the Harem".<br />
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<b>Paradise and the Peri</b> plays a crucial role in the narrative of Black Bird, an old leather-bound copy of the poem having been handed down through Bird's family for generations. It is quoted throughout the book and is a source of comfort for Bird's struggling mother, who is named Peri after the leading character from the poem.<br />
<br />
The peri, a creature from Persian mythology said to be exquisite, winged spirits renowned for their beauty, is the focus of the story, having been expelled from Paradise and trying to regain entrance by giving the gift that is most dear to heaven.<br />
<br />
Lalla Rookh remains one of the most translated poems of its time and today exists within the public domain. Below you can read the Peri poem in its entirety. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>PARADISE AND THE PERI </b><br />
<br />
One morn a Peri at the gate <br />
Of Eden stood disconsolate; <br />
And as she listened to the Springs <br />
Of Life within like music flowing <br />
And caught the light upon her wings <br />
Thro' the half-open portal glowing, <br />
She wept to think her recreant race <br />
Should e'er have lost that glorious place! <br />
<br />
"How happy," exclaimed this child of air, <br />
"Are the holy Spirits who wander there <br />
"Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall; <br />
"Tho' mine are the gardens of earth and sea <br />
"And the stars themselves have flowers for me, <br />
"One blossom of Heaven out-blooms them all! <br />
<br />
"Tho' sunny the Lake of cool CASHMERE <br />
"With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear, <br />
"And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall; <br />
"Tho' bright are the waters of SING-SU-HAY <br />
And the golden floods that thitherward stray, <br />
Yet-- oh, 'tis only the Blest can say <br />
How the waters of Heaven outshine them all! <br />
<br />
"Go, wing thy flight from star to star, <br />
From world to luminous world as far <br />
As the universe spreads its flaming wall: <br />
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres <br />
And multiply each thro' endless years <br />
One minute of Heaven is worth them all!" <br />
<br />
The glorious Angel who was keeping <br />
The gates of Light beheld her weeping, <br />
And as he nearer drew and listened <br />
To her sad song, a tear-drop glistened <br />
Within his eyelids, like the spray <br />
From Eden's fountain when it lies <br />
On the blue flower which-- Bramins say-- <br />
Blooms nowhere but in Paradise. <br />
<br />
"Nymph of a fair but erring line!" <br />
Gently he said-- "One hope is thine. <br />
'Tis written in the Book of Fate, <br />
'The Peri yet may be forgiven <br />
Who brings to this Eternal gate <br />
The Gift that is most dear to Heaven'! <br />
Go seek it and redeem thy sin-- <br />
'Tis sweet to let the Pardoned in." <br />
<br />
Rapidly as comets run <br />
To the embraces of the Sun;-- <br />
Fleeter than the starry brands <br />
Flung at night from angel hands <br />
At those dark and daring sprites <br />
Who would climb the empyreal heights, <br />
Down the blue vault the PERI flies, <br />
And lighted earthward by a glance <br />
That just then broke from morning's eyes, <br />
Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse. <br />
<br />
But whither shall the Spirit go <br />
To find this gift for Heaven; --"I know <br />
The wealth," she cries, "of every urn <br />
In which unnumbered rubies burn <br />
Beneath the pillars of CHILMINAR: <br />
I know where the Isles of Perfume are <br />
Many a fathom down in the sea, <br />
To the south of sun-bright ARABY; <br />
I know too where the Genii hid <br />
The jewelled cup of their King JAMSHID, <br />
"With Life's elixir sparkling high-- <br />
"But gifts like these are not for the sky. <br />
"Where was there ever a gem that shone <br />
"Like the steps of ALLA'S wonderful Throne? <br />
"And the Drops of Life-- oh! what would they be <br />
"In the boundless Deep of Eternity?" <br />
<br />
While thus she mused her pinions fanned <br />
The air of that sweet Indian land <br />
Whose air is balm, whose ocean spreads <br />
O'er coral rocks and amber beds, <br />
Whose mountains pregnant by the beam <br />
Of the warm sun with diamonds teem, <br />
Whose rivulets are like rich brides, <br />
Lovely, with gold beneath their tides, <br />
Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice <br />
Might be a Peri's Paradise! <br />
But crimson now her rivers ran <br />
With human blood-- the smell of death <br />
Came reeking from those spicy bowers, <br />
And man the sacrifice of man <br />
Mingled his taint with every breath <br />
Upwafted from the innocent flowers. <br />
Land of the Sun! what foot invades <br />
Thy Pagods and thy pillared shades-- <br />
Thy cavern shrines and Idol stones, <br />
Thy Monarch and their thousand Thrones? <br />
<br />
'Tis He of GAZNA, fierce in wrath <br />
He comes and INDIA'S diadems <br />
Lie scattered in his ruinous path.-- <br />
His bloodhounds he adorns with gems, <br />
Torn from the violated necks <br />
Of many a young and loved Sultana; <br />
Maidens within their pure Zenana, <br />
Priests in the very fane he slaughters, <br />
And chokes up with the glittering wrecks <br />
Of golden shrines the sacred waters! <br />
Downward the PERI turns her gaze, <br />
And thro' the war-field's bloody haze <br />
Beholds a youthful warrior stand <br />
Alone beside his native river,-- <br />
The red blade broken in his hand <br />
And the last arrow in his quiver. <br />
"Live," said the Conqueror, "live to share <br />
"The trophies and the crowns I bear!" <br />
Silent that youthful warrior stood-- <br />
Silent he pointed to the flood <br />
All crimson with his country's blood, <br />
Then sent his last remaining dart, <br />
For answer, to the Invader's heart. <br />
<br />
False flew the shaft tho' pointed well; <br />
The Tyrant lived, the Hero fell!-- <br />
Yet marked the PERI where he lay, <br />
And when the rush of war was past <br />
Swiftly descending on a ray <br />
Of morning light she caught the last-- <br />
Last glorious drop his heart had shed <br />
Before its free-born spirit fled! <br />
<br />
"Be this," she cried, as she winged her flight, <br />
"My welcome gift at the Gates of Light. <br />
"Tho' foul are the drops that oft distil <br />
"On the field of warfare, blood like this <br />
"For Liberty shed so holy is, <br />
"It would not stain the purest rill <br />
"That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss! <br />
"Oh, if there be on this earthly sphere <br />
"A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear, <br />
"'Tis the last libation Liberty draws <br />
"From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!" <br />
"Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave <br />
The gift into his radiant hand, <br />
"Sweet is our welcome of the Brave <br />
"Who die thus for their native Land.-- <br />
"But see-- alas! the crystal bar <br />
"Of Eden moves not-- holier far <br />
"Than even this drop the boon must be <br />
"That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee!" <br />
<br />
Her first fond hope of Eden blighted, <br />
Now among AFRIC'S lunar Mountains <br />
Far to the South the PERI lighted <br />
And sleeked her plumage at the fountains <br />
Of that Egyptian tide whose birth <br />
Is hidden from the sons of earth <br />
Deep in those solitary woods <br />
Where oft the Genii of the Floods <br />
Dance round the cradle of their Nile <br />
And hail the new-born Giant's smile. <br />
Thence over EGYPT'S palmy groves <br />
Her grots, and sepulchres of Kings, <br />
The exiled Spirit sighing roves <br />
And now hangs listening to the doves <br />
In warm ROSETTA'S vale; now loves <br />
To watch the moonlight on the wings <br />
Of the white pelicans that break <br />
The azure calm of MOERIS' Lake. <br />
'Twas a fair scene: a Land more bright <br />
Never did mortal eye behold! <br />
Who could have thought that saw this night <br />
Those valleys and their fruits of gold <br />
Basking in Heaven's serenest light, <br />
Those groups of lovely date-trees bending <br />
Languidly their leaf-crowned heads, <br />
Like youthful maids, when sleep descending <br />
Warns them to their silken beds, <br />
Those virgin lilies all the night <br />
Bathing their beauties in the lake <br />
That they may rise more fresh and bright, <br />
When their beloved Sun's awake, <br />
Those ruined shrines and towers that seem <br />
The relics of a splendid dream, <br />
Amid whose fairy loneliness <br />
Naught but the lapwing's cry is heard,-- <br />
Naught seen but (when the shadows flitting, <br />
Fast from the moon unsheath its gleam,) <br />
Some purple-winged Sultana sitting <br />
Upon a column motionless <br />
And glittering like an Idol bird!-- <br />
Who could have thought that there, even there, <br />
Amid those scenes so still and fair, <br />
The Demon of the Plague hath cast <br />
From his hot wing a deadlier blast, <br />
More mortal far than ever came <br />
From the red Desert's sands of flame! <br />
So quick that every living thing <br />
Of human shape touched by his wing, <br />
Like plants, where the Simoom hath past <br />
At once falls black and withering! <br />
The sun went down on many a brow <br />
Which, full of bloom and freshness then, <br />
Is rankling in the pest-house now <br />
And ne'er will feel that sun again, <br />
And, oh! to see the unburied heaps <br />
On which the lonely moonlight sleeps-- <br />
The very vultures turn away, <br />
And sicken at so foul a prey! <br />
Only the fierce hyaena stalks <br />
Throughout the city's desolate walks <br />
At midnight and his carnage plies:-- <br />
Woe to the half-dead wretch who meets <br />
The glaring of those large blue eyes <br />
Amid the darkness of the streets! <br />
<br />
"Poor race of men!" said the pitying Spirit, <br />
"Dearly ye pay for your primal Fall-- <br />
"Some flowerets of Eden ye still inherit, <br />
"But the trail of the Serpent is over them all!" <br />
She wept-- the air grew pure and clear <br />
Around her as the bright drops ran, <br />
For there's a magic in each tear <br />
Such kindly Spirits weep for man! <br />
<br />
Just then beneath some orange trees <br />
Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze <br />
Were wantoning together, free, <br />
Like age at play with infancy-- <br />
Beneath that fresh and springing bower <br />
Close by the Lake she heard the moan <br />
Of one who at this silent hour, <br />
Had thither stolen to die alone. <br />
One who in life where'er he moved, <br />
Drew after him the hearts of many; <br />
Yet now, as tho' he ne'er were loved, <br />
Dies here unseen, unwept by any! <br />
None to watch near him-- none to slake <br />
The fire that in his bosom lies, <br />
With even a sprinkle from that lake <br />
Which shines so cool before his eyes. <br />
No voice well known thro' many a day <br />
To speak the last, the parting word <br />
Which when all other sounds decay <br />
Is still like distant music heard;-- <br />
That tender farewell on the shore <br />
Of this rude world when all is o'er, <br />
Which cheers the spirit ere its bark <br />
Puts off into the unknown Dark. <br />
<br />
Deserted youth! one thought alone <br />
Shed joy around his soul in death <br />
That she whom he for years had known, <br />
And loved and might have called his own <br />
Was safe from this foul midnight's breath,-- <br />
Safe in her father's princely halls <br />
Where the cool airs from fountain falls, <br />
Freshly perfumed by many a brand <br />
Of the sweet wood from India's land, <br />
Were pure as she whose brow they fanned. <br />
<br />
But see-- who yonder comes by stealth, <br />
This melancholy bower to seek, <br />
Like a young envoy sent by Health <br />
With rosy gifts upon her cheek? <br />
'Tis she-- far off, thro' moonlight dim <br />
He knew his own betrothed bride, <br />
She who would rather die with him <br />
Than live to gain the world beside!-- <br />
Her arms are round her lover now, <br />
His livid cheek to hers she presses <br />
And dips to bind his burning brow <br />
In the cool lake her loosened tresses. <br />
Ah! once, how little did he think <br />
An hour would come when he should shrink <br />
With horror from that dear embrace, <br />
Those gentle arms that were to him <br />
Holy as is the cradling place <br />
Of Eden's infant cherubim! <br />
And now he yields-- now turns away, <br />
Shuddering as if the venom lay <br />
All in those proffered lips alone-- <br />
Those lips that then so fearless grown <br />
Never until that instant came <br />
Near his unasked or without shame. <br />
"Oh! let me only breathe the air. <br />
"The blessed air, that's breathed by thee, <br />
"And whether on its wings it bear <br />
"Healing or death 'tis sweet to me! <br />
"There-- drink my tears while yet they fall-- <br />
"Would that my bosom's blood were balm, <br />
"And, well thou knowst, I'd shed it all <br />
"To give thy brow one minute's calm. <br />
"Nay, turn not from me that dear face-- <br />
"Am I not thine-- thy own loved bride-- <br />
"The one, the chosen one, whose place <br />
"In life or death is by thy side? <br />
"Thinkst thou that she whose only light, <br />
"In this dim world from thee hath shone <br />
"Could bear the long, the cheerless night <br />
"That must be hers when thou art gone? <br />
"That I can live and let thee go, <br />
"Who art my life itself? --No, no-- <br />
"When the stem dies the leaf that grew <br />
"Out of its heart must perish too! <br />
"Then turn to me, my own love, turn, <br />
"Before, like thee, I fade and burn; <br />
"Cling to these yet cool lips and share <br />
"The last pure life that lingers there!" <br />
She fails-- she sinks-- as dies the lamp <br />
In charnel airs or cavern-damp, <br />
So quickly do his baleful sighs <br />
Quench all the sweet light of her eyes, <br />
One struggle-- and his pain is past-- <br />
Her lover is no longer living! <br />
One kiss the maiden gives, one last, <br />
Long kiss, which she expires in giving! <br />
<br />
"Sleep," said the PERI, as softly she stole <br />
The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul, <br />
As true as e'er warmed a woman's breast-- <br />
"Sleep on, in visions of odor rest <br />
"In balmier airs than ever yet stirred <br />
"The enchanted pile of that lonely bird <br />
"Who sings at the last his own death-lay <br />
"And in music and perfume dies away!" <br />
Thus saying, from her lips she spread <br />
Unearthly breathings thro' the place <br />
And shook her sparkling wreath and shed <br />
Such lustre o'er each paly face <br />
That like two lovely saints they seemed, <br />
Upon the eve of doomsday taken <br />
From their dim graves in ordor sleeping; <br />
While that benevolent PERI beamed <br />
Like their good angel calmly keeping <br />
Watch o'er them till their souls would waken. <br />
<br />
But morn is blushing in the sky; <br />
Again the PERI soars above, <br />
Bearing to Heaven that precious sigh <br />
Of pure, self-sacrificing love. <br />
High throbbed her heart with hope elate <br />
The Elysian palm she soon shall win. <br />
For the bright Spirit at the gate <br />
Smiled as she gave that offering in; <br />
And she already hears the trees <br />
Of Eden with their crystal bells <br />
Ringing in that ambrosial breeze <br />
That from the throne of ALLA swells; <br />
And she can see the starry bowls <br />
That lie around that lucid lake <br />
Upon whose banks admitted Souls <br />
Their first sweet draught of glory take! <br />
<br />
But, ah! even PERIS' hopes are vain-- <br />
Again the Fates forbade, again <br />
The immortal barrier closed-- "Not yet," <br />
The Angel said as with regret <br />
He shut from her that glimpse of glory-- <br />
"True was the maiden, and her story <br />
"Written in light o'er ALLA'S head <br />
"By seraph eyes shall long be read. <br />
"But, PERI, see-- the crystal bar <br />
"Of Eden moves not-- holier far <br />
"Than even this sigh the boon must be <br />
"That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee." <br />
<br />
Now upon SYRIA'S land of roses <br />
Softly the light of Eve reposes, <br />
And like a glory the broad sun <br />
Hangs over sainted LEBANON, <br />
Whose head in wintry grandeur towers <br />
And whitens with eternal sleet, <br />
While summer in a vale of flowers <br />
Is sleeping rosy at his feet. <br />
<br />
To one who looked from upper air <br />
O'er all the enchanted regions there, <br />
How beauteous must have been the glow, <br />
The life, the sparkling from below! <br />
Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks <br />
Of golden melons on their banks, <br />
More golden where the sunlight falls;-- <br />
Gay lizards, glittering on the walls <br />
Of ruined shrines, busy and bright <br />
As they were all alive with light; <br />
And yet more splendid numerous flocks <br />
Of pigeons settling on the rocks <br />
With their rich restless wings that gleam <br />
Variously in the crimson beam <br />
Of the warm West, --as if inlaid <br />
With brilliants from the mine or made <br />
Of tearless rainbows such as span <br />
The unclouded skies of PERISTAN. <br />
And then the mingling sounds that come, <br />
Of shepherd's ancient reed, with hum <br />
Of the wild bees of PALESTINE, <br />
Banqueting thro' the flowery vales; <br />
And, JORDAN, those sweet banks of thine <br />
And woods so full of nightingales. <br />
But naught can charm the luckless PERI; <br />
Her soul is sad-- her wings are weary-- <br />
Joyless she sees the Sun look down <br />
On that great Temple once his own, <br />
Whose lonely columns stand sublime, <br />
Flinging their shadows from on high <br />
Like dials which the Wizard Time <br />
Had raised to count his ages by! <br />
<br />
Yet haply there may lie concealed <br />
Beneath those Chambers of the Sun <br />
Some amulet of gems, annealed <br />
In upper fires, some tablet sealed <br />
With the great name of SOLOMON, <br />
Which spelled by her illumined eyes, <br />
May teach her where beneath the moon, <br />
In earth or ocean, lies the boon, <br />
The charm, that can restore so soon <br />
An erring Spirit to the skies. <br />
<br />
Cheered by this hope she bends her thither;-- <br />
Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven, <br />
Nor have the golden bowers of Even <br />
In the rich West begun to wither;-- <br />
When o'er the vale of BALBEC winging <br />
Slowly she sees a child at play, <br />
Among the rosy wild flowers singing, <br />
As rosy and as wild as they; <br />
Chasing with eager hands and eyes <br />
The beautiful blue damsel-flies, <br />
That fluttered round the jasmine stems <br />
Like winged flowers or flying gems:-- <br />
And near the boy, who tired with play <br />
Now nestling mid the roses lay. <br />
She saw a wearied man dismount <br />
From his hot steed and on the brink <br />
Of a small imaret's rustic fount <br />
Impatient fling him down to drink. <br />
Then swift his haggard brow he turned <br />
To the fair child who fearless sat, <br />
Tho' never yet hath day-beam burned <br />
Upon a brow more fierce than that,-- <br />
Sullenly fierce-- a mixture dire <br />
Like thunder-clouds of gloom and fire; <br />
In which the PERI'S eye could read <br />
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed; <br />
The ruined maid-- the shrine profaned-- <br />
Oaths broken-- and the threshold stained <br />
With blood of guests! --there written, all, <br />
Black as the damning drops that fall <br />
From the denouncing Angel's pen, <br />
Ere Mercy weeps them out again. <br />
Yet tranquil now that man of crime <br />
(As if the balmy evening time <br />
Softened his spirit) looked and lay, <br />
Watching the rosy infant's play:-- <br />
Tho' still whene'er his eye by chance <br />
Fell on the boy's, its lucid glance <br />
Met that unclouded, joyous gaze, <br />
As torches that have burnt all night <br />
Tho' some impure and godless rite, <br />
Encounter morning's glorious rays. <br />
<br />
But, hark! the vesper call to prayer, <br />
As slow the orb of daylight sets, <br />
Is rising sweetly on the air. <br />
From SYRIA'S thousand minarets! <br />
The boy has started from the bed <br />
Of flowers where he had laid his head. <br />
And down upon the fragrant sod <br />
Kneels with his forehead to the south <br />
Lisping the eternal name of God <br />
From Purity's own cherub mouth, <br />
And looking while his hands and eyes <br />
Are lifted to the glowing skies <br />
Like a stray babe of Paradise <br />
Just lighted on that flowery plain <br />
And seeking for its home again. <br />
Oh! 'twas a sight-- that Heaven-- that child-- <br />
A scene, which might have well beguiled <br />
Even haughty EBLIS of a sigh <br />
For glories lost and peace gone by! <br />
And how felt he, the wretched Man <br />
Reclining there-- while memory ran <br />
O'er many a year of guilt and strife, <br />
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life, <br />
Nor found one sunny resting-place. <br />
Nor brought him back one branch of grace. <br />
"There was a time," he said, in mild, <br />
Heart-humbled tones-- "thou blessed child! <br />
"When young and haply pure as thou <br />
"I looked and prayed like thee-- but now"-- <br />
He hung his head-- each nobler aim <br />
And hope and feeling which had slept <br />
From boyhood's hour that instant came <br />
Fresh o'er him and he wept-- he wept! <br />
<br />
Blest tears of soul-felt penitence! <br />
In whose benign, redeeming flow <br />
Is felt the first, the only sense <br />
Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. <br />
"There's a drop," said the PERI, "that down from the moon <br />
"Falls thro' the withering airs of June <br />
"Upon EGYPT'S land, of so healing a power, <br />
"So balmy a virtue, that even in the hour <br />
"That drop descends contagion dies <br />
"And health reanimates earth and skies!-- <br />
"Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin, <br />
"The precious tears of repentance fall? <br />
"Tho' foul thy fiery plagues within <br />
"One heavenly drop hath dispelled them all!" <br />
And now-- behold him kneeling there <br />
By the child's side, in humble prayer, <br />
While the same sunbeam shines upon <br />
The guilty and the guiltless one. <br />
And hymns of joy proclaim thro' Heaven <br />
The triumph of a Soul Forgiven! <br />
<br />
'Twas when the golden orb had set, <br />
While on their knees they lingered yet, <br />
There fell a light more lovely far <br />
Than ever came from sun or star, <br />
Upon the tear that, warm and meek, <br />
Dewed that repentant sinner's cheek. <br />
To mortal eye this light might seem <br />
A northern flash or meteor beam-- <br />
But well the enraptured PERI knew <br />
'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw <br />
From Heaven's gate to hail that tear <br />
Her harbinger of glory near! <br />
<br />
"Joy, joy for ever! my task is done-- <br />
"The Gates are past and Heaven is won! <br />
"Oh! am I not happy? I am, I am-- <br />
"To thee, sweet Eden! how dark and sad <br />
"Are the diamond turrets of SHADUKIAM, <br />
"And the fragrant bowers of AMBERABAD! <br />
<br />
"Farewell ye odors of Earth that die <br />
"Passing away like a lover's sigh;-- <br />
"My feast is now of the Tooba Tree <br />
"Whose scent is the breath of Eternity! <br />
<br />
"Farewell, ye vanishing flowers that shone <br />
"In my fairy wreath so bright an' brief;-- <br />
"Oh! what are the brightest that e'er have blown <br />
"To the lote-tree springing by ALLA'S throne <br />
"Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf. <br />
"Joy, joy for ever. --my task is done-- <br />
"The Gates are past and Heaven is won!"Alanna Rusnakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16122635933133324865noreply@blogger.com0