The librettos submitted for the Mini Operas Script Competition have all been posted on their website, and I'm enjoying the different interpretations of the seed stories written by Neil Gaiman, Will Self, and A.L. Kennedy.

If you're curious, you can peruse them here.

My submission, Sleep Masque: An Opera In One Act can be found here.

On June 4th, they will unveil the ten scripts selected as inspiration for the Soundtrack Competition. Composers will choose a script that they like, then compose and record an original sound track for it. Ten compositions will be chosen for the next round. You can read more on the Mini Operas site.

I loved the challenge of creating something new in an unfamiliar form, and the spirit of collaboration is something I very much support.

I'll enjoy watching the process unfold.

Good luck to all the competitors.

My friend, Myron Mandybur, died this past weekend.

I hadn't been online all day, hadn't seen the facebook messages from Myron's sister or messages from friends. I was running around getting ready for an out-of-town guest and a friend's baby blessing. My sister sent me a text that I didn't see for two hours:

Myron died.

So my sister called me, and I was irritated to be interrupted since I was running late, cranky on the phone until she said the words, "Myron died."

It really was like having the wind knocked out of me: Myron. Died.

I went to his facebook page, and there were the words from his sister (from Saturday, April 28, 2012):

The most beautiful light went out today. He left this world peacefully, in the arms of his sisters and brother, at 5:50am. We love you, Myron. With all of our hearts and souls.

So it was true. Myron died.

Myron.

He became my friend and my sister's friend when we were all part of the Ukraina Folk Dance Ensemble. Each Tuesday and Friday night we would go to practice with our choreographer Evhen Litvinov. After practice, dancers hung out in Chicago CYM (the Chicago headquarters for the American Ukrainian Youth Association) or grabbed a bite to eat at Tecalitlan or Pepe's. Many of us spent a large chunk of our adolescence and teen years at CYM, just as our parents had before us.

I can't remember exactly how we became friends, but Myron was one of my favorite people there. I admired the enthusiasm with which he danced. Myron didn't care if he wasn't in the front row center, he was just happy to dance. He had an easy smile and a light in his eyes. Even if he was tired or having a rough day, he smiled and it was sincere.

I was in junior high and later in high school, and I saw many things in Myron that I hoped to cultivate in myself: his passion for his music, the way he made people feel included, and how he seemed to find so much joy in life.

Myron was never one to let someone feel left out or unwelcome. When my sister Nadya, my cousin Larissa, her friend Angie, Zeke and Darian Pasika came up from the younger group, Myron also became their friend as well. His friendship was a gift, and he was unlike anyone else I've ever known. There was good-natured teasing and jokes, but it was always in fun. I think that everyone loved Myron.

One of the most positive and grounded people I have ever known, Myron didn't sweat the small stuff, and he always put things in proper perspective. This was another lesson I learned by watching him. I appreciated his honest opinion when we talked about life, relationships, and dreams for the future. He was always supportive and enthusiastic.

As we grew older, our paths diverged. We stopped dancing with Ukraina, each moved to different cities at different times, but through it we all kept in touch with an occasional birthday phone call or random email.

In January 2008, when my novel was up on Amazon for the ABNA contest, Myron wrote the following review of the excerpt of The Silence of Trees:

I don't know if this is a good thing to write in a review but you remind me of my grandmother. Not you personally but the way you tell your story. I remember being a little child and climbing into bed next to Baba and she would paint me a picture with her words that made me see what her life was like way back in the day. You do the same with your writing.

I'll keep an eye out for your work.

Thanks again.

Myron M.

I was still living in Germany at the time, and I don't think I remembered to tell him how much that meant to me--how perfect it was.

I was shocked when I heard about Myron's illness later that year; he had been diagnosed in December 2008 with melanoma, and again in the summer of 2009. If anyone could beat something like that, it was Myron. I had to believe it, and for a while, he did.

My brightest memory of Myron, and there are so many, was a night up in Baraboo, Wisconsin in the early 90s. Our dance group had driven up to the Oselya to perform, and my sister, Myron, and I stayed up all night talking after the concert. We sat outiside, up by the barracks, and watched the sun rise.

It was a perfect moment, and if I close my eyes I can see it. I remember the smell of beer and wet grass, the hint of Myron's cigarettes. It was cool, and the three of us sat close with Myron in the center. We had been talking for most of the night, and at that time we just sat there quietly, fully present, and watching.

Later, as we walked back to our bunks, Myron put his arm around me and thanked me for listening. He said that moments like that you hold onto no matter how much times passes. He was right, I've never forgotten.

In February of this year, the father of our friends Zeke and Darian Pasika passed away suddenly, and my sister and I attended the wake. We saw Myron there, and the three of us sat scrunched together on this little bench inside the funeral home. As he sat next to me, his hat in his lap, I couldn't help but think of that night in Baraboo as the three of us watched the sun rise. Neither of us had seen Myron in ages.

We hugged and had a few minutes to talk. Myron told us about the latest treatment and how he'd been feeling better. We spoke of getting together soon, and then my sister and I hurried home to our kids. It was the last time either of us saw Myron alive.

The visitation and services for Myron are this Wednesday, May 2, 2012. I think I'm going to stay up all night on Wednesday to watch the sun rise and remember the beautiful, bright spirit that was Myron. I am better for having known him. I am honored that he was my friend, and I will never forget him.

Vichnaya Pamyat. Eternal memory.

What is remembered lives.

For my friends and family (especially Mark):

A Writer’s Apologia 

1.

Although I love you, I may not see you for hours or days or weeks, even if we live or work together.

2.

When writing, my inbox and voice messages pile up around me until I forget that they are there. My intention is to get to them, but in all probability, they will be lost. I appreciate your efforts to send me repeated messages. I do not see these as nagging reminders. I see them as the effort of someone who understands that five reminders for a lunch date or an email every day until you get an answer, are not annoying—they are necessary.

3.

If I do answer the phone when you call, I will be brief or sound crabby. The fact that I have answered the phone rather than let it go into voice mail signals that I am either: a.) on a bathroom break, b.) procrastinating, c.) stuck on a challenging part, d.) cleaning, or e.) eating. I will be cranky if interrupted doing any of those things. Please do not take it personally. I am anxious to get back to work.

4.

I forget real-world details, like birthdays or plans made. I can be tremendously organized with charts of plot and sketches of characters taped on the wall or to my computer, but things like dentist appointments or lunch plans may be forgotten unless they are also taped to my laptop. Even then, I may mistake the note for a plot point, and my character may be the one to go to the dentist or attend a baby shower.

5.

If I am writing, I won’t leave the house unless I absolutely have to. If I do, the laptop or notebook will come with me, and I will remain in my own creative bubble appearing quite vacant or mad to people who do not know me. This is because I am actually writing in my head even when I am paying the cashier or pumping gas or walking. I will usually choose to walk rather than drive. For me, walking and writing work better than driving and writing.

6.

Once a story takes root, I forego dishes and vacuuming, quite possibly eating and drinking for small stretches of time. Then I will do them all at once in a manic frenzy, eating a piece of cheese, while drinking coffee, washing dishes or vacuuming, maybe both. Please resist the urge to laugh or criticize.

7.

I drink a lot of coffee. This is not hyperbole. I may drink pots of coffee and will leave the house to get more, even when I will not leave the house for food. We all have our vices. For some it’s tea or cigarettes or sorbet. This is the Universe’s way of forcing us to interact with the world, although online shopping and delivery may thwart that as well.

8.

I love a variety of books, and many of them will find their way to the growing pile(s) on my nightstand. It’s not that I lack willpower, but I buy them because they are somehow important to my writing: for comparison, education, research, or encouragement. It does not signal a problem unless the piles take over the entire floor of the bedroom.

9.

I forget that characters are not real for you, because while I am writing them, they are real for me. I know things about them that I do not know about you. I know their greatest fears and secrets, what they do in the dark when no one is watching, what they dream and desire.

10.

If I stare into space when you are talking, I am neither bored nor daydreaming. I have likely caught sight of something provocative: a sunset perfect for the backdrop of a murder, a woman arguing with her lover who punctuates each word with a stalk of asparagus, or a child that has fashioned a robot out of olives and carrots and while singing the Rocky Horror Picture Show in falsetto. These moments are creative catnip.

11.

You may find me staring out the window or pacing around the living room or twittering. Rest assured, I am writing.  Sometimes the mind needs to process. If this lasts more than a few days, I am procrastinating and need a proverbial kick-in-the-ass.

12.

Someday you may find yourself in a story. No one else will probably recognize you; you may not even recognize yourself, but a characteristic or anecdote or snippet of dialog will finds its way in. To love a writer, is to accept eventually being written into something.

13.

If I need that proverbial kick-in-the-ass, be kind. It is likely that I know I am procrastinating, and I know that you know I am procrastinating, and I probably feel terrible about it.  Asking questions about the plot or characters may help to get things moving again. It may not. Hugs are always nice.

14.

When signing books, I will ask you to spell your name even if you have been my best friends since the first grade. After signing dozens (or hundreds) of books, there is a process of dictional shutdown where even my name starts to look funny. You know when you look at a word for a long time and it just looks wrong, even though you know it’s correct? This is like that, but worse.

15.

If you see me in the company of other writers or artists, do not take offense. This does not negate #5 above. Less than socializing, this is a survival instinct. Writers are an odd breed, we gather together in workshops, conferences, or reading series to reassure one another that we are sane and not alone.

16.

I may become preoccupied with a particular object, food, or musical selection. This may be a stone, a special Mexican hot chocolate, sandalwood incense, a silk scarf, or Chopin album of compositions for the piano. These items are book or story-specific, tied to the plot or a character in some way. They do not signal an addiction or collection. Please do not buy me stones, hot chocolate, incense, silk scarves, or Chopin cds. It is not necessary.

17.

Do not attempt to foil any new routines that may develop. The drinking of the Mexican hot chocolate or the playing of the album over and over again may drive you mad and appear obsessive, but they are part of a necessary ritual. They become a familiar backdrop and subliminal prompts to help get me into the story. Routines are also a way to help deal with the chaos of the creative process, as are charts and notes (see #4).

18.

I may choose to go away from time to time, to be alone in hotel room or a cabin or a friend’s house. This is not because I do not want to see you. Quite the opposite. This is because I do care about you, and it is hard to withdraw into my own little world when I am surrounded by people I care about and with whom I want to spend time. Going away removes the temptation of you, and allows me to focus. Even though I miss you, I will not write often (see #1, 2, and 3).

19.

Please do not compare me with the person I am when not writing. To you, we may not appear the same, but we are. I am. I am the introvert hermit scribbling away in my sandalwood-scented room wearing a silk scarf around my head and listening to Chopin on repeat while drinking Mexican hot chocolate in one hand and playing with a stone in the other.  I am also the wife who loves to curl up on the couch watching Doctor Who with her husband, the mother who dances to the Beatles in the kitchen with her children, and the hostess of formal dinner parties for her favorite circles of friends.

20.

The writing life is a slightly schizophrenic way of being, perhaps the price for creating worlds in our heads.

Know that while the incense and scarf and chocolate are touchstones for my creativity, you are a touchstone for my life.

~Valya Dudycz Lupescu, March 2012

You may recall a few months ago, when I posted a Storify link to Xe Sands' live-tweeting of my novel, THE SILENCE OF TREES.  You can see the story here.

I love audiobooks, and it really is a dream-come-true to have THE SILENCE OF TREES in this form. I always heard the protagonist Nadya's voice in my ear as I was writing it--it's very much an story told to someone (ironic for a character who has so many secrets). I'm delighted that Xe was the woman to bring Nadya to life!

Now THE SILENCE OF TREES has finally been released on audiobook by Iambik Audio, narrated by Xe Sands!

You can purchase it on the Iambik website, and it will be on Audible in a few weeks' time. (I'll post when it's up!)

In the meantime, we are getting ready to offer a unique promotion for the kick off of the audiobook.  I'll post details soon!

Spread the word, and I hope that you enjoy it!

After the performance and more photos, we moved to the magnificent Carousel Pavilion which looked so lovely lit up in antique lights. Chef Jeramie Campana of Wild Asparagus and his team treated us to a delicious meal.

Peter Sagal was the perfect toastmaster, fabricating quirky biographical anecdotes for each speaker as he introduced them.

Each of the Special Guests who took to the podium offered his or her own perspective on Gene and his work, beginning with Gene’s daughter, Teri Goulding, who talked about how proud her mother, Rosemary, would have been.

Rosemary was not well enough to attend, and her absence was felt by all who loved Gene. In my own small way I had had tried to include her by attaching a few small sprigs of rosemary to Gene’s boutonniere.

Following the speeches, dinner, dessert, and cordials, Greg Leifel, the Foundation Director at Sanfilippo announced that guests could ride the antique carousel. The crowd cheered, loudly, then ran to stand in line. What followed is best expressed in a few photos:

Joy. Wonder. You can see it reflected on their faces in photos and in this video by Bill Shunn:

That carousel evoked such a joyful response. I could think of no better way to end an evening that honored a man whose stories delight so many people. To see his face lit up, to see him so happy—it was the perfect way to close the night.

Maura Henn, and Kyle and Trillian, were staying with us, and some of the guests met us back at our home. Joined by Peter Straub, Gary K. Wolfe and Stacie Hanes, Jennifer Stevenson, and others, we had cocktails, wine, and cheese, and sat around the living room relaxing in various stages of exhaustion and inspiration.

Then it was over.

When the house was quiet, Kyle, Maura, and Mark chatted while I fell asleep on the couch. In the morning it was like a fantastic dream.

I’ve been anxious to see the photos from the evening. Slowly they have begun to appear online.

The photos help to make it more concrete, just as writing this blog entry helps to tether it to reality. Writing about it keeps An Evening to Honor Gene Wolfe from drifting off into that nebulous realm of dreams and memories.

In life, we are lucky to meet people who inspire us. Sometimes we encounter them through their work—stories and images that strike a chord. Sometimes we are lucky enough to have them for friends. This weekend was filled with both.

Thank you to everyone who helped to make it happen.

I became involved with the Chicago Literary Hall of Fame because I believe that Chicago has an important literary legacy deserving of attention. After two induction ceremonies where we celebrated historical writers, it was time to look at the contribution of writers living and working in Chicago.

After some discussion, it was unanimous, and we moved forward to create a new award, the Fuller, to honor a lifetime contribution to Chicago literature. (You can read more about the significance and symbolism of the award here.)

Poster & sculpture design by M.C. Matz (www.mcmatz.com)

There was no question in my mind that Gene Wolfe should be the person to receive the first Fuller Award.

His work is rich, innovative fiction worthy to stand beside many of the literary giants that have shaped not only Chicago’s literature, but modern literature as a whole.

There was briefly a question of "genre writing," but if we take a look at the literary landscape, the fantastic is an important part of it. Homer, the greatest epic poet of Ancient Greece wrote about Odysseus’ adventures among gods and men. Dante’s La Divina Commedia drew upon medieval Christian mythology in a journey through Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven. Shakespeare incorporated folklore and fairies into his plays. Edgar Allen Poe, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Oscar Wilde all introduced elements of the supernatural in their works.

Considered to be some of literature’s greatest writers, many of their stories would likely be considered Fantasy and Science Fiction by today’s genre classification. Somewhere along the way, mainstream literature became aligned with realism, but if we look back on the literary spectrum, we see that much of it is saturated with the unknown, the mysterious—the fantastic.

Gene’s work is like that—fantastic and significant.

After talking with Gene and receiving his gracious acceptance, I corresponded with Neil Gaiman. A long-time champion of Gene’s writing, he was my touchstone. After Neil, I contacted others: writers, editors, family, friends; and they responded with overwhelming enthusiasm.

Again and again they confirmed what I believed, that people love Gene Wolfe.  Upon meeting Gene, a respect for the writer and his words evolves into a genuine affection for the man.

March 17, 2012 brought us a day of unseasonably warm weather and sunshine. We headed toward Barrington Hills, stopping for a delicious lunch at the Happy Buddha; and as I looked around the table during our meal, I was once again reminded how blessed I am to have these dear friends in my life. Many of them had been up late the night before, helping me to fold, cut, paste, and package. Even friends who couldn't attend the event had pitched in to help in during the months before the event. (Thank you!)

A few quick errands, and we arrived at the Sanfilippo Estate for final touches and setup.

Soon after the guests arrived, and while I waited for Neil and Maria Dahvana Headley in the Carousel Pavilion, I received texts from the folks at the house with updates on guests’ arrivals and the progress of signings and check-in.

Bill Shunn,  Michael Swanwick, and James Wynn have already posted their accounts of the evening, accompanied by photos and videos.

Others will surely do the same, and in many ways their perspective is better than mine because they entered into the evening as participants, stepping into the “container” that I helped to create with the assistance of talented friends. It’s like a magic trick, best enjoyed by the audience (but savored in a different way by those who know the trick).

The afternoon was a whirlwind of rehearsals, tours, photos, and the eventual start of the ceremony.

After Gary K. Wolfe’s inspired introduction, Neil’s reading of “A Solar Labyrinth,” and his heartfelt presentation of the Fuller, Gene took the stage.

His speech was so gracious and genuine, so smart and witty—so very Gene.

I teetered on the edge of teary-eyed from that point on, overwhelmed each time a guest or friend spoke about the importance of Gene’s work and the gift of his friendship.

After Gene’s speech, I knew I could relax. I never doubted that Terra Mysterium’s performance of Gene Wolfe’s “The Toy Theater” (adapted by Lawrence Santoro) would be wonderful, and it was.

Once the organist R. Jelani Eddington took the stage, I slipped into the foyer where I could still hear the music.

A small group of us had gathered there: Neil, Peter Straub, Carl and Mark, Audrey, Kyle, and Maria, and 8 Eyes Photography.

Neil told me that Amanda had called at precisely the moment when one of the marionettes was singing “Coin-Operated Boy” during the audio-play. It made me smile. Neil had been such an invaluable ally, and I liked being able to slip in a little echo of Amanda into the evening; the song was a perfect addition to the story and the setting.

So much followed, from fun photos on the grand staircase to the Great Coat Closet Party of '12, while in the adjoining music salon Jelani played Star Wars on the 8,000-pipe Wurlitzer.

I love this incredible circle of creative people in my life. The evening was proof that together we can make magic.

As a special 2012 Leap Year promotion, my novel The Silence of Trees is available for FREE on Kindle Monday, February 27 until the end of Leap Day. After 11:59pm on February 29th, the price will go up to $4.99. (The Silence of Trees will still be available for free on the Kindle Owners' Lending Library.)

The Silence of Trees is a historical novel of magic realism set in Eastern Europe during WWII and modern-day Chicago. You can read reviews here or go to Amazon, where there are more than 100 customer reviews (thank you, readers!).

In 2011, The Silence of Trees reached the Top 100 for Paid Kindle books. Thank you to everyone for spreading the word! Let's see if we can do it again and reach the Top 100 in 2012!

Stay tuned for an announcement about the audiobook soon to be released by Iambik Audio!

Wolfsword Press and the Chicago Literary Hall of Fame are sponsoring a contest to win 2 dinner tickets for An Evening to Honor Gene Wolfe held on March 17, 2012, at the Sanfilippo Estate in Barrington Hills, IL.

The evening celebrates the lifetime literary achievement of writer Gene Wolfe as he receives the first Fuller Award. The steampunk scifi literary extravaganza features performances by Terra Mysterium and R. Jelani Eddington. Special guests for the evening include: Gene Wolfe (of course!), Peter Sagal, Gary K. Wolfe, Neil Gaiman, Peter Straub, Michael Dirda Audrey Niffenegger, Luis Urrea, Kyle Cassidy, and so many more! (For more information on the event click here.)

GENE WOLFE WILL SELECT THE WINNER FROM THE FINALISTS!

The winner will be announced on our website by March 1. This will give everyone else time to purchase their tickets (Ticket sales end on March 5, 2012!)

THE CONTEST: Write a flash fiction story that features a wolf (or a Wolfe). This "theme" can be interpreted as broadly as you wish. The story must be at least 100 words but no more than 250 words (that includes the title). The story can be of any genre. It must be previously unpublished (that means in print or online).

The deadline is Friday, February 24, 2012 at 11:59pm CST. Any email submissions sent after that time will be deleted without consideration.

Send your submission in the body of the email (EMAILS WITH ATTACHMENTS WILL NOT BE ACCEPTED!) along with your name, address, telephone number, and email address to wolf_flash@wolfswordpress.org

A FEW FLASH FICTION TIPS 

Sometimes called sudden fiction, microfiction, or short shorts, the length of flashes can vary. For our purposes, the flash cannot exceed 250 words. Flashes should still contain classic story elements: protagonist, conflict, and resolution. The limited word length, however, dictates that some elements will remain unwritten or implied in the written story.

DISCLAIMER AND OFFICIAL INFORMATION:

• • • Winner must provide his/her own transportation: airfare, bus fare, train fare, llama, airship.
    • If you are unable to attend, there is no substitution prize. You may, however, gift your tickets to someone else.

Good luck to you! We look forward to reading your stories and hope to see you on March 17th!

When I do interviews or visit with book clubs, people often ask how I could write about an elderly woman in The Silence of Trees with such authenticity.

Sometimes I answer with a variation of, “She’s certainly inspired by people I’ve known.” This is true, but…

Other times I give the more esoteric (but slightly more honest in my opinion) answer of , “I don’t know. She came to life in my imagination and is as real as a memory.”

There are fragments of me in Nadya’s character, although most are subtle.The biggest connection that we share is our nostalgia. Nadya revisits the Past like a heartbroken lover. She holds onto people, stories, scents, songs. She’s sensual and her memories are triggered by the most simple cues, like the smell of the tomato plant.

I understand this. For me the past is a definite touchstone.

Yesterday I went with my parents to visit my grandparents—my father’s parents in Chicago’s Ukrainian Village. My Baba is 88, my Dido is 93. They still live together in the small house where they have lived for as long as I’ve been alive.

When I walked in my grandfather was sitting in his recliner, by the window. The seat goes up and down to help him when he needs to stand. He is frail, but solid. He has always seemed grounded to me, substantive. Even as he grows more thin and withdraws into himself, he still seems sturdy.

“Hi, Dido!” I said loudly (He’s nearly deaf.) I gave him a big hug and kiss, then kissed the top of his bald head for good measure.

“Chih taw, Valya?” he asked in Ukrainian. (“Is that Valya?”)

I shouted in his ear, “Tak!” (“Yes.”)

He smiled, and it was the same smile he has given me since I was a little girl. I didn’t notice that he didn’t have his teeth in. All I saw was the way his face lit up, his eyes brightened, and the wrinkles faded for a moment. Everything shifted except those eyes and that smile. It was easy to see him the way he exists in my mind’s eyes, the way his will always be in my memory.

His eyesight is not failing, but his memory is beginning to fray a bit. Luckily my round face still resembles the face of my youth.

“Oh, Valya! Deh deetih?” he asked me. (“Where are the children?”)

I explained loudly that they were at school, and we were only staying for a short visit.

My father was dropping off a new walker for my Baba, my grandmother. It matches the one my grandfather has. She was pleased.

“It’s very good,” she said to my father in Ukrainian. “I promise to use it. Even in the grocery store.”

Twice while we were there she walked off without it, leaving the new walker in the kitchen. My father scolded her, reminding her that it’s there to be used. My Baba has fallen too many times, her bones are fragile now, her curves faded into the hanging folds of skin beneath her clothes.

My grandparents 1996

There was a time when my Baba was the epitome of a robust, curvy grandmother. Always cooking and baking, she welcomed guests into her home with an abundance of food set before them. Yesterday she looked thin, and it was unlike her. Again the reality did not match up to the memory, and while my grandfather’s health is worse than hers, he seemed more solid than she. She seemed more fragile.

Although we all live in Chicago, I haven’t seen my grandparents in weeks. I’m ashamed to admit it. It hasn’t been often enough. There has been so much else going on with the holidays, my projects, my sister’s challenges, and general life happenings. It hasn’t been enough.

“I miss my family,” my Baba said in Ukrainian. “It gets lonely all alone here. Your Dido,” she motioned with her hand in his direction, then shrugged, “he doesn’t hear me. His life is eating and sleeping now. I miss my children, and their children.”

My aunts and uncles and cousin visit. Several work and live nearby, but it must be such a contrast to their lives before, when the house was filled with 6 children, then with even more grandchildren often stopping by after Ukrainian school or dancing practice or church.

They are still at the roots, my grandparents, but how much further away are the branches of our family tree as our lives veer off and grow in new directions?

We only stayed for a short visit this time, long enough to hear about the latest funerals, my grandparents’ health, the state of their pantry and icebox.

“Just a few more minutes,” my Baba asked as we moved to leave.

“If you had your way, we’d stay here until 6 in the evening,” said my father.

“No!” said my Baba, “If I had my way, I would keep you here until midnight. When the devils come out.” She grinned.

“Do you have any devils?” my father teased back.

“Just that one,” she said, and motioned to my grandfather in his recliner, gazing out the window.

Earlier that day, my father had asked me how many copies my novel had sold last year. I couldn’t tell him the numbers for paperbacks and hardcovers, but I know that my kindle sales were over 45,000 ebooks sold in 2011.

I knew he wanted to share this with my grandmother.

“Mama,” he said, “Guess how many books Valya has sold?”

“Maybe 150?” she offered.

“45,000!” he said.

Her eyes got wide, and then she said to me, “You know, you get that from me. From my family. Not from him,” she gestured toward my grandfather.

She then went into the story of how her grandfather was mayor of their town back in Ukraine, and her father a musician who taught her how to read by copying poetry in her notebook.

I had heard the history before, of course. When my father was a State Senator, my Baba used to tell me that he got it from her, from her family. It was nice to see that same pride in my Baba’s eyes, to see that spark I remembered. My Baba was always a force to be reckoned with.

“Can you believe it, Mama?” my father asked. “45,000 people have read about a Ukrainian woman who came to America after WWII. They read about our traditions, out stories. Can you believe it?”

She smiled. “Is it translated yet? Into Ukrainian?”

My heart sank a little. I had always hoped my grandparents would be able to read my writing. I told her not yet, but I hoped it would be soon.

After a few more minutes, we said our goodbyes. We had limited time and planned to visit the Displaced Persons exhibit at the Ukrainian National Museum before I had to get home to pick up the kids from school.

“Come back,” my Baba said with a hug, “and bring my great-grandchildren.”

My Baba waved in the doorway, the same way she has waved for decades, and I wished that we had more time.

My parents and I next stopped at the museum to see From DP to DC, Displaced Persons: A story of Ukrainian Refugees in Europe 1945 - 1952." Many people had donated items from their time in the DP Camps, or things they had inherited from their parents or grandparents. It was eerie, to see physical manifestations of things I had written about, to see so many photographs and letters, sketches and legal papers from WWII and the time after.

When I began to research The Silence of Trees in the 90s, I didn’t have access to this much information, to this level of detail. Some came from oral and written communication with former DPs, some came from books. This was the real thing.

My parents walked through pretty quickly, but I felt like I had slipped back into the world of my novel, except instead of inside my head, here it was in fragments under glass.

The items were mostly in display cabinets, but oh how I wanted to touch them! They seemed so familiar, as if they were the very items handled by my fictional characters in their fictional experience of a real war and a real immigration. What an odd feeling, as if suddenly I stood before the Mad Hatter’s hat or the magical wardrobe or Pooh’s honeypot.  Only these were characters out of my own imagination.

Eerie and sacred and strange.

I had woken up that morning with a lump in my throat and had gone through the day in the oddest mood, emotional and near tears for no apparent reason. It was one of those days when I just felt raw. Perhaps for that reason, the visit with my grandparents and the visit to the museum were so provocative, so emotional.

I had lunch with my parents at Shokolad, a really wonderful Ukrainian restaurant in Chicago. The meal was excellent, but I didn’t feel like small talk. I was already taking notes in my head—for this blog entry— to try and hold onto the day, to hold onto the experience of a glimpse into my own fictional world, to hold onto something precious even as it was slipping further away.

I believe in the inscription I sign into copies of The Silence of Trees:  What is remembered—lives.

It applies for places, people, ideas, and characters. So I write this, as a reminder.

Some moments make creative ripples in the Universe.

They may be quiet affairs of a half dozen or less people. They may be large gatherings, well-publicized and documented for posterity. Sometimes all we have are whispers, hints of an evening in letters and diaries.

• In the 1930s, J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis and the other “Inklings” met on Thursday evenings in C.S. Lewis’s rooms at Magdalen College. They also met on Tuesday nights at the Eagle and Child pub (affectionately known as the "Bird and Baby") in a private back room for conversation and drinks.

• In Paris in the early 1900s , Gertrude Stein and her brother Leo hosted Saturday night dinner parties at their home. On any given Saturday, Picasso, Ezra Pound, Ernest Hemmingway, Alice B. Toklas, and others gathered.

• In Taos, New Mexico, Mabel Dodge Luhan and her husband welcomed poets and writers into their home for the second half of the twentieth century. Their guests included D. H. Lawrence, Ansel Adams, Willa Cather, Georgia O'Keeffe, and more.

• The Algonquin Round Table was the infamous setting for the wisecracks and witticisms of Dorothy Parker, Alexander Woollcott, Robert Benchley, Edna Ferber, and 24 other members.

• On June 11, 1965, American and European beat poets performed at the Royal Albert Hall for an impromptu event - the International Poetry Incarnation - that some argued marked the birth of London’s gestating counterculture.

Creative ripples.

On March 17, 2012, the Chicago Literary Hall of Fame will present its first-ever Fuller Award to Gene Wolfe, a brilliant writer whose work engages the imaginations of readers all over the world.

At the Sanfilippo Estate, guests are coming from all over the country to honor Gene Wolfe. In attendance will be: Neil Gaiman, Peter Sagal, Gary K. Wolfe, Audrey Niffenegger, Peter Straub, Michael Swanwick, Michael Dirda, Luis Urrea, and more.

There will be writers, artists, dancers, musicians, photographers, journalists, chefs, knitters, sculptors, and patrons from around Chicago—steampunk to hippy, gothic to folk, some in college and others well into their retirement. It’s going to be an incredible gathering of creative people, and you are invited.

When people talk about the Chicago Literary Hall of Fame’s first Fuller Award Ceremony, will you be able to recount your memory of Gene Wolfe receiving the award statue from Neil Gaiman? Or share a snippet of your conversation over the sweet table with one of your favorite living writers? Or recall the moving speeches and witty toasts given by some of Gene’s closest friends?

When people talk about an Evening to Honor Gene Wolfe at the steampunk mansion with the living marionettes and Gene’s words brought to life on stage and accompanied by the world’s largest restored five manual Mighty Wurlitzer, will you be able to say that you were there?

I hope you will.

Because like the musical machines collected by Jasper Sanfilippo at his “Place de la Musique," this event is made more remarkable by the diversity of its parts, an audience coming together not only to honor a brilliant writer, but also to celebrate the whimsy and delight of art and imagination.

Join us for an evening that is sure to be wonder-filled.