Well, I just proved my title for the day. I minimized the draft and lost the whole magilla. What I want to say is that Duncan, my Cairn terrier, is standing in for me on the blog site because I cannot make my own picture look like anything but a bad cartoon. Duncan is an unmade bed of a dog, and I love him beyond reason, but I don't look like him. I have short hair, which I brush every morning. He will stand still about five minutes once a week to be groomed. So, I am not a dog. I don't care what anyone says. But I'll get the hang of this Photo Shop thing. I will. I will.
One reason that I want to post photos is to show off a little. I want my books with me on this site. Until I can show their faces, as well as my own, here's a list.
Visible Progress, with Beverly Rainbolt, McNeil Street Studios, 1984. Out of print.
This is a dual chapbook, self-published, with my long-lost friend Beverly. Hey, girlfriend, if you're out there, talk to me.
Red Goddess Poems, illustrations by Elizabeth Ostrander, Cafe Review Chapbooks, 1992. OOP.
Elizabeth has graced this book with amazing wood cuts. She too is lost to me, but welcome back if she's listening.
Bones in the Chimney, Elsewhere Press, 1993. OOP, but available at Amazon.com.
"In this, her first fiction, Karen Douglass has taken a few dusty scraps of Colonial town history and woven them into a stunning series of interconnected tales . . . a truly astonishing glimpse into our own history, shorn of schoolbook heroics and cloying quaintness."
Green Rider, Thinking Horse: My Journey with a Standardbred, Soleil Press, 2004. Available at http://www.sphomaine.net/. Sales benefit, in part, the Standardbred horse in Maine.
"From barn rat to novice to competent horse handler, Douglass depicts her journey as a devoted supporter and owner of her favorite breed, and her favorite horse, a little bay gelding named Casco."
Sostenuto, (poems), Moonpie Press, 2006. Available at http://www.moonpiepress.com/.
"The songs of a woman making peace with the stories of Europe . . . Millicent eats the murder weapon while Mother shakes the house out like a purse, and she, the poet, keeps Paris in its own brown bag." --Martha King