About a week ago I learned that a friend from my freshman year of college recently published a book of short stories. I looked it up on Amazon, and made a plan to run to the bookstore to pick up a copy of “This Life She’s Chosen” (I can’t bring myself to pay shipping and handling when I live two blocks from Barnes and Noble). I didn’t get to it before my trip, but they had copies on display at the Whitman Bookstore this weekend, so I grabbed a copy Saturday morning while making my obligatory college paraphernalia purchase.
I packed the book in my carry-on, finished it with two hours left in the flight and sat until we landed in a state of awe at the piece of art that a girl I ate dinner with every night eight years ago has produced. The ten stories that make up the book are awash with glimpses of longing, joy, discomfort, compromise and love. These moments are so true, so perfect that I had a hard time remembering that their creator was the one with whom I got drunk for the first time in my life, before Winter Break in 1997.
I am floored by the depths of Kirsten’s gift, that precious ability to get the story out of her head and into ours.