Amy Klinger


Wee Beastie

I was not completely honest with my husband the other night. He, from the living room, asked me, on the deck: Who are you talking

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Scene Stealers: A Few Faves from In Light of Recent Events

At this point in its existence, the actual writing of In Light of Recent Events (shorthand: ILORE)is a bit of a blur. Part of that is due to the nature in which it was written—over a decade, essentially in hour-long increments in the evening after working full-time and wrangling a family.

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The ILORE Playlist

I was a musician long before I was a writer, having learned from my mother how to play folk guitar when I was eight. I

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The Story of the Story

It officially started 10 years ago, though the seeds were planted a few years before when two characters appeared in a free-write exercise during one

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Seeing Voices

It was early fall, just three weeks after my daughter had the cast removed from her right arm when she managed to break the left one.

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The Year of Living Carefully

It’s spring-tease season in Vermont. Last week, 60-degree sunshine reintroduced us to our lawn and swelled our river, rumbling with snowmelt and runoff. Today, the wood stove is cranking again, and there are snowglobe flurries swirling outside my bedroom window.

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Dark and Darkly Beautiful

My husband came into the kitchen while I was making pancake batter. I hugged him tightly and wouldn’t let go.

“You need to stay off the internet today,” he said.

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All That Distance Traveled

My daughter’s eleventh year has been jam-packed with milestones. With each one, I try not to think too long about all the things that have slowly fallen by the wayside the past few years. But it’s also been a time of recovering things that had been set-aside during parenting’s heavy lifting years.

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American Dream in the Garden State

New Jersey is my embarrassing cousin. The one who talks too loud, who fake jabs at my head and gives me noogies when I get too close. Who always knows someone who knows someone. Who insists there’s only one right way to do something (everything else is bullshit).

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Something Wild

Come in close. I have something to tell you that I’d like to keep just between us: I don’t love camping anymore.

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Happyish Trails

Yesterday was a stellar weather day: cloudless and 70s, breezy and bursting with birdsong and the greenest greenery of early summer. I played hooky, tagging along with my “summers-off” husband to a mountain biking area we hadn’t been to in over a decade.

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Mother’s Day

I’ve had to abandon my plans to write about Barbie this evening (yes, that Barbie) in favor of a meditation on motherhood, one about that pivotal moment that turned our double-income-no-kid life into this one.

Don’t worry, this isn’t a childbirth story.

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The Queer E

By definition, a query is a question, but a query letter sent to an agent contains no actual written questions. Rather, the letter’s request is implicit: “Would you please consider helping me deliver to the world this beast I’ve been a creative slave to for eight years?” 

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Return to the Desert Island

Reading old work is a lot like hearing a recording of your own voice. You cringe. You groan. That’s what I sound like? Make it stop. Don’t ever do that again.

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A Bite

For those new to the publishing process, which I was—am, really—the hard part is not actually writing the book. It’s the wretched query letter.

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Going Public

In the era of Facebook and Instagram, Snapchat, Jeepers, Hoodoo, Freetyme and Wheelie (I might have made some of those up), it seems like creating a personal site centered around a blog—particularly for someone who writes for a living—would be a natural progression.

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