PAULA WHYMAN
Selected Works
Fiction
A young woman struggles with an unplanned pregnancy.
Sexual and racial tensions in a classroom threaten to explode as a young teen faces choices that will haunt her in adulthood. ORDER HERE
Two American teens go on their first European trip and get into trouble.
A young girl in Thailand is sold into prostitution by her mother.
A woman is haunted by events from the past that threaten to disturb her domestic life.
A man battles neighbors to build his dream house, while his son resists the pull of the family heritage.
A psychologist confuses fantasy and reality as she travels alone for the first time after her divorce.
Humor
Dining out with dietary issues, and Twizzlers. From the Washington Post.
KITCHEN SINK LINKS
Washington Independent Review of Books
Washington's nonprofit online book review
Semi-Charmed Life: Surviving at the Center of the Universe
first-person column on absurdities of suburban life
Bethesda World News
Bethesda's own parody newspaper
When the Menu Is a Minefield
Washington Post Food section, on dining out with dietary issues
Ode to the Hand Dryers of La Guardia
guest post for Susan Coll's blog
Rumpus Mini-Interview #19
I interview visual artist Tim Guthrie about his unusual anti-war project.
Work-in-Progress: A blog by Leslie Pietrzyk
Explores the Creative Process
Alternate Sides: A blog by Susan Coll
Adventures Along the Northeast Corridor
Finding Josephine
Writer Dionne Ford's blog
Poetry in the Arts
Publisher of the poetry journal, Ardent! - and fine books of poetry by invitation.
The Rose Garden
Excerpt...
The travel agent assured her the room would have a view of the garden on the quiet side of the house. She envisioned a flowery bower outside and, inside, a Victorian oasis (the house was built in that era) crammed full of faux-period clutter: lamps with tasseled shades, pressed flowers labeled with their Latin names, portraits of hunting parties dressed in pinks. In her room, a four-poster bed and a claw foot tub; in the morning, the earthy odor of frying bacon would draw her out of the bed’s feathery embrace to dine among Currier and Ives, rangy ferns, cut roses.
Elizabeth rode through the patter of rain, safely dry in the back seat of the cab, and imagined her hosts. “Tim”—the only name the travel agent had provided—would be a tall yet small-boned man in his early sixties with a reddish-gray beard. Nearsighted, he would wear those magnifying half-glasses you could buy in the drug store, because he just didn’t care about fashion. His wife (Mrs. Tim?) would be a heavy-set woman as tall as her husband who spoke only to ask pointed questions. She would dislike women who wore perfume to breakfast. The wife had an eye for artful clutter, but Tim was the better cook.
The parlor would smell like cinnamon, which Elizabeth liked, or apple spice tea, which she did not. There would be two cats who kept out of sight, except to appear out of nowhere and rub suddenly across the ankles, and she would have to stop herself from shoving them gently away with her instep, instead smiling at her host, commiserating about the foibles of cats.
From North Dakota Quarterly
The travel agent assured her the room would have a view of the garden on the quiet side of the house. She envisioned a flowery bower outside and, inside, a Victorian oasis (the house was built in that era) crammed full of faux-period clutter: lamps with tasseled shades, pressed flowers labeled with their Latin names, portraits of hunting parties dressed in pinks. In her room, a four-poster bed and a claw foot tub; in the morning, the earthy odor of frying bacon would draw her out of the bed’s feathery embrace to dine among Currier and Ives, rangy ferns, cut roses.
Elizabeth rode through the patter of rain, safely dry in the back seat of the cab, and imagined her hosts. “Tim”—the only name the travel agent had provided—would be a tall yet small-boned man in his early sixties with a reddish-gray beard. Nearsighted, he would wear those magnifying half-glasses you could buy in the drug store, because he just didn’t care about fashion. His wife (Mrs. Tim?) would be a heavy-set woman as tall as her husband who spoke only to ask pointed questions. She would dislike women who wore perfume to breakfast. The wife had an eye for artful clutter, but Tim was the better cook.
The parlor would smell like cinnamon, which Elizabeth liked, or apple spice tea, which she did not. There would be two cats who kept out of sight, except to appear out of nowhere and rub suddenly across the ankles, and she would have to stop herself from shoving them gently away with her instep, instead smiling at her host, commiserating about the foibles of cats.
From North Dakota Quarterly