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Erica Berry
@ericajberry
Author of Wolfish (t.ly/yMX-H) Flatiron(US)/Canongate (UK). Env & feelings in @guardian @nytimes @Orion_Magazine, @yalereview @AeonMag. She/her.
Portland, OR
Joined February 2012
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    Last night I got to accept a freaking Oregon Book Award in the same venue where I went to senior prom and I am absolutely not recovered from the honor and non-stop smiley joy of it. Hugest howl of thanks to the judges and my Oregon community and @literaryarts 🐺❣️
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    Last night I told my elderly neighbor, who has lived here for 40yrs, that I was having a yard hang and he should call if music was too loud. He waved me off; it suddenly occurred to me I should invite him. By 8pm he was eating an ice cream bar chatting w/ my friends by fire pit.
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    Replying to @ericajberry
    He took off at 9:30, thanking me for invite. He lives alone in a big house, far from fam, and he told me it had been a wonderful time. “I really needed this,” he said. Today he called to ask if he could help clean up. I told him we were set. Now we’re starting a dinner club 🥺
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    Went to check my mail and now I’m sobbing bc the mailman read my book and wrote me a postcard
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    Replying to @ericajberry
    Ah this is resonating! Please invite your (older/younger) neighbors to hang 💓. And if you want to think more about how to cultivate care and community in a scary world..consider preordering my forthcoming book from an indie bookstore🐺 indiebound.org/book/978125082…
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    Replying to @ericajberry
    PS. Editors! I think about this a lot and once started an essay on it….hmu if you want me to finish it 😎
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    This Natalia Ginzburg sentence, nested in an essay, is almost a short story
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    Replying to @ericajberry
    On plane today so late responding but know Ryan and I texted about book drop-off details and you bet his mom is getting a wolfy print an artist friend made me too 🥲. now blurbed by best USPS man and pubbed by @Flatironbooks @canongatebooks:
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    We lost my Gramps yesterday, who died at his Oregon farm. He spoke 4 languages, tended geese and sheep and chickens, worked as a doctor on multiple continents, once stumbled on a mastodon bone during a summer at an Alaskan gold mine. A storyteller, with tales so often tall.
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    My grandpa—a botanist-hiker-ski coach-karate instructor-fire lookout-fisherman-enviro conservationist-reader sort of guy—died this morn at home in the Bitterroot Valley. He taught me to climb mountains, jump off rocks, do crosswords, and ask hard questions. We miss him terribly.
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    Working on an essay you’re excited about—writing here and there in stolen moments—has all the same excitement as having a crush….it puts a sheen on the day, carves a little pocket of dreaming and scheming into the logistical rigamarole of life
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    Beaming everyone the confidence of the Tinder guy who, after 2 dates, said he “didn’t have room for another person in his heart rn” and then, after seeing my book at front of bookstore, hit me up
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    Last week my new therapist asked "So when did all your daydreams become about catastrophes instead of nice things happening to you?" and if this is you too, well, I really recommend thinking about it for six days straight
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    Overheard at book fest: famous white male writer saying the appetite for memoir is exhausting, that “there’s a limit to what a life can give you, unless you’re an admiral or something” Me: one table over, reading Ernaux while eating a strawberry, marveling at the quotidian