The real reason I ran the show every Tuesday from 6 to 8 p.m. Whenever I would pick up a pen to begin, it would rattle across the page in my shaky hand, leaving nothing of consequence behind.

They didn’t ask me to lead the group because they adored my writing: in fact, during the eleven years that I had belonged to the group, I had only turned in a single short story. Even before it went out of print in 1958, the collection of essays never got much press apart from a handful of derogatory reviews claiming that it was a “lesbian manifesto” that “stole the angel in the house right out from under Virginia Woolf.” They didn’t ask me to lead the group because I was a published essayist: none of them had read my book, nor could they find it anywhere since the publisher christened it Miss Bixby Takes a Wife, after my tongue-in-cheek essay about how men weren’t the only ones who needed a doting partner to pick up after them. No one had hopes of publication-no one, that is, except for Selena Markmann, who wrote novellas about domestic violence with “happy endings,” wherein the attacker always appeared remorseful, bearing diamonds. And of course there was the other Gene, Gene Rosskemp, who mostly seemed to show up for the women, or “young ladies” as he called us with a wink. Jean Fester wrote dreadful prose about her myriad health problems that hadn’t-as of yet-been fatal. Victor Chenkovitch wrote heart-wrenching personal essays about his days in a concentration camp. Herb Shepherd wrote about growing up in Pittsburgh, back when we played kick-the-can in the streets and had to bring all of our laundry in before noon, before our shirts turned black with soot from the steel mills. or, well, one thing, which was my writers’ group, a weekly gathering of senior citizens who struggled to write their memoirs. While the appeal of living forever was long lost on me, it wasn’t as if I didn’t value my existence. I reassured her that I had absolutely no intention of ruining the surprise. Browning,” she finally said, “are you suicidal?” which was so far from the good wishes I’d been hoping for that I laughed. You may have the luxury of distraction, but for me, death is my next big event.” As the doctor grew silent, I waited for her to stop documenting our conversation into that godforsaken computer, waited for the gladness to arrive in her voice, when it might dawn on her that the date of my birth matched the day of her call. So, I fibbed a little and said to this kind young lady, who was probably about half the age of my son David, “My dear, much the way a youngster anticipates a birthday, I can’t help but be a bit curious as to what exactly will be my end. Browning, are you depressed?” the doctor asked, quite seriously, bless her heart. “Frankly, at this point in my life, I would welcome a hip fracture-just so long as it’s fatal,” I replied. “You’re saying I’m a little, old lady.” The doctor chuckled before pushing another pill-this one for osteoporosis, which may prevent a hip fracture and cause sudden, irreversible blindness in certain susceptible people. “So, it’s official,” I said, upon hearing the news. When the doctor called about the results of my recent bone density scan, I was grateful for the tiny touch of humanity all the same. The day had begun like any other, my birthday notwithstanding. I had no inkling that the girl with the braid might change everything. After all, the older I’ve become, the more everyone I come across reminds me of someone I once loved. Perhaps the Sarah sighting was yet another side effect of aging. Of course, I knew it couldn’t actually be my sister. Somehow she was still a young girl of about fifteen, with pale blond hair in a single braid down her back, just as she’d been when she scrambled up the climbing tree in the backyard and tossed apples to me on the ground down below. It was my eighty-seventh birthday when my sister Sarah walked into the meeting room of the Carnegie Library. This is a launch party you won’t want to miss! Leffler will be officially launching The Secrets of Flight on May 6th at Mystery Lovers. If you love Pittsburgh’s Carnegie Library - like we do! - you’ll definitely want to set aside a few minutes to enjoy the below… Littsburgh is so happy to be able to share this excerpt from local author Maggie Leffler‘s The Secrets of Flight - a “captivating breakout novel that brings readers from the skies of World War II to the present day, when a woman is prepared to tell her secrets at last” (courtesy of William Morrow ).

Let it snow book leffler