West Linn author Francesca Varela releases ‘Listen,’ an ecological novel: Book excerpt

February 11, 2016 - garden totes

Francesa Varela, 23, of West Linn is edition her second work of ecological fiction, “Listen,” in March. 

A third-grade plan about Neptune launched Francesca Varela into a star of writing.

“We were ostensible to write a page and we wrote 5 finish pages with pictures,” Varela, 23, removed recently. She enjoyed a essay so much, she motionless she wanted to turn an author.

After she graduated from West Linn High School in 2011, she began operative on her initial novel. “Call of a Sun Child” was published by Connecticut-based Homebound Publications in 2014, while Varela was a youth during a University of Oregon. Her second novel, “Listen,” is set to be published Mar 15.

Both novels are categorized as ecological fiction, secure in Varela’s environmental studies during a UO. “The thesis of environmental recognition is unequivocally important,” she said. “That’s a number-one thing we wish people to get out of both my novels: I’m propelling them to lapse to a earth, to lapse to inlet and unequivocally notice what’s around you.”

In “Listen,” a immature pianist who dreams of apropos a composer meets a immature male who pulls her toward a healthy world, toward her possess wildness and eventually toward a wildness in her song as well. Here’s an excerpt.


Three long, terrible days had upheld nonetheless playing. we felt scarcely dead, and my initial doctrine was in half an hour.

The school’s use bedrooms were opposite campus. we attempted to get an unit closer to them, nonetheless they were too expensive. It was a tiny school. The travel wasn’t bad.

I brisk along a pathways in my sandals. My exhale was complicated from rushing. Finally we came to a square, massive song building. From outward a black doors we could already hear a cello’s yawn, a drum’s hiss.

There they were. Neat small bedrooms encased in soundproof glass. Willing my chest to ease itself, we peeked into any one. Violinist. Pianist. Singer. Twenty mins until my lesson.

I knocked twice on a doorway nearest me. we could already see a brown-haired child personification an honest piano inside.

He paused, his fingers hovering. Shuffling my feet on a stained, dim carpet, we stranded my smiling conduct in.

“Sorry.” we threw my thick hair over my shoulder. “Um, we was unequivocally anticipating we could use this room, usually for, like, fifteen mins before my lesson. I’m a song major, and we haven’t used in a few days, and all a use bedrooms are full.”

He stretched his top physique toward me from a bench. His ears stranded out, his skin was uneven. Beneath a yellow lighting his brow seemed pithy atop his decrease chin.

“I’m a song vital too,” he grunted. His voice was like gravel, like pebbles scraping by water.

He set down his prolonged fingers and played one of Chopin’s Nocturnes, of all things. An easy piece. But, afterwards . . . it was like we had never listened it before. Something new, soaring.

I wanted to penetrate divided from his incited head. Why did he have to uncover off? Couldn’t he usually give me a room? But we couldn’t leave. It was Chopin.

Not usually that, it took reason of me. It was as nonetheless we was examination a night sky, all a stars in a universe. Like we was fibbing there subsequent a Milky Way’s jewels, my conduct resting opposite sleeping dandelions. Red glimpses of visitor worlds. Then a clouds would come and rain, not down, nonetheless adult . . .

“It’s all yours,” he pronounced as he stood. we realized, waking from my trance, that he’d been personification from memory.

“Too late,” we muttered, jacket my fists around a hoop of my tote. “Only 5 mins until my doctrine now.”

For a impulse he stared during me. Then his turn cheeks tightened. He slammed behind down onto a bench. “Well, have a good lesson, then.” He nodded, eyes to a floor. “I should’ve let we play.”

“No, it’s okay. That was unequivocally good.” we had to say, since we meant it. Even nonetheless we wanted to be insane during him, we couldn’t be. “I’m blissful we got to hear it.”

By a time we incited around, song was already seeping out from behind a potion door.

Sighing, we followed a room numbers. 111 . . . 112, there. we knocked gently on a sealed door. Instantly, it gaped open.

“Hi,” a immature lady squeaked. “I’m Caroline, good to accommodate you.”

“Nice to accommodate you. I’m May.”

She took a chair during one of a grand pianos, and we took a other. Beyond a prolonged windows we could see oval leaves crowning a garden. There was a red cot in a corner, intense opposite a whiteness of all else. Even a pianos were white.

“Why don’t we play me something so we can see where we’re at?” Caroline smiled. She was roughly too thin, her blonde incline accenting her pointy cheekbones. “How prolonged have we been playing?”

“Since we was five.”

Without watchful for a response, we began. Fantasie Impromptu, by my dear Chopin, of course. Timid small Caroline vanished, and we sat alone with a world.

“Wow,” she muttered when we finished. “That’s a unequivocally tough piece. There were some severe spots, nonetheless altogether that was really nice.”

Rough spots. Hmm.

Secretly, we wanted her to contend that we had a gift. That we was one of a best she’d ever heard. A fresh, stimulating pianist to opposition a greats.

Then again, she hadn’t listened my possess music, my creations. They were my truest talent.

“We need to work on enlightening everything, usually a little,” Caroline went on, holding her finger up. Her voice was unexpected bigger. “Technically, you’re fine. Musically, you’re fine. But we need to pull things to a subsequent level.”

I knew that child had done it to a subsequent level. we could play harder pieces, judging by his technique, nonetheless that was usually half of it. There was something inside of him that we had not nonetheless found in myself.

“Listen,” copyright 2016 by Francesca Varela, used by accede of Homebound Publications, www.homeboundpublications.com.

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