Here is an old, flattering
(if a bit jaundiced) photo
of her. Very old. Very
flattering. Cheap film. Yes, film.
Don't you hate when authors write about themselves in 3rd person? Lindy does, too. But it makes it easier to bamboozle, hoodwink, deceive, obfuscate, and otherwise really milk that thesaurus for all its juicy, redundant goodness. So here's "her" bio for you, in fact-checked form:
"Harvest Moon Dance"
copyright 2005 Lindy Moone
all rights reserved
Trivia about Lindy:
Lindy Moone (improper noun):
1. the perfect moon to dance the Lindy under.
2. an author who makes up words and idio(pa)t(h)ic idioms and thinks she’s a good dancer but really she’s rubbish.
The wildly enigmatic (mostly false) Lindy Moone comes from a short line of mental health professionals (true), and now lives far, far away from them: someplace warm and sometimes rainy, near the sea, where she can play with her pencils as much as she likes (true).
She trained as an artist (true) but always wanted to write (painfully true) stories -- and always did, mostly in secret (mostly true). She is stunningly beautiful (sadly, false), twenty-two years old (Pants on Fire!), and is married to "The Great Fisherman Boo" (true).
Lindy loves dogs, cats, and thunderstorms, but not at the same time. Some of her favorite books are "Catch-22," The "Gormenghast" series by Mervyn Peake, "Alice in Wonderland" and "The Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy" (true). So that explains her writing (mostly true) nonsense.
Oh, and she has such a crush on Neil Gaiman.
This new pic was being held hostage until more folks bought Hyperlink.
(Botox doesn't come cheap, you know. Neither does tequila.)
Lindy grew up in a tiny village in New York State's St. Lawrence County, where dogs and children ran free. She's lived in Florida, Washington State and California, and now lives in a (not-so-tiny) village in Turkey, where dogs, children and chickens run free.
Oh, my, are you still here? Then here's your present:
by Fannie Stearns Davis
I will go up the mountain after the Moon:
She is caught in dead fir-tree.
Like a great pale apple of silver and pearl,
Like a great pale apple is she.
I will leap and will catch her with quick cold hands
And carry her home in my sack.
I will set her down safe on the oaken bench
That stands at the chimney-back.
And then I will sit by the fire all night,
And sit by the fire all day.
I will gnaw at the Moon to my heart's delight
Till I gnaw her slowly away.
And while I grow mad with the Moon's cold taste
The World will beat at my door,
Crying "Come out!" and crying "Make haste,
And give us the Moon once more!"
But I shall not answer them ever at all.
I shall laugh, as I count and hide
The great black beautiful Seeds of the Moon
In a flower-pot deep and wide.
Then I shall lie down and go fast asleep,
Drunken with flame and aswoon.
But the seeds will sprout and the seeds will leap,
The subtle swift seeds of the Moon.
And some day, all of the World that cries
And beats at my door shall see
A thousand moon-leaves spring from my thatch
On a wonderful white Moon-tree!
Then each shall have Moons to his heart's desire:
Apples of silver and pearl;
Apples of orange and copper fire
Setting his five wits aswirl!
And then they will thank me, who mock me now,
"Wanting the Moon is he,"--
Oh, I'm off the mountain after the Moon,
Ere she falls from the dead fir-tree!