The Brightness Stays
I have made a pumpkin muffin with chocolate chips and a sweet cream-cheese middle. I have named it October's Last Kiss. November will have to manage.
Every episode has a film: the words read aloud over the house's own pictures and weather. Played here, in the house.
I have made a pumpkin muffin with chocolate chips and a sweet cream-cheese middle. I have named it October's Last Kiss. November will have to manage.
Pull up a chair. Take the one by the window. The first snow in Frisco can't decide whether it's staying, and three things are waiting for you in this room: a table somebody else set, a little blue bowl that is going to s…
STILL HERE No. 3 of 5 KEEPING SEPTEMBER COMPANY The aspens are louder than they look.
STILL HERE No. 2 of 5 THE FIRE DIDN'T NEED HIM A fire caught on the second match, scones folded twice and not four times, a forgotten order of eggs, and the old voice that says leave.
Several doors are opening, and I want company. While the apples bake, I talk about the light that stayed through a dimmer season, the pleasure of having good news to share, and the kind of loyalty I want to carry into wh…
A Monday morning at the desk: a rather unpopular opinion about Mondays, a new book beside the lamp, and a first long look east. On the pouring, the love that happens before anyone arrives.
This episode is also a film, with the words on the screen as they are spoken. Watch it with the sound on: averylanemaxwell.com/podcast A lamp in a kitchen window. A porch light over a step.
STILL HERE No. 1 of 5 A USED SUNDAY Sunday night, and the house has given everything it had.
This episode is also a film. Watch it with the sound on: averylanemaxwell.com/podcast Get comfortable first.
The Sunday Room is a film. Watch it with the sound on: averylanemaxwell.com/podcast THE SUNDAY ROOM No. 2 LET THE BEAUTIFUL THING STAY ITS ACTUAL SIZE A baby pumpkin on the desk.
The first episode of The Keeper, the television expression of this house: a half hour, cut for broadcast from the prelude and The Sunday Room, with titles.
Fall has never felt new to Avery. It arrives every year dressed differently, and he recognizes it before he understands why: a certain yellow, the brown underneath it, light going flatter in the afternoon.
The first Sunday Room. Tuesday carries the finished essay; Sunday carries the life around it.
A prelude. Not the leaving; the thing before it. Avery started on the footbridge, turned left toward the post office, and for six minutes rode through a town that has held a very large version of his life.
Avery went down to the water for a few minutes with his phone, not because he had something to say.
Thursday began with the Pegasus bus leaving Frisco without Avery, twice. It ended beside water in the Denver Botanic Gardens, not reaching for a notebook.
A Galena House Audio story, written with intention. There was once a pumpkin that grew beside a little house at the bottom of a hill.
A dear friend called today after almost two years, and within thirty seconds it was yesterday. The same morning, a man Avery barely knew came looking for him with a piece of flounder.
There is pumpkin bread cooling when this one starts, and a letter on the desk. My first from a listener. I do not read it aloud; it belongs first to the person who sent it.
I am browning butter when this one starts, which turns out to be the whole point. The same smell has been in a kitchen in Georgia, a rental in Montana, a town in Colorado where the road stops, and now here, at nine thous…
A podcast made at nine thousand feet in Frisco, Colorado, in the hour before anyone is awake. I am Avery Lane Maxwell. I write books, and I have spent nine years keeping houses for strangers.
A Sunday Special, because some essays do not wait for Tuesday. This year has been hard. It has also been extraordinary. I have stopped asking those two things to cancel each other out.
Episode Three. The one that goes back for my grandmother. I meant to tell you about my grandmother and her scones.
A place you thought would fix you, and what happened when it didn’t. This week: the answer I dodged last week.
Before this room, there were twenty-three others. Episode one: a decade in motion, the places we mistake for salvation, and the truth about the name on the books, a name still being become.
Hello. I am Avery Lane Maxwell. I write books at nine thousand feet, in a small town in Colorado, mostly before the sun is up.