| THE EPISTOLARIAN |

Long before I was born, my father would take my sister to the zoo to visit the flamingos.

"Mingos!" she would shout, pulling my father's hand toward the brilliant pink flock.

By the time I arrived, her affection for mingos had already become a family tradition. Naturally, it became mine too.

Over the years, my sister and I invented a long-suffering character named Mingo, an unfortunate flamingo whose life is a comedy of errors. For nearly thirty years, every birthday or holiday card has featured another limerick or absurd little poem recounting his latest catastrophe. Poor Mingo is forever slipping, stumbling, getting his head stuck up his butt, or finding himself in some other impossible predicament. Somehow, despite every indignity, Mingo always remains cheerful and ready for the next misadventure.

In America, flamingos have had an unusual cultural life. Plastic lawn flamingos transformed them into symbols of camp and cheerful kitsch, and I admit I have a soft spot for that slice of Americana. I love that someone once looked at such an improbable bird and decided every front yard deserved one. Imagine how many mingos a mailman might see on his route.

But the real flamingos have surprised me even more.

At first glance, flamingos seem flamboyant. Their brilliant pink plumage appears designed to draw every eye. Yet when you watch them in the wild, they are part of a totally different story. Unlike a peacock, whose beauty sets it apart, a flamingo’s beauty belongs to the flock. Hundreds of birds standing together become a single living wash of coral or rose.

The most striking courtship displays happen among the Chilean flamingos in the Atacama Desert. In large groups, they march in synchronized procession, turning their heads in unison and opening their wings in flashes of crimson and black. (I highly recommend watching them if you haven't seen them before).

Flamingos are not born pink. Their feathers gradually blush with color through the carotenoid pigments found in the algae and tiny crustaceans they eat. They become beautiful through what they consume. People are no different. Our minds eventually wear the colors of whatever we feed them.

Flamingos resist a single, tidy symbolism, but I think of them as little pink permission slips of joyful theatricality.

Flamingos remind us that there is no virtue in dimming ourselves. Beauty and joy should be neither discreet nor unseen. Whether standing alone or dancing together, flamingos demonstrate that life is far too extraordinary to be lived in muted colors.

Preorder The Handwritten Life

The Handwritten Life is now available for preorder. Thank you to everyone who has already reserved a copy. Your encouragement has carried me through this long process, and I can't wait to finally share it with you!

Currently, I'm deep in edits and formatting, and I'm starting to plan some fun launch parties and readings for this October and November. Would you like a reading in your city? If so, please let me know where you think would be a wonderful place for me to unveil this beauty.

With love,

Kathryn