secondpart:

I wanted to order this in the summer, but was in Greece, and then never got around to it when I returned to Montreal. This afternoon I was waiting for Keight in McNally Jackson and my umbrella had just blown out and I was feeling that vague uneasiness you get when you’ve spent more money than you should’ve on American brands you can’t get in Canada, and then I spotted this book and when I realized I could buy it - without shipping! - I plunked down my credit card and felt good about my purchases, including all those stupid heat tech garments from Uniqlo. And then Keight arrived and I had a scone and coffee while the rest of NYC swayed in high winds.

(Source: meaghano)

jeteplumerai asked: Hey, is there any chance that I could get a copy of the book in Australia?

There is indeed! We will just charge you extra for shipping because turns out it costs a lot to ship internationally. WHO KNEW?

However, take heed: your time to order the hardcover, 1st ed. of the book through comingandcrying.com will soon be over.

As of RIGHT NOW, we have exactly 38 books left in our online store.

If you miss out on these, come to our reading at McNally Jackson on December 9th—I am sure airfare from Australia is only slightly more than mailing it internationally—and you can buy one from us right then and there, no waiting, no shipping, and we might even give you a little wink when we hand it over.

C&C BOOK FACTORY
[SIDE A, TRACK 6]

“Sweet Thing,” David Bowie

Ripped straight from Gina de Vries’ story, “Bambino”:

“It was like every line of every song was written especially for me. “Sweet Thing” was an anthem, Bowie’s creepy-sexy snarl in my ear, the perfect music for dating this boy who was glam rock and choir boy, French new wave and faggotry, lisp and snarl, James Dean and Lou Reed, cocksure and shy violet.”

I do not have Facebook (yes I relish announcing this at every oppportunity), so I cannot look at it to see if there is anything awful on it, but I am TRUSTING YOU GUYS THAT IT IS COOL.

This is what the brave facebook emailer person said:

I went to add Coming and Crying to my list of favorite books on Facebook (you know, to make it official). Well, it is true, I love this book, I’ve read it countless times and have told numerous friends they should get it asap (lending it out could lead to problems-it getting lost, cried on, you name it). 
However, when I go to list it, it links to NOTHING! Well, not nothing, mostly just a weird page of people mentioning the words “coming” and “crying.” To solve that, I created a page. But since I had no part in the making of this book, not counting being a backer, I figure I should let you two know about it’s existence, and maybe you guys could edit it, make it big, and post it so fans, such as myself, can add it without getting the weird “COMING” and “CRYING” (unrelated to each other).

The Internet is rife with the weird COMING and CRYING (unrelated to each other), as Melissa, who is the sole proprietor of our Google Alert™ will tell you. SO I SALUTE YOU, BRAVE FACEBOOK PAGE CREATOR, for going where I dare not tread. 
The rest of you, tell me if it is disparaging or offensive.

Also I kind of like the idea of someone returning a copy of the book to a friend all cried and came on. We should have a contest. MOST TEARS WINS.

(this is the contest of my life).

We made a book about sex and our email is full of pictures of adorable puppies cuddling with it. The only explanation for this can be: INTERNET.

My mom finally sent me this picture off of her blackberry.

and now you all know where I got my BITING sense of humor.

C&C BOOK FACTORY
[SIDE A, TRACK 5]

“Ask,” The Smiths

An editors’ pick for the countdown. Always at least try to ask for all the things.

(Or do it in person, at our reading/event/party, which is now up on McNally Jackson’s internet.)

hoitycoity:

Coming & Crying finally came today and took prime placement on the nightstand.

The book on nightstands ACROSS THE WORLD—another fantasy of ours.

(Source: hoitycoity)

Katie West was one of the people we gchatted with late at night when we first talked about our idea for Coming & Crying, well over a year ago now.

If you were a Kickstarter backer who ordered the photos, you have one of hers tucked into the front of the book. If you aren’t, look her up. Spend an hour between 1 and 2 in the morning with her Flickr account. Read her blog and be driven to write yourself, which is the highest compliment and what this is supposed to be all about (this being this book, this internet, this community, this us).

Here is the story she says she couldn’t finish, that I love so much.

therealkatiewest:

Marriage is first about your husband, and then, a very close second, about your mother.  When I started my sleeping with a man who was not my husband, I was thinking very little about the man I married and very much about my mother.

I was thinking about the kind of woman she raised me to be. I was thinking of all the stories she’d told me about being asked to prom by a senior in her freshman year, about dating married men, about driving to Florida with three of her prettiest girlfriends and spending the entire time with all the handsomest, most-tanned, white-smiled, chiseled-chested Floridians they could find. I was thinking of her having an abortion at 18.  I was thinking of her showing up at the wedding of the man she wanted to marry in a white dress.  I thought of her as that woman.  The woman I’d always been for her.  I was thinking of her regrets, her nights silent on the couch with her cats, dancing in our kitchen with more hips than I’ve seen on strippers. I was thinking of the week when she stopped talking to all of us because we teased her one night about her teeth.  I was thinking about her lying in bed for days on end, dreaming, no doubt of being somewhere, someone else.  I thought of her as that woman; the woman I was terrified of being.

I started seeing my husband through the regret of my mother’s heart. I stood in our doorway looking at our bed, saw my mother alone, my father out on the living room couch. I heard my husband talking and remembered the things my mother would say about my father: he lives far away, he has an apartment downtown, we’re getting a divorce-none of which were true. I saw my mother unable to touch my father, but lying her hands and too sweet smiles on men at her work who still had all their hair. I looked at my husband’s head and scrutinized his receding hairline, squinted, tried to picture him 20 years in the future.  I looked at my mother and saw her empty arms, her untouched lips, her soft curves left wanting, her passion stagnate and dull, her sex wholly engulfed in loneliness and I panicked.

And then there he was.  A man with nothing to offer me but sex.  A man with whom I had nothing in common with but sex.  A man who wanted nothing from me but sex, and maybe some lies.  A man who lived out of town, whom I could only see once every three or four months; a man so far it may have been on the other side of the world.  He was everything I didn’t need or want and he was perfect.

“Let’s meet halfway.”

“Between your city and mine.  In a hotel room.”

“A cheap one.  With a tiny bed.”

“With a bed so small, we have to be inside each other at all times.”

“Just to keep from falling off.”

By this time I had stopped touching my husband.  I couldn’t look at him without seeing my mother: alone and unwanted.  I looked in the mirror at myself and concentrated on the length of my neck, the shape of my breasts, the slope of my hips; I would keep this sex wrapped around me so I’d never have to be alone.

And we fucked.  Not right away because neither of us remembered something so important to two people who are only with each other to fuck as condoms, but we did eventually.  And it was passionate because we pretended to be in love, and it was frantic because we weren’t even close and we were both horrible liars.  But our bodies responded so well to the wounds we inflicted to one another’s moral integrity.  We became insatiable sex things; he was the kind of man that, whenever I thought about him, I felt my knees go weak. I’d think of him and my heart would move down between my thighs and I would have to bite my lip to keep from opening them. Imagining him, I’d unintentionally lean back and would want him leaning in on me. We’d be out and about in that in-between city and I’d look at him and all I could think about was being in between his legs, his cock in my mouth, his hands in my hair. Afterward, I would remember him, and my hips involuntarily would start to move, pushing up into the ghost of him.

[The last time we have sex. How afterward, the sunlight comes in the front window and reflects some sort of yellowy orange off the hardwood floor. The significance I give to this light.]

Before I tell my husband I’m leaving him, I say, “Be right back,” and walk outside with my camera.  I balance my camera on the porch railing of our house, set the timer, and walk out in front of the lens.  I stand in the middle of the street and wait to hear the click.  I come back inside and say to the man I married, the man I love more than anyone else, the man who terrifies me and challenges all the expectations I’ve felt put on me by my mother who was once beautiful, who is now surrounded and alone, I say to him, “We have to talk.”  Almost as if he has no idea what I’m about to do, even though he’s known for months.  I look at the light reflecting off the hardwood. I see him cry for the first time. He looks like he’s laughing.

Ah, reading the book on the train—one of our primary why-we-wanted-to-make-a-book fantasies! <3

(Source: therealkatiewest)