Pam Bachorz
Pam Bachorz grew up in a small town in the Adirondack foothills, where she participated in every possible performance group and assiduously avoided any threat of athletic activity, unless it involved wearing sequined headpieces and treading water. With a little persuasion she will belt out tunes from "The Music Man" and "The Fantasticks", but she knows better than to play cello in public anymore. Pam attended college in Boston and finally decided she was finished after earning four degrees: a BS in Journalism, a BA in Environmental Science, a Masters in Library Science and an MBA. Her mother is not happy that Pam's degrees are stored under her bed.
Pam, who lived in Florida when she wrote CANDOR, currently lives just outside Washington, DC with her husband and their son. When she's not writing, working or parenting, Pam likes to read books not aimed at her age group, go to museums and theater performances, and watch far too much television. She even goes jogging. Reluctantly.
As far as she knows, Pam has never been brainwashed. Or maybe that's just what she's supposed to say.
“We don’t talk; it’s family night, not miracle night.”
“I'm done waiting for someone, even my father, to save me. Today I'm the one who will be doing the saving.”
“Cookie!" The kid holds up a carrot with the feathery green still attached to the top. "Seriously?" The woman gives me a wide-eyed don't say anything look and walks away fast.”
“she drew me. But not who I see in the mirror. Nia saw the Oscar i keep hidden. And she put him on paper. Nobody sees the real me.”
“You have points on the tip of your ears." she tilts her head and stares at me." like a big, tall elf.”
“In a few minutes nobody will know what I did. Everything will be perfect again. Except for my life.[Oscar Banks]”
“¿A quién debería de odiar más? ¿Al que lo pide? ¿O al que se lo da?”
“Es lo que quieres que sea. Esa es la razón por la que me gusta el arte. Nadie se confunde.”
“Yo hago lo que quiero.No. Solo haces lo que cabrea a tus padres. Quizás deberías hacer lo que quieres sin que te importe si a tus padres les guste o no.”
“It’s disgusting. They melted my girl down and poured her into their mold. And this perversion is what she cooled into. I can’t be near her. Can’t see her, smell her, hear her voice chirping like a bird.I tell her the same thing I’ve been whispering every night on the roof. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”
“I run my hands down her bare arms. Shoulders to elbows to wrists. She has goose bumps, even in the muggy Florida night. Maybe that’s because of me.Sometimes I forget she likes me the same way I like her.”
“But I can’t leave, not yet. I’ll stay with her until sunrise. If I brace my feet, I won’t slide. I can rest my cheek on the roof tile and still see her. Pacing. Pulling her hair. “I’ll fix you,” I tell her. “I promise.” Even though I don’t know how.It’s better than good-bye.”