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The Magic of Found Objects: A Novel by [Maddie Dawson]
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The Magic of Found Objects: A Novel Kindle Edition

4.4 out of 5 stars 544 ratings

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From the Publisher

Ever wonder what it would be like to marry your best childhood friend? For me, it would surely be a disaster. (Sorry, Stephanie P.) But for Phronsie Linnelle, it may be exactly what she needs to move past her stalled love life and get started on making a family. So when Judd Kovac, her best friend since kindergarten, suggests they get married, she says yes. Because...why not? She’s still waiting for true love. So is he. They’re fully aware of each other’s annoying habits and they still like each other. And everyone knows that passion eventually fizzles. Plus, because they’re such good friends, they’ll never get jealous, never run out of things to talk about, and best of all, they’ll make excellent parents.

But as the wedding planning gets underway, Phronsie’s heart keeps tugging at her sleeve, softly whispering something she can’t quite make out. And to further complicate things, she’s getting conflicting advice from friends, family, and even the occasional stranger.

Phronsie’s in a predicament, to say the least, as author Maddie Dawson delightfully flips the script on the old saying The heart says yes but the head says no. Ultimately, it’s up to Phronsie to decide whether to listen to her heart or her head—and figure out whether there’s a difference between loving and being in love.

- Jodi Warshaw, Editor

About the Author

Maddie Dawson grew up in the South, born into a family of outrageous storytellers. Her various careers as a substitute English teacher, department-store clerk, medical-records typist, waitress, cat sitter, wedding-invitation-company receptionist, nanny, day care worker, electrocardiogram technician, and Taco Bell taco maker were made bearable by thinking up stories as she worked. Today Maddie lives in Guilford, Connecticut, with her husband. She’s the bestselling author of seven previous novels: A Happy Catastrophe, Matchmaking for Beginners, The Survivor’s Guide to Family Happiness, The Opposite of Maybe, The Stuff That Never Happened, Kissing Games of the World, and A Piece of Normal. For more information visit www.maddiedawson.com.

Product details

  • ASIN ‏ : ‎ B08M6791DZ
  • Publisher ‏ : ‎ Lake Union Publishing (1 August 2021)
  • Language ‏ : ‎ English
  • File size ‏ : ‎ 5014 KB
  • Text-to-Speech ‏ : ‎ Enabled
  • Screen Reader ‏ : ‎ Supported
  • Enhanced typesetting ‏ : ‎ Enabled
  • X-Ray ‏ : ‎ Enabled
  • Word Wise ‏ : ‎ Enabled
  • Print length ‏ : ‎ 362 pages
  • Customer Reviews:
    4.4 out of 5 stars 544 ratings

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I grew up in the South, born into a family of outrageous storytellers—the kind of storytellers who would sit on the dock by the lake in the evening and claim that everything they say is THE absolute truth, like, stack-of-Bibles true. The more outlandish the story, the more it likely it was to be true. Or so they said.

You want examples? There was the story of my great great aunt who shot her husband dead, thinking he was a burglar; the alligator that almost ate Uncle Jake while he was waterskiing; the gay cousin who took his aunt to the prom, disguised in a bouffant French wig. (The aunt, not the cousin.) And then there was my mama, a blond-haired siren who, when I was seven, drove a married man so insane that he actually stole an Air Force plane one day and buzzed our house. (I think there might have been a court-martial ending to that story.)

And in between all these stories of crazy, over-the-top events, there was the hum of just daily, routine crazy: shotgun weddings, drunken funerals, stories of people’s affairs and love lives, their job losses, the things that made them laugh, the way they’d drink Jack Daniels and get drunk and foretell the future. There were ghosts and miracles and dead people coming back to life. You know, everyday stuff.

How could I turn into anything else but a writer? My various careers as a substitute English teacher, department store clerk, medical records typist, waitress, cat-sitter, wedding invitation company receptionist, nanny, daycare worker, electrocardiogram technician, and Taco Bell taco-maker were only bearable if I could think up stories as I worked. In fact, the best job I ever had was a part-time gig typing up case notes for a psychiatrist. Everything the man dictated bloomed as a possible novel in my head.

Still, I was born with an appreciation for food and shelter, and it didn’t take me long to realize that coupling a minor in journalism to my English degree might be a wise move, even though I had never for one moment felt that passion for news that my newspaper colleagues claimed beat in their breasts. I am famous for raising my hand in Journalism 101 and saying, incredulously, to the professor, “You don’t mean to tell me that every single detail in the story has to be true? Every one? Really?”

Learning to write only truth was a tough discipline, and as soon as I could, I left the world of house fires and political scandals and planning and zoning commission meetings and escaped into a world of column-writing, and then, magazine writing. (Way, way better to be assigned to think of 99 ways of getting him to declare his love, than to have to write about the bond proposal for the sewer lines.) But all along the way, in between deadlines and raising three children and driving them to their sports games and tucking them in at night and doing the laundry and telling them stories, I was really writing a novel about marriage and relationships and the way regret has of just showing up alongside your life, just when you think things are as rosy as they could be.

Today I live in Connecticut, and spend part of every day on my screened-in back porch with my trusty laptop, writing and writing and writing, looking out at the willow tree and the rosebush and the rhododendron that has a nice nest of cardinals, who I imagine to be yelling at me to get back to work whenever I wait too long to write the next sentence.

The lakehouse is gone now, and many of my more outrageous story-telling relatives are telling stories to the angels now. But even though I’m far from home, and far from the stories that nourished me in the beginning, I can still hear their voices on the breeze, still recall the buzz of the Air Force jet that had come to take my mother away until my father stepped in and said: “No. No. She’s mine.”

Wait. Is that what he said? Or was he not home that day? You know, now that I think of it, it might have been just my mother and me at home just then, running outside in our excitement, my mother’s cheeks burning red, her eyes frightened and dancing, as the wings dipped and did a little salute to her and to love and to unrequited passion…and probably to hope that she would leave my father and run away. I do remember being scared and exhilarated both, seeing that my mother had this power and this whole other life besides the one I spent with her.

And I remember the wide Florida sky and the heavy, humid air and the loudness drowning out everything but the thought that we never ever know what’s going to happen. And knowing, even at seven, that that was probably a good thing.

Keeps it interesting, you know.

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Claire
5.0 out of 5 stars A nice bit of escapism
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4.0 out of 5 stars *Whimsical Love *
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4.0 out of 5 stars Nicely written
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5.0 out of 5 stars What a ride!
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