Janet
Garber
NY Writer
"This short novel has a promising premise with its flawed, endearing, and comical protagonist and her zany work environment." Publishers Weekly
"Janet Garber utilizes her keen sense of the HR world to create a funny glimpse into what might happen in a company run amok. Her writing style is a joy." Tony Lee, VP Editorial, SHRM
In 1990 I picked up Women's News in Mamaroneck where I had just moved and said, "I can do this!" A year later I was published in time for Mother's Day. From there I freelanced for Jewish Week, WSJ,New York Post, NYT and an assortment of trade journals while building a career in Human Resources and raising my son, Elie Alexandre.
In 2001, my book, I Need a Job, Now What? was published by Silver Lining Books and later re-released in 2003 as Getting a Job by Barnes & Noble Basics.
I started writing a comic novella, Dream Job, as a way to have something to do. Soon after I resurrected several short stories I had written in France. A few online writing courses, and writing groups later, I'm proud to say I've had a few dozen stories and poems published by literary journals and anthologies, essays appearing in Working Mother and the New York Times, WSJ, plus ten years of book reviews published online, most notably in New World Review.
ALL CAPS TITLE
A Favorite Poem
To his Coy Mistress
by Andrew Marvell
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
