Viewing: writing

Aug 9

August 9, 2015

Writing as Though I Had Wings

I’ve come to that cross-road in a writer’s life where she has to choose between writing what she wants and writing what earns her bread. It might even be one of those modern five-way stoplights where several roads merge and one must decide whether to turn gently to the right, to join the path ahead, or — most alarming of all — veer to the left and go against the traffic, hoping for a break in the rush to slip…

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Aug 3

August 3, 2015

Virgin No More (Book Review, Part 2)

I just finished reading Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird for the first time. I read Go Set a Watchman when it first came out last month, and read it before reading the beloved old favorite. And despite all the drama, histrionics and harrumphing by TKAM’s defenders of the holy tract and the way things have always been, I must say, I don’t see the issue. Atticus Finch is a racist. How is that shocking? Small-town Alabama, in the Great…

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Jul 20

July 20, 2015

The Cause of Conscience: Go Set a Watchman (Book Review, Part 1)

(WARNING: Spoilers) I have never read To Kill a Mockingbird. This is cause for alarm among you many literate people, but you needn’t think me unlettered. In high school I read Poe, Shakespeare, JD Salinger and Carson McCullers; lots of plays, many short stories, and certainly some fat summer beach reads, too (The Thorn Birds, Jaws, Roots, Shogun and Hotel, to name a few). In college I majored in journalism and had no cause for deep American reading, and no…

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Jul 12

July 12, 2015

Don’t think it strange —

I’ve been on the hunt for a fountain pen. I had one around here somewhere, I swear, but of course it’s gone, like the rest of my mind when I want to find something. I am the proud owner of not just one, but two feather quills with filigree silver points, but I don’t exactly want that kind of ink experience. Somewhere, back in the beyond, I once owned a Montblanc pen, not top of the line, but a fine…

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Jul 6

July 6, 2015

Do Not Disturb: Am Writing.

Don’t try and stop me. I have writing to do. I’m writing while I fold laundry and wash dishes. I’m writing while I sit by my husband’s bed awaiting his back surgery. I’m writing while I drive home late at night. I’m writing when I get up at 3 a.m. to let the cat in. Or out. I’m writing when it looks like I’m reading. Or spacing out. Or chopping vegetables. Because, for me, writing doesn’t look like writing until the…

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