A lazy wake up, the sun already glittering along the mountain ridges, a long soaking bath. Even the pets, patient. No rush. Nowhere to be at a certain time. Nothing really nagging me to hurry. Get-this-done-so-you-can-do-that. No one needing me to take them somewhere, get something, fix something. No doctor appointments, shopping runs.
No nothing.
So I did something I haven’t done since I got sick. I made sourdough cinnamon rolls. While my two breadmakers were in the knead mode, I did laundry and worked on my taxes. Sounds like work, but it was so nice doing exactly what I wanted; how I wanted without being rushed or pushed to hurry because I had something else pressing. And the simple work was just the thing I needed to let my mind wander.
The yeasty smell of the sourdough that filled my house certainly soothed me. Nothing better. When my kids were small I made bread or cinnamon rolls every week. Tactile, earth mother and basic, I love working with sourdough, making bread.
I sat outside in the sunshine for a while soaking up sunlight, vitamin D and the sounds of the day, too. Bliss. Magpies calling to one another, chick-a-dees questioning, the melting snow slooping noisily onto winter grass.
I had the time.
My mind wandered lazily from scenery and sounds to sourdough to bread to writing to poetry. I mused that sourdough begins like poetry. A cup of milk, a cup of flour covered with cheesecloth, set outside to capture wild yeast on the air. If you’re lucky and everything works out you have yeasty, spongy sourdough to make delicious rolls, bread, pancakes with.
Such are poems. Take a few simple thoughts, an idea or two, then—maybe-scenery, maybe-the sound of water slooping onto winter grass, maybe-one lazy Saturday. If you’re lucky and everything works out, you have a rough draft to make shattering poems out of.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Fog crowds the border of my yard, muffled and soft-edged, isolating me like an island. I don’t mind the isolation, I never have. I have always needed those moments of being alone with my thoughts. The present world gets too much for me, sometimes. Spinning out stories, poems and essays untangles any confusion.
Like running a rope from barn to cabin to keep from getting lost in a blizzard, my writing keeps me from getting lost. It is the way I stay safe within myself. Some Native Americans believe in the seven directions—four compass positions, the heavens above, the earth below. But the seventh direction (and most important) is inward—into the territory of the heart and spirit. I go there in my writing.
As the ocean of mist seeps closer felting the silhouettes of the Japanese Maples, I open my journal.
Finally, the rain changes everything. Its staccato song, liquid and sloppy, the colors drenched, running into one another. Pulling on boots and finding umbrellas, I hurry outside. The clouds hide the mountains. It’s likely snowing up there. Winter has weeks to go I know, but I still hunger for sunlight—or just light.
I hear a well-remembered bird call, feel the lift in my heart. Am I the only one that knows the secret password for spring? My pansies don’t. They bow low to the dark, wet soil, winter-ragged and sad. The weatherman doesn’t. He tells me snow is on the way and winter still has a long way to go.
I believed him until I heard the peacock. I open my journal.
Like running a rope from barn to cabin to keep from getting lost in a blizzard, my writing keeps me from getting lost. It is the way I stay safe within myself. Some Native Americans believe in the seven directions—four compass positions, the heavens above, the earth below. But the seventh direction (and most important) is inward—into the territory of the heart and spirit. I go there in my writing.
As the ocean of mist seeps closer felting the silhouettes of the Japanese Maples, I open my journal.
Finally, the rain changes everything. Its staccato song, liquid and sloppy, the colors drenched, running into one another. Pulling on boots and finding umbrellas, I hurry outside. The clouds hide the mountains. It’s likely snowing up there. Winter has weeks to go I know, but I still hunger for sunlight—or just light.
I hear a well-remembered bird call, feel the lift in my heart. Am I the only one that knows the secret password for spring? My pansies don’t. They bow low to the dark, wet soil, winter-ragged and sad. The weatherman doesn’t. He tells me snow is on the way and winter still has a long way to go.
I believed him until I heard the peacock. I open my journal.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
In Spite Of
Last Friday started out bad, got worse. Woke up late, rushed around trying to catch up. Actually did. Hallelujah, sang my mind, lifting my heart. I’ll get so much writing done today.
With the extra moment I decided to run downstairs to record the description of three afghans I made last month. (I keep track of the afghan’s I crochet and have been since I started the hobby at age twelve) When I stepped off the bottom stair, my foot sank into an inch of water.
What the heck? And damn! Another Plan B moment. I spent the day sucking up water, dealing with plumbers, disaster workers, insurance and a husband, who had worked all night. Truth is the husband did a lot of the work, other than the phone calls. Still, a river ran through our basement. We were lucky nothing important was ruined. Damaged carpet, (shampooed just two weeks ago) ruined footlocker, rugs, ironing board and lost writing time. In the scheme of things, nothing.
Then today, a snafu with my 92 year-old mother's medicine. More interruptions along with the on-going ones to do with the disaster.
Could have been worse. Much. It was the lost writing time that snapped at my neck like an angry goose. I had such high hopes for the week, but there has been one interruption after another. I was determined not to complain or stress. (I’m not supposed to stress. Huh! Life=stress, stress=life)
Things were finally turning around in my writing. Had a short story coming together, a poem haunting me, a few ideas for this blog I wanted to get down and some other ideas growing in my head. I didn't need interruptions, problems or disasters.
Thing is, it is such a relief the ideas are coming. Not muddled or hazy like they had been. They actually stick around long enough for me to write them down and work with them. A very few months ago I worried that I'd lost that.
I feel next to normal now (my kids would say that will never happen), better, optimistic even. (I’m being slowly weaned off the prednisone) Now, all this…
Wait a minute, a little shaky voice my head whispered. The voice grew louder, firmer, more determined. "Sometimes we write in spite of—we must."
And so I will.
With the extra moment I decided to run downstairs to record the description of three afghans I made last month. (I keep track of the afghan’s I crochet and have been since I started the hobby at age twelve) When I stepped off the bottom stair, my foot sank into an inch of water.
What the heck? And damn! Another Plan B moment. I spent the day sucking up water, dealing with plumbers, disaster workers, insurance and a husband, who had worked all night. Truth is the husband did a lot of the work, other than the phone calls. Still, a river ran through our basement. We were lucky nothing important was ruined. Damaged carpet, (shampooed just two weeks ago) ruined footlocker, rugs, ironing board and lost writing time. In the scheme of things, nothing.
Then today, a snafu with my 92 year-old mother's medicine. More interruptions along with the on-going ones to do with the disaster.
Could have been worse. Much. It was the lost writing time that snapped at my neck like an angry goose. I had such high hopes for the week, but there has been one interruption after another. I was determined not to complain or stress. (I’m not supposed to stress. Huh! Life=stress, stress=life)
Things were finally turning around in my writing. Had a short story coming together, a poem haunting me, a few ideas for this blog I wanted to get down and some other ideas growing in my head. I didn't need interruptions, problems or disasters.
Thing is, it is such a relief the ideas are coming. Not muddled or hazy like they had been. They actually stick around long enough for me to write them down and work with them. A very few months ago I worried that I'd lost that.
I feel next to normal now (my kids would say that will never happen), better, optimistic even. (I’m being slowly weaned off the prednisone) Now, all this…
Wait a minute, a little shaky voice my head whispered. The voice grew louder, firmer, more determined. "Sometimes we write in spite of—we must."
And so I will.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Poetry (part 2)
Haiku is the dark chocolate of poetry, in my mind and I treat it much the same. One haiku a day, every day. On rare occasions, I spend a whole day working haiku.
In the beginning, the English haiku was made up of 3 lines containing 17 syllables, 5-7-5 beats per line. That was how I learned to write haiku. Many websites now define haiku as 10-15 syllables in 3 lines, 2-3-2 beats per line. Other guidelines: reference nature, reference season, use strong sensory images, be in the present
Haiku is spare, almost stark. I like that. It’s strong, clean of excess word, thought or emotion. It reminds me of the book, Not Quite What I Was Planning. Six words that boil down your life to the essence. A haiku boils an experience down in much the same way. Gives you that dark, rich hit of chocolate, full of a moment in nature.
Some think the restrictions of haiku strangles inspiration and creativity. I don’t. I like working with the guidelines, trying to find a way for my writing to bloom in the small confines I’ve been given. It is a challenge that stirs my imagination and fires my mind.
For me the very best time to write haiku is when I’m on vacation. We vacation in the Uintas, surrounded by nature. In a way it is simple note-taking: what I see, hear, feel, touch, smell, sense, but because I limit myself to the haiku form I find I’m more concise, stark. In the evenings I rewrite these sparse note-taking haiku to fit more perfectly into haiku form.
When I return home, I have a wonderful detailed description of my vacation, I have drafts of great haiku and more importantly, I have a starting point for longer poems or essays or details for novels or stories. Something about the form has boiled the experience into something dark and rich and addictive.
Give haiku a try. If for nothing more than a change.
Haiku is the dark chocolate of poetry, in my mind and I treat it much the same. One haiku a day, every day. On rare occasions, I spend a whole day working haiku.
In the beginning, the English haiku was made up of 3 lines containing 17 syllables, 5-7-5 beats per line. That was how I learned to write haiku. Many websites now define haiku as 10-15 syllables in 3 lines, 2-3-2 beats per line. Other guidelines: reference nature, reference season, use strong sensory images, be in the present
Haiku is spare, almost stark. I like that. It’s strong, clean of excess word, thought or emotion. It reminds me of the book, Not Quite What I Was Planning. Six words that boil down your life to the essence. A haiku boils an experience down in much the same way. Gives you that dark, rich hit of chocolate, full of a moment in nature.
Some think the restrictions of haiku strangles inspiration and creativity. I don’t. I like working with the guidelines, trying to find a way for my writing to bloom in the small confines I’ve been given. It is a challenge that stirs my imagination and fires my mind.
For me the very best time to write haiku is when I’m on vacation. We vacation in the Uintas, surrounded by nature. In a way it is simple note-taking: what I see, hear, feel, touch, smell, sense, but because I limit myself to the haiku form I find I’m more concise, stark. In the evenings I rewrite these sparse note-taking haiku to fit more perfectly into haiku form.
When I return home, I have a wonderful detailed description of my vacation, I have drafts of great haiku and more importantly, I have a starting point for longer poems or essays or details for novels or stories. Something about the form has boiled the experience into something dark and rich and addictive.
Give haiku a try. If for nothing more than a change.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Poetry (part 1)
Poetry was the beginning, the source of my love of words. Poems from the Junior Classics Poems, Guide and Index, or Heart Throbs. Poems such as Little Orphant Annie by James Whitcomb Riley, The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe (forevermore, I’ll never listen to The Raven and not hear my mother’s voice.), The Duel, Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, and The Sugar-Plum Tree by Eugene Field, There Was a Little Girl by Longfellow, The Spider and The Fly by Mary Howitt and of course, Master Johnnies Next-Door Neighbor by Bret Harte. Oh, and I mustn’t forget Hiawatha by Longfellow. (A banquet of luscious words)
For me, poetry is the watercolor of writing. Pictures made up of vivid metaphors, layered with meaning. Clear, precise. Every word counts. Every word perfect. Nothing wasted. Rhythm, play on words, tangled meaning and personal interpretations.
A poet uses every tool in the writer's box—assonance, consonance, similes, metaphor, hyperbole and uses it skillfully because every nuance is critical.
I think writing poetry is a wonderful practice for any kind of writing. A palate cleanser. A Zen practice. A meditation, if you will.
I return to poetry like a prodigal child. I read it, write it when rejections overwhelm me, when writer’s block threatens to win, when my mind feels like oatmeal. Poetry has saved me. Over and over, it has saved me. Could it save you?
For me, poetry is the watercolor of writing. Pictures made up of vivid metaphors, layered with meaning. Clear, precise. Every word counts. Every word perfect. Nothing wasted. Rhythm, play on words, tangled meaning and personal interpretations.
A poet uses every tool in the writer's box—assonance, consonance, similes, metaphor, hyperbole and uses it skillfully because every nuance is critical.
I think writing poetry is a wonderful practice for any kind of writing. A palate cleanser. A Zen practice. A meditation, if you will.
I return to poetry like a prodigal child. I read it, write it when rejections overwhelm me, when writer’s block threatens to win, when my mind feels like oatmeal. Poetry has saved me. Over and over, it has saved me. Could it save you?
Monday, January 12, 2009
Daily Walk (1)
I have found one of the most important things for me to do for myself and my writing is my daily walk. I’ve been walking two miles a day for over thirty years. Some times more regularly than others, but usually several times a week, at the least. Most often there’s been a canine companion, off and on a human, but the walk has never been about companionship or exercise.
For me, walking has been a form of meditation, a rhythm that sets my mind free. Others may dance or do yoga, I walk. A sort of movement therapy, I guess. I feel my mind and body connect, join and dance as I walk.
When I have a problem with a writing project walking never fails to bring new thoughts and ideas to mind. At the very least the fresh air clears my stagnant mind. There is a peace with being outside and I’m lucky enough to have a quiet, semi-wild place to walk. Blessed to be joined often by deer, fox, badger, hawks, owls, rabbits, quail, pheasant.
Walking invigorates me and chases away fatigue. It fills me up. Clears my mind. I let the sounds and sights and smells gather into all the cracks and crevices that have formed in my often over-stressed mind. Calm washes over me as I follow the well-traveled path. If I tire I whispered a reminder to myself, “Nose over the toes,” and push on.
Of course, with routine and the daily grind there have been times I didn’t want to walk. Times I felt too depleted and I have had to fight my lazy nature. If not for my dog’s pleading brown eyes and the constant nagging voice in my head saying, “Put on the shoes,” there have been times I might have skipped my walk, even knowing I would feel better if I just did it. So, I put on my shoes. Once they're on, there was never any reason not to use them.
Perspective changes things though. For several months this summer I wasn’t able to manage my walk. I missed it so keenly, sometimes at night I dreamed of walking, dreamed of the landscape, the trees, the deer, the wildlife. I ached for the simple pleasure, the physicality, the routine of walking. Like everyone who has gone through a sudden change, I wanted my old life back.
As I got feeling better I started walking again. Short walks at first, further each day. As I struggled I gained a whole new appreciation for the simple act of walking. Gained a whole new appreciation for many things I took for granted.
If you can walk, try it. Walk for five, ten minutes or even a half hour. Let your mind clear, your body swing into its natural rhythm. Let it fill you with a simple pleasure.
For me, walking has been a form of meditation, a rhythm that sets my mind free. Others may dance or do yoga, I walk. A sort of movement therapy, I guess. I feel my mind and body connect, join and dance as I walk.
When I have a problem with a writing project walking never fails to bring new thoughts and ideas to mind. At the very least the fresh air clears my stagnant mind. There is a peace with being outside and I’m lucky enough to have a quiet, semi-wild place to walk. Blessed to be joined often by deer, fox, badger, hawks, owls, rabbits, quail, pheasant.
Walking invigorates me and chases away fatigue. It fills me up. Clears my mind. I let the sounds and sights and smells gather into all the cracks and crevices that have formed in my often over-stressed mind. Calm washes over me as I follow the well-traveled path. If I tire I whispered a reminder to myself, “Nose over the toes,” and push on.
Of course, with routine and the daily grind there have been times I didn’t want to walk. Times I felt too depleted and I have had to fight my lazy nature. If not for my dog’s pleading brown eyes and the constant nagging voice in my head saying, “Put on the shoes,” there have been times I might have skipped my walk, even knowing I would feel better if I just did it. So, I put on my shoes. Once they're on, there was never any reason not to use them.
Perspective changes things though. For several months this summer I wasn’t able to manage my walk. I missed it so keenly, sometimes at night I dreamed of walking, dreamed of the landscape, the trees, the deer, the wildlife. I ached for the simple pleasure, the physicality, the routine of walking. Like everyone who has gone through a sudden change, I wanted my old life back.
As I got feeling better I started walking again. Short walks at first, further each day. As I struggled I gained a whole new appreciation for the simple act of walking. Gained a whole new appreciation for many things I took for granted.
If you can walk, try it. Walk for five, ten minutes or even a half hour. Let your mind clear, your body swing into its natural rhythm. Let it fill you with a simple pleasure.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Life is Plan B
Every time I go to my kidney doctor (for MPGN)I get so depressed. I know he has to remind me that I have this disease. My husband and I look back on how far I’ve come and can’t help but feel everything is going to be the way it was. I suppose there is that touch of denial in the thought too.
Fact of the matter is, this disease isn’t going away. My husband and I get caught up in how good I am doing, how much better I feel and we start thinking it is going away. That I won’t have it anymore, that I’m cured, but that isn’t going to happen. I will deal with this the rest of my life. I will be looking over my shoulder for it for the rest of my life, even if the prednisone works and I get better, stay better.
Yes, there is one small chance it will just go away. That’s the little carrot out there. Sometimes, it does. They never say how often or how likely—maybe there isn’t any data, but it has happened. Why should that be me? The carrot is— why can’t it be me?
But see, I’ve been so blessed. More than I deserve. I know it. Maybe, it’s too much to hope for, more than I deserve. But can’t I still hope, pray, wish—?
In the classic way of coping, I have been in denial, in anger and disbelief. I’ve tried to wish it away. Ranting how unfair, (which I hate because why do we always think things should be fair?) Everyone rants at the unfairness of bad stuff. How fair is it to anyone to go through bad stuff? The economic situation isn’t fair. People’s wages aren’t fair. Nothing is fair far as I can see. It just is.
That is so hard for me to accept. I want to do something. Control something. Make it fair. Have things back to normal. It is so hard for me to realize, what I have today is the new normal and somehow, I have to embrace that.
Not long ago, I cried on my sister shoulder. It helped, especially when she reminded me of something her little sister (me) told her when she was going through her divorce. Take what you are given and make the best of it. Gee, I guess I’m not as shallow as I sometimes think. It was good advice. I’ll try to take it.
I don’t take change well, nor do I take having plans tripped up, but I’m learning that things seldom go as planned. Things change. As I heard the other day—Life is plan B. And is it. If you look back over your life you realize that nothing really goes as planned. Do you have the number of children you planned? The house? The job? The body? The looks? Hell, no. Sometimes, you have better, sometimes worse. Almost always different. And would you really change it?
My sister also reminded me about Duke Wellington. He planned his battles carefully. Planned just how to execute his attacks, mapped out each battle carefully, winding like a rope to victory from start to finish. When asked what he did when things didn’t go according to plan, he said he tied the rope in a knot where it broke and went on. That has helped me. Drew a mental picture I can focus on. See, what I mean? How blessed am I? I have a wise sister who drew a mental picture for me to hold onto like that rope.
So, I've tied a knot. I’ll take this day and embrace it.
Fact of the matter is, this disease isn’t going away. My husband and I get caught up in how good I am doing, how much better I feel and we start thinking it is going away. That I won’t have it anymore, that I’m cured, but that isn’t going to happen. I will deal with this the rest of my life. I will be looking over my shoulder for it for the rest of my life, even if the prednisone works and I get better, stay better.
Yes, there is one small chance it will just go away. That’s the little carrot out there. Sometimes, it does. They never say how often or how likely—maybe there isn’t any data, but it has happened. Why should that be me? The carrot is— why can’t it be me?
But see, I’ve been so blessed. More than I deserve. I know it. Maybe, it’s too much to hope for, more than I deserve. But can’t I still hope, pray, wish—?
In the classic way of coping, I have been in denial, in anger and disbelief. I’ve tried to wish it away. Ranting how unfair, (which I hate because why do we always think things should be fair?) Everyone rants at the unfairness of bad stuff. How fair is it to anyone to go through bad stuff? The economic situation isn’t fair. People’s wages aren’t fair. Nothing is fair far as I can see. It just is.
That is so hard for me to accept. I want to do something. Control something. Make it fair. Have things back to normal. It is so hard for me to realize, what I have today is the new normal and somehow, I have to embrace that.
Not long ago, I cried on my sister shoulder. It helped, especially when she reminded me of something her little sister (me) told her when she was going through her divorce. Take what you are given and make the best of it. Gee, I guess I’m not as shallow as I sometimes think. It was good advice. I’ll try to take it.
I don’t take change well, nor do I take having plans tripped up, but I’m learning that things seldom go as planned. Things change. As I heard the other day—Life is plan B. And is it. If you look back over your life you realize that nothing really goes as planned. Do you have the number of children you planned? The house? The job? The body? The looks? Hell, no. Sometimes, you have better, sometimes worse. Almost always different. And would you really change it?
My sister also reminded me about Duke Wellington. He planned his battles carefully. Planned just how to execute his attacks, mapped out each battle carefully, winding like a rope to victory from start to finish. When asked what he did when things didn’t go according to plan, he said he tied the rope in a knot where it broke and went on. That has helped me. Drew a mental picture I can focus on. See, what I mean? How blessed am I? I have a wise sister who drew a mental picture for me to hold onto like that rope.
So, I've tied a knot. I’ll take this day and embrace it.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Godsends January 2009
- the muffled silence of new snow
- the sound of the neighbor snow-blowing my driveway(what a guy)
- the smelle of bread rising in the bread maker(you got to reward a neighbor like that)
- an afternoon by the fireplace
- restocking my office supplies-all on sale
- nowhere to go on a snowy winter day but my home office
- a cup of Hershey's Kisses cocoa and a chocolate-coated spoon to stir it with
- the scent of summer lavender drifting up from the drawer where I keep my thermals
- A purring kitten snuggled against my chest
- seed catalogs clogging my mailbox. Here are some of my favorites: Cook’s Garden, Territorial Seed Company, Burbee, John Scheepers Kitchen Garden Seeds and Renee's Garden Seeds
Friday, January 2, 2009
What I'm Reading/Watching (Dec 08)
Australia, the Movie: I loved this movie. It had all the elements of stories I love—a woman rising to the occasion after bumping into her upbringing and nature, a sexy man, a sweeping, beautiful, wild landscape and history. I love to see characters faced with a changing world step up and not only surviving but grasp life and live it. It’s been a long time since a movie like this has been made. And the music was wonderful. As sweeping and haunting as the land and the movie.
Twilight by Stephanie Meyer: I decided I needed to read this book. Everyone is talking about it and vampire books seem to be gaining in popularity. I wanted to know what all the hype was about, but I wasn’t sure I could give it a fair chance because (no pun intended) vampires have always left me cold. In my day, Dark Shadows, was all the rage. Everyone I knew couldn’t wait to put their kids down for their naps and watch it. Not me. Never could get into it. Didn’t understand it, but then, everyone has their own Barnaby.
Myself, I’m a Beauty and the Beast kind of gal.
So, the book didn’t grab me, as far as characters. The plot was good, as was the writing. Clearly written for YA audience, I understand why pre-teens and teens would like the book, but it was a bit bland for my taste. My daughter-in-law did tell me she thought the next two books might spark my interest more. I’ll try to read them if I find myself without a book I’m more interested in.
Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure, edited by Rachel Fershleiser and Larry Smith: Loved this. A quick read. Bittersweet, poignant, sad, funny. I think every writer should read this book and try to write a few six word memoirs. About yourself, about the characters in your books, about those you know. It sharpens your thoughts, condenses a life to the most important thing about a person. I think this is a book I will revisit often. Gives a person pause for thought. Never a bad idea.
Telegraph Days by Larry McMurty: I like McMurty and this book proved fun. ‘Nellie’ Courtright, the heroine was quite the character. It wasn’t his best book though but it won a smile from me several times—enough for now.
Seduce Me At Sunrise by Lisa Klepas: I've liked Klepas for years. This book is typical. A good love story with pathos, conflict and great characters. A nice read.
Wesley the Owl by Stacey O’Brien, The Remarkable Love Story About a Girl and Her Owl: There are lessons to be learned from Wesley, but also many to learn from O’Brien. They both show us the Way of the Owl. Some of the science about animals in this book confirms my own sense and is something to think about, ponder and maybe, consider more often than we do.
Twilight by Stephanie Meyer: I decided I needed to read this book. Everyone is talking about it and vampire books seem to be gaining in popularity. I wanted to know what all the hype was about, but I wasn’t sure I could give it a fair chance because (no pun intended) vampires have always left me cold. In my day, Dark Shadows, was all the rage. Everyone I knew couldn’t wait to put their kids down for their naps and watch it. Not me. Never could get into it. Didn’t understand it, but then, everyone has their own Barnaby.
Myself, I’m a Beauty and the Beast kind of gal.
So, the book didn’t grab me, as far as characters. The plot was good, as was the writing. Clearly written for YA audience, I understand why pre-teens and teens would like the book, but it was a bit bland for my taste. My daughter-in-law did tell me she thought the next two books might spark my interest more. I’ll try to read them if I find myself without a book I’m more interested in.
Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure, edited by Rachel Fershleiser and Larry Smith: Loved this. A quick read. Bittersweet, poignant, sad, funny. I think every writer should read this book and try to write a few six word memoirs. About yourself, about the characters in your books, about those you know. It sharpens your thoughts, condenses a life to the most important thing about a person. I think this is a book I will revisit often. Gives a person pause for thought. Never a bad idea.
Telegraph Days by Larry McMurty: I like McMurty and this book proved fun. ‘Nellie’ Courtright, the heroine was quite the character. It wasn’t his best book though but it won a smile from me several times—enough for now.
Seduce Me At Sunrise by Lisa Klepas: I've liked Klepas for years. This book is typical. A good love story with pathos, conflict and great characters. A nice read.
Wesley the Owl by Stacey O’Brien, The Remarkable Love Story About a Girl and Her Owl: There are lessons to be learned from Wesley, but also many to learn from O’Brien. They both show us the Way of the Owl. Some of the science about animals in this book confirms my own sense and is something to think about, ponder and maybe, consider more often than we do.
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