Often it's not big things that ease the road to getting somewhere, but the little things. Every day I ask myself- What can I do today to improve my chance of writing success?
What I can do:
I can show up.
I can write —every day. Something.
I can learn more.
I can take a class or workshop.
I can do research.
I can work at being healthy.
I can be grateful.
I can go through my files, revise what I have and submit somewhere.
I can start something new.
Rewrite something old.
I can get support. Even if that means doing a blog. Searching the internet.
I can write. One word, then another.
I can hold on to my dream.
I can use prompts and write.
I can do the Handy method every day if necessary. (more on this in a later blog)
I can read.
I can keep trying.
And never give up.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
Journals
One of the most useful tools for a writer is the journal. I don’t think there is a writing teacher or book that doesn’t suggest using one. Nothing has brought that home more to me than looking back over my old writing journals, datebooks and diaries as I transcribe them into a computer journal.
I started doing this years ago but the program I was using at the time was difficult. I finally gave up. I’ve since bought a new program that is more in keeping with what I had in mind, which was to bring all my various notebooks, diaries, calendars and information together. As I’ve been working on a memoir rereading these entries has been eye-opening, memory triggering and full of regret.
Regret? Yes, how I wished I had kept a better accounting of my life. What I do have is sparse of daily life or emotion—mostly calendars of my appointments (I was grooming dogs in my home at the time), places I had to be, at what time and tons of writing notes. I only had one small notebook of what was going on my life at the time and my feelings about it. One small window into my life as a harried mom with three young kids and tight finances, but what a window.
It brought back that time into sharp focus, gave it back to me. How I regret that I don’t have more. I forgot some of the best of the times, forgot so many of the whys of my decisions. In the forgetting, I’ve devalued much of what I did for my kids, myself, the family, our finances. In the forgetting I’ve done what so many have done before me, I’ve diminished the value of a stay-at-home mom. No, every mom because there is little proof of what she does when what she does is done. (Mothering is so much like shadow writing-the writing work done before the finished product.)
I regret that there aren’t more little vignettes of my life. Yet, the writing notes are so valuable I wouldn’t want to be without them either. (And often there was a choice.) The observations, quick and hurried, though they were (I’m sure because of the three kids and busy schedule) says something about my eye and mind. Shows how hard I struggled to hold on to the writer in me (I lost so much of myself by then. All moms’ do.) It is the foundation of the voice I have now, a reminder of the learning curve I’ve been on. It makes me appreciate my fight to hold on to my writing. It was a fight, a struggle, and many times I wondered if it was worth it, especially given the fact I wasn’t making money or getting published. It is so hard to keep at something without recognition. (Motherhood/writing)
My journals tell me it was worth it. It is still worth it. I don’t know how possible it is to have both kinds of journals or if you can keep one with entries about life story, writer’s observations and notes together that will make sense. I am certain other writers know better than I about that. I’ve never been good at doing two things at a time. (I tend to do one thing at a time, do my best and then move on.) What I do know is that a writer needs somewhere to gather his thoughts, notes, observations and life, if possible. A writer (A mother probably needs one, too)needs a journal.
What kind of journal? Leather-bound, notebook style, loose leaf, small, fancy, ledger type? That’s personal. I have my favorite, but it’s taken me thirty years to find what works best for me. I’ve used every kind out there. I had to learn what I was going to put in the notebooks, where, when I would be making entries, and also how my mind worked best in putting things down on paper. Everyone is different.
Some are neat and organized, some sloppy and not above drawing, scribbling out, putting notes on top of pages, shoving loose pages in where they need to be. (This is my approach and I sometimes fear the way a person writes in their journal reflects their mind) I would be intimidated with too neat, too expensive notebooks. I’d be ashamed of the way I used it, feel my words had to live up to the cover. I wouldn’t think my words worthy until I edited them several times. That would defeat the purpose in my mind. For me, my writing notebooks are my seeds, my footprint, the shadows of what will come. my writing never starts out tidy or perfect. Most often it doesn’t even resemble the end product in the least. For me, that is good.
If you don’t have one, buy a notebook. Find one that strikes something in you and try it. If it doesn’t inspire you, pick another. Enjoy and make every effort to fill it up.
I started doing this years ago but the program I was using at the time was difficult. I finally gave up. I’ve since bought a new program that is more in keeping with what I had in mind, which was to bring all my various notebooks, diaries, calendars and information together. As I’ve been working on a memoir rereading these entries has been eye-opening, memory triggering and full of regret.
Regret? Yes, how I wished I had kept a better accounting of my life. What I do have is sparse of daily life or emotion—mostly calendars of my appointments (I was grooming dogs in my home at the time), places I had to be, at what time and tons of writing notes. I only had one small notebook of what was going on my life at the time and my feelings about it. One small window into my life as a harried mom with three young kids and tight finances, but what a window.
It brought back that time into sharp focus, gave it back to me. How I regret that I don’t have more. I forgot some of the best of the times, forgot so many of the whys of my decisions. In the forgetting, I’ve devalued much of what I did for my kids, myself, the family, our finances. In the forgetting I’ve done what so many have done before me, I’ve diminished the value of a stay-at-home mom. No, every mom because there is little proof of what she does when what she does is done. (Mothering is so much like shadow writing-the writing work done before the finished product.)
I regret that there aren’t more little vignettes of my life. Yet, the writing notes are so valuable I wouldn’t want to be without them either. (And often there was a choice.) The observations, quick and hurried, though they were (I’m sure because of the three kids and busy schedule) says something about my eye and mind. Shows how hard I struggled to hold on to the writer in me (I lost so much of myself by then. All moms’ do.) It is the foundation of the voice I have now, a reminder of the learning curve I’ve been on. It makes me appreciate my fight to hold on to my writing. It was a fight, a struggle, and many times I wondered if it was worth it, especially given the fact I wasn’t making money or getting published. It is so hard to keep at something without recognition. (Motherhood/writing)
My journals tell me it was worth it. It is still worth it. I don’t know how possible it is to have both kinds of journals or if you can keep one with entries about life story, writer’s observations and notes together that will make sense. I am certain other writers know better than I about that. I’ve never been good at doing two things at a time. (I tend to do one thing at a time, do my best and then move on.) What I do know is that a writer needs somewhere to gather his thoughts, notes, observations and life, if possible. A writer (A mother probably needs one, too)needs a journal.
What kind of journal? Leather-bound, notebook style, loose leaf, small, fancy, ledger type? That’s personal. I have my favorite, but it’s taken me thirty years to find what works best for me. I’ve used every kind out there. I had to learn what I was going to put in the notebooks, where, when I would be making entries, and also how my mind worked best in putting things down on paper. Everyone is different.
Some are neat and organized, some sloppy and not above drawing, scribbling out, putting notes on top of pages, shoving loose pages in where they need to be. (This is my approach and I sometimes fear the way a person writes in their journal reflects their mind) I would be intimidated with too neat, too expensive notebooks. I’d be ashamed of the way I used it, feel my words had to live up to the cover. I wouldn’t think my words worthy until I edited them several times. That would defeat the purpose in my mind. For me, my writing notebooks are my seeds, my footprint, the shadows of what will come. my writing never starts out tidy or perfect. Most often it doesn’t even resemble the end product in the least. For me, that is good.
If you don’t have one, buy a notebook. Find one that strikes something in you and try it. If it doesn’t inspire you, pick another. Enjoy and make every effort to fill it up.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Windfalls(3)
Thirty years ago when the apple trees were heavy with not-quite-yet-ripe apples, my father-in-law would let me gather fallen apples from his orchard to make windfall apple juice. Any apples on the tree were off-limits as they were used strictly for winter eating. (Except, the green Yellow Delicious apples I managed to steal when he wasn’t looking.) (Stolen Apple Pie can’t be made any other way.)
At the time my husband and I were struggling just to make ends meet with three little children, a rough economy and my husband’s unsecure job. A stay-at-home mom, I did whatever I could to help out. I sewed, gardened, clipped coupons and of course, canned everything. No one else wanted to bother with the fallen apples. For me, the windfall apple juice was a gift. A mix of several kinds of apples, the juice was sweet, yet tart. And as an added bonus it turned out a crisp champagne-pink color. The rows of glistening jars tucked along the shelves of my fruit room glinted like pink sapphires. Perfect.
Windfalls…
After the wet, sloopy snow yesterday, break-out sunshine today dripped along the canal ridge above my house like overflowing rain gutters. Incessant. A reminder that spring is just around the corner.
Windfalls…
Glancing over my shoulder on my two -mile walk this morning, I caught a pair of red fox shadowing me and my dog, L.E. I kept walking, certain the two would cross the road and make for cover, but as I reached the end of the trail and turned back, they were still following me and only loped away as I started back toward them.
On the road back, a tree, stark branches limned by sun-melt snow fanned the morning glory blue sky, more charcoal sketch than real.
A windfall…
They’re all around us. Often we dismiss them. We don’t value them. We miss them by not paying attention. As writers we cannot afford this. We need to notice every gift, good or bad, big or small.
My challenge is: pay attention. Make a list. Appreciate and describe the windfalls that make you smile, make you frown, fill you with peace, churn your emotions. Write them down in your journal; take notes describing the things you notice. Take into your mind and heart all these gifts. They are the footprint of your work. They are your first draft.
At the time my husband and I were struggling just to make ends meet with three little children, a rough economy and my husband’s unsecure job. A stay-at-home mom, I did whatever I could to help out. I sewed, gardened, clipped coupons and of course, canned everything. No one else wanted to bother with the fallen apples. For me, the windfall apple juice was a gift. A mix of several kinds of apples, the juice was sweet, yet tart. And as an added bonus it turned out a crisp champagne-pink color. The rows of glistening jars tucked along the shelves of my fruit room glinted like pink sapphires. Perfect.
Windfalls…
After the wet, sloopy snow yesterday, break-out sunshine today dripped along the canal ridge above my house like overflowing rain gutters. Incessant. A reminder that spring is just around the corner.
Windfalls…
Glancing over my shoulder on my two -mile walk this morning, I caught a pair of red fox shadowing me and my dog, L.E. I kept walking, certain the two would cross the road and make for cover, but as I reached the end of the trail and turned back, they were still following me and only loped away as I started back toward them.
On the road back, a tree, stark branches limned by sun-melt snow fanned the morning glory blue sky, more charcoal sketch than real.
A windfall…
They’re all around us. Often we dismiss them. We don’t value them. We miss them by not paying attention. As writers we cannot afford this. We need to notice every gift, good or bad, big or small.
My challenge is: pay attention. Make a list. Appreciate and describe the windfalls that make you smile, make you frown, fill you with peace, churn your emotions. Write them down in your journal; take notes describing the things you notice. Take into your mind and heart all these gifts. They are the footprint of your work. They are your first draft.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Reading 2 (Rod McKuen)
I started writing poetry in earnest in junior high. As I became more interested in the romantic poets my father would leave poem books on my bed: Emily Dickinson Love Poems and the Sonnets from the Portuguese are among my most cherished.
Shy, I rarely let anyone read my work, but at sixteen, I let a dear friend read some of my poetry. I waited for his reaction with heart held high and a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. He looked at me for the longest time before finally saying, “TiGi, you have to read this guy, listen to him, too. Rod McKuen and his The Earth, The Sea and The Sky series. You got to. Your writing reminds me of him.”
Well, I found The Sea and Home to the Sea and fell in love with the words, the poetry. It was a love affair that I held onto through the rest of my high school days. And they were angst-filled days-teenage angst of heart-break and growing pains, but worse too. My father died my senior year and for some time I had a real hard time finding my equilibrium. But McKuen’s poetry was always there for me. Whenever I cross paths with my friend I still thank him for Rod McKuen.
Soon after graduation I married. We were so broke even the thought of buying books wasn’t in our budget, Desperate, I cut coupons and use the money for books, especially McKuen’s latest.
It wasn’t long before I found myself in the red clay desert of motherhood, a breathtaking, beautiful, but fragile place, as alien as another planet sometimes. I always tried to find McKuen’s books but it wasn’t easy, then along the way I lost a lot of things. (Like myself.) No, not lost, but forgot things in the detritus of three kids, diapers, car pools, and life.
Every once in a while I would wonder what had happened to McKuen, but with little time and resources I didn’t pursue it until a few years ago. Going through my bookshelves one day I pulled down Listen to the Warm and reread the poetry that had carried me through my teenage and early married years. I fell in love with his poetry all over again. And was reminded of the person I use to be, who I still am. With the new research tool- the internet, I found A Safe Place to Land.
Low and behold, there was McKuen with new poems and old, like an old friend. The rereading of these poems has refreshed me; reminded me of the girl I was, given me back something lost in the absence of reading poetry. It’s opened me to reading new poets and old, steeping a few minutes of every day with the sound, look, music of poetry.
No matter what you’re writing read poetry everyday and see if it doesn’t open you up to new words, new ways of looking at things. See if your writing doesn’t improve. I think it will.
By the way, my three kids did survive the desert, too.
Check out Rod McKuen’s poetry here.
Shy, I rarely let anyone read my work, but at sixteen, I let a dear friend read some of my poetry. I waited for his reaction with heart held high and a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. He looked at me for the longest time before finally saying, “TiGi, you have to read this guy, listen to him, too. Rod McKuen and his The Earth, The Sea and The Sky series. You got to. Your writing reminds me of him.”
Well, I found The Sea and Home to the Sea and fell in love with the words, the poetry. It was a love affair that I held onto through the rest of my high school days. And they were angst-filled days-teenage angst of heart-break and growing pains, but worse too. My father died my senior year and for some time I had a real hard time finding my equilibrium. But McKuen’s poetry was always there for me. Whenever I cross paths with my friend I still thank him for Rod McKuen.
Soon after graduation I married. We were so broke even the thought of buying books wasn’t in our budget, Desperate, I cut coupons and use the money for books, especially McKuen’s latest.
It wasn’t long before I found myself in the red clay desert of motherhood, a breathtaking, beautiful, but fragile place, as alien as another planet sometimes. I always tried to find McKuen’s books but it wasn’t easy, then along the way I lost a lot of things. (Like myself.) No, not lost, but forgot things in the detritus of three kids, diapers, car pools, and life.
Every once in a while I would wonder what had happened to McKuen, but with little time and resources I didn’t pursue it until a few years ago. Going through my bookshelves one day I pulled down Listen to the Warm and reread the poetry that had carried me through my teenage and early married years. I fell in love with his poetry all over again. And was reminded of the person I use to be, who I still am. With the new research tool- the internet, I found A Safe Place to Land.
Low and behold, there was McKuen with new poems and old, like an old friend. The rereading of these poems has refreshed me; reminded me of the girl I was, given me back something lost in the absence of reading poetry. It’s opened me to reading new poets and old, steeping a few minutes of every day with the sound, look, music of poetry.
No matter what you’re writing read poetry everyday and see if it doesn’t open you up to new words, new ways of looking at things. See if your writing doesn’t improve. I think it will.
By the way, my three kids did survive the desert, too.
Check out Rod McKuen’s poetry here.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Reading 1
As I’ve mentioned poetry was a catalyst for my love of words, reading and writing. A palate cleanser, too, if you will. When I first realized that, I was thinking strictly of my writing. I realize now, that it had a lot to do with my reading, too.
My first memories of being read to are tied up with poetry. In fact, poetry was one of the staples my parents read at bedtime. Walt Whitman was a favorite of my father’s. He read him often and dabbled in writing poetry along that vein. But my mother was more diverse, eclectic, even. The voice of poetry for me was my mother’s. Most often she read from our set of Junior Classics; The Young Folks Shelf of Books, Volume Ten, Poems, Guide and Indexes or Heart Throbs. Poems like The Duel, Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, The Shut-eye Train by Eugene Field, The Owl and the Pussy-cat by Edward Lear, Little Orphant Annie by James Whitcomb Riley, The Spider and the Fly by Mary Howitt, and, of course, Poe’s The Raven.
The raven’s voice, forevermore, my mother’s.
Finally, as my kids grew I began to write again. Between short stories, essays and novels I still wrote poetry, but rarely did I read it. There just wasn’t time. I was concentrating on writing romance novels and felt my time better spent reading what I was writing. Time was hard won and rare, but I found a way to finish nine novels, many short stories and essays, even some poetry. I had a few small successes but struggled along as most writers do.
For the last several years I have wanted to take a poetry workshop. Scheduling was the first difficulty I ran into. Then money, but I’d saved up enough for an online workshop when my illness hit. I was disappointed but frankly could think of nothing else but putting my energy into getting better. As I started to recover my desire to write grew but my mind just didn’t follow. Whether it was the medications or the illness, I don’t know but I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t get my thoughts to line up and make sense or from my mind to my fingers. I floundered and worried. I wondered if my writing was something else the illness had taken from me. It wasn’t the time for any kind of writing workshop, much less poetry.
Poetry, for me, took a bit more concentration and thought, but also free, maybe even, wild thinking and I just didn’t have it in me.
As my health improved I began working on a memoir, using my own knocked together ‘workshop’ to do so-still afraid my mind wasn’t working well enough to actually take a class. I picked two books: Writing Out the Storm by Barbara Abercrombie and Writing Life Stories by Bill Roorbach, to use as textbooks and diligently worked through them, page by page. One assignment mentioned in both books was to read a few memoirs.
And I did. It helped immensely as I began my memoir. Reading other memoirs was like a kick start and a carrot. A blind guide, a map for my own terrain.
Now, as I try to renew my poetry writing I decided to use the suggestion for my poetry and revisit reading poems. I still want to do a poetry workshop, but worry about my brain. The fogginess has left. I can concentrate but as I come off prednisone I’m uncertain how it will affect me. So, I’ve cobbled together my own poetry workshop, using two good poetry instruction books: The Mind's Eye by Kevin Clark and The Art and Craft of Poetry by Michael Bugeja. And I’ve started reading poetry again.
What an experience. I’m finding new poets I love and rediscovering old poets: Mary Oliver, James Applewhite, Jewel and of course, Rod McKuen.
More about that on another blog. My assignment to you is to read what you are writing, Then, go beyond that-to reading things that aren't your usual fare. It opens you up, fills your well. Try it.
My first memories of being read to are tied up with poetry. In fact, poetry was one of the staples my parents read at bedtime. Walt Whitman was a favorite of my father’s. He read him often and dabbled in writing poetry along that vein. But my mother was more diverse, eclectic, even. The voice of poetry for me was my mother’s. Most often she read from our set of Junior Classics; The Young Folks Shelf of Books, Volume Ten, Poems, Guide and Indexes or Heart Throbs. Poems like The Duel, Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, The Shut-eye Train by Eugene Field, The Owl and the Pussy-cat by Edward Lear, Little Orphant Annie by James Whitcomb Riley, The Spider and the Fly by Mary Howitt, and, of course, Poe’s The Raven.
The raven’s voice, forevermore, my mother’s.
Finally, as my kids grew I began to write again. Between short stories, essays and novels I still wrote poetry, but rarely did I read it. There just wasn’t time. I was concentrating on writing romance novels and felt my time better spent reading what I was writing. Time was hard won and rare, but I found a way to finish nine novels, many short stories and essays, even some poetry. I had a few small successes but struggled along as most writers do.
For the last several years I have wanted to take a poetry workshop. Scheduling was the first difficulty I ran into. Then money, but I’d saved up enough for an online workshop when my illness hit. I was disappointed but frankly could think of nothing else but putting my energy into getting better. As I started to recover my desire to write grew but my mind just didn’t follow. Whether it was the medications or the illness, I don’t know but I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t get my thoughts to line up and make sense or from my mind to my fingers. I floundered and worried. I wondered if my writing was something else the illness had taken from me. It wasn’t the time for any kind of writing workshop, much less poetry.
Poetry, for me, took a bit more concentration and thought, but also free, maybe even, wild thinking and I just didn’t have it in me.
As my health improved I began working on a memoir, using my own knocked together ‘workshop’ to do so-still afraid my mind wasn’t working well enough to actually take a class. I picked two books: Writing Out the Storm by Barbara Abercrombie and Writing Life Stories by Bill Roorbach, to use as textbooks and diligently worked through them, page by page. One assignment mentioned in both books was to read a few memoirs.
And I did. It helped immensely as I began my memoir. Reading other memoirs was like a kick start and a carrot. A blind guide, a map for my own terrain.
Now, as I try to renew my poetry writing I decided to use the suggestion for my poetry and revisit reading poems. I still want to do a poetry workshop, but worry about my brain. The fogginess has left. I can concentrate but as I come off prednisone I’m uncertain how it will affect me. So, I’ve cobbled together my own poetry workshop, using two good poetry instruction books: The Mind's Eye by Kevin Clark and The Art and Craft of Poetry by Michael Bugeja. And I’ve started reading poetry again.
What an experience. I’m finding new poets I love and rediscovering old poets: Mary Oliver, James Applewhite, Jewel and of course, Rod McKuen.
More about that on another blog. My assignment to you is to read what you are writing, Then, go beyond that-to reading things that aren't your usual fare. It opens you up, fills your well. Try it.
Monday, February 9, 2009
February Godsends:
- Yellowed antique valentines
- The sound of a peacock calling 'help'
- A new houseplant(try a ZZ or an orchid)
- A blue jay scolding from my walnut tree
- Going to the movies on a snowy Sunday
- Haunting an antique shop
- Morning snowstorm and my commute only up three stairs and to the right
- My valentine-still after 38 years
- Envelops full of seeds arriving in the mail
- A red-tailed hawk making lazy 8's in the raw sky
Thursday, February 5, 2009
What I'm Reading/Watching (February)
Gran Torino: When I first saw the trailers for this movie I really had no desire to see it. It looked like just another Clint Eastwood movie. Don’t get me wrong I love Eastwood. I was watching him when he was Rowdy Yeats in Rawhide. I had a small crush on him even then. But I just wasn’t really in the mood for shoot ‘em ups. With all the bad news, bad economy, the big guy taking advantage of the little guy I just wanted to escape. This movie let me and in a way I didn’t foresee. The movie surprised me. Though I saw the direction of the plot early on (I never know if it is because of the classes I’ve taken on plotting, studying plotting or doing my own plotting but I find this true with most movies and books anymore. I know the more I write the more my view of books and movies change) it still had enough twist and turns that I didn’t get impatient or bored.
Marley and Me: I loved the book and the movie did it justice I think. Many laughs, tears, ahs and for a dog owner recognitions. A feel good movie.
My Guy Barbaro by Edgar Prado with John Elsenburg: I’ve wanted to read this since Barbaro was put down. I love horse racing and horses. This is a great story about a great horse and a tragedy, but the heart of both the horse and the jockey is inspiring.
Red Bird, Poems by Mary Oliver: It’s been a while since I’ve read poetry. It’s funny because when I was younger I made it a point to read poetry every day. I’ve been so busy pursuing my writing, squeezing my writing and reading and studying into what little time I’ve had my poetry reading was lost. More comments about this in a later blog, but for now, let me say I’m glad I decided to pick up this book. I’ve heard a little of Mary Oliver, but never read anything of hers before. This was a delight as much for her words and the return to poetry.
The Rustler by Linda Lael Miller: I’ve been reading Miller since she first got published. She stills delivers the same kind of story. I enjoy her writing and especially her dialogue and characters.
Leaning into the Wind, Edited by Linda Hasselstrom, Gaydell Collier and Nancy Curtis: A book of poetry and essays about women living on the American prairie, now and long ago, surprised me. I don’t know if I can put into word the emotions that stirred in me as I read through the chapters. I bought the book many years ago, to read as research because the novels I write are usually western historical and I wanted to hear the voices of the women who lived on the prairie, farmed, struggled.
I never got around to reading this particular book on the subject. I should have. The true stories, old and new, are of strong, courageous women—sheep ranchers, cattle ranchers, farmers, teachers, mothers. I absolutely loved the voice I found. These woman made me proud, made me think if they can do what they did I can certainly do what I need to do.
The women were the main characters but the land, also came through, shining and glorious. I’m so glad I read this finally and at this time. It gave me something I can’t really explain, but I feel more able to handle what comes my way and that ain’t a bad thing ever.
Marley and Me: I loved the book and the movie did it justice I think. Many laughs, tears, ahs and for a dog owner recognitions. A feel good movie.
My Guy Barbaro by Edgar Prado with John Elsenburg: I’ve wanted to read this since Barbaro was put down. I love horse racing and horses. This is a great story about a great horse and a tragedy, but the heart of both the horse and the jockey is inspiring.
Red Bird, Poems by Mary Oliver: It’s been a while since I’ve read poetry. It’s funny because when I was younger I made it a point to read poetry every day. I’ve been so busy pursuing my writing, squeezing my writing and reading and studying into what little time I’ve had my poetry reading was lost. More comments about this in a later blog, but for now, let me say I’m glad I decided to pick up this book. I’ve heard a little of Mary Oliver, but never read anything of hers before. This was a delight as much for her words and the return to poetry.
The Rustler by Linda Lael Miller: I’ve been reading Miller since she first got published. She stills delivers the same kind of story. I enjoy her writing and especially her dialogue and characters.
Leaning into the Wind, Edited by Linda Hasselstrom, Gaydell Collier and Nancy Curtis: A book of poetry and essays about women living on the American prairie, now and long ago, surprised me. I don’t know if I can put into word the emotions that stirred in me as I read through the chapters. I bought the book many years ago, to read as research because the novels I write are usually western historical and I wanted to hear the voices of the women who lived on the prairie, farmed, struggled.
I never got around to reading this particular book on the subject. I should have. The true stories, old and new, are of strong, courageous women—sheep ranchers, cattle ranchers, farmers, teachers, mothers. I absolutely loved the voice I found. These woman made me proud, made me think if they can do what they did I can certainly do what I need to do.
The women were the main characters but the land, also came through, shining and glorious. I’m so glad I read this finally and at this time. It gave me something I can’t really explain, but I feel more able to handle what comes my way and that ain’t a bad thing ever.
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