Biking still evokes this lingering suspicion that I’m really a kid pretending to be an adult. Maybe it’s because I look so goofy. Maybe it’s because I’m having more fun than those gas-pedal-pushing professionals. Or maybe I’m back in that childish—or is it faithful?—place of participating fully in this glorious turning world.
Here’s the scene that comes to me: Hannah, fairly new in her midwifery apprenticeship, making a mess of her first attempt to draw blood. She’s hesitant to poke the needle deep enough to catch a vein, so blood spurts everywhere and the man who has offered his arm is hurt, albeit not much. Hannah develops a full-fledged terror of drawing blood. She’s sure that by inserting herself into others’ lives, she’ll hurt them.
In case you’re wondering, I’m writing this (at least the first draft) by hand, in a spiral notebook with a fountain pen. My laptop makes a great lap desk. I like the new paper against the back of my hand and the ink easing from my pen tip. Writing can be a calming, sensory delight.
Going Virtual, Staying Real Read More »
What gives YOU the authority to write? Not a nice question, but it’s certainly one writers ask ourselves. I’m asking it afresh as Hannah, Delivered heads to the book stores next month. Was I deluded to think this novel belongs in the world? Surely I’ll be found out to be a fraud! I’ve yet to
Author / Authority Read More »
Annie, my neighbor one block over, bends down to the curved rut running the length of the alley and scrapes a penny out of the sand. She brushes its scratched surface against her blue-jeans, then presses it into my palm. “You’re the lucky one today,” she says. I slip the rough penny into my pants’
I’m in the marketing trenches now, preparing to launch Hannah, which means, strangely, that I’m reading books like Seth Godin’s All Marketers are Liars and I now actually know what The Long Tail is. The majority of writers reading this will probably think, “Marketing?! I’m not there yet. I’m still in the private stages of
The Story about the Story Revisited Read More »
“I believe in fairies,” Gwyn tells me. “Me, too,” I respond. In our house we tell stories incessantly, and they’re all true. They began with Special Baby, Gwyn’s imaginary friend when she was two years old. Special Baby could do everything Gwyn couldn’t, like go to the library when it was closed and eat extra
Here is one of the secret ironies of being a published author: As you move toward launching a book, your writing life is decimated. Those quiet, searching hours of half-starts and rambling experiments, those blessed days of research and play and discovery, those driving weeks of inspiration—as well as months of paralyzing self-doubt that this
A Writer’s Polar Vortex Read More »
I regularly dream about the church where I grew up: A soaring Protestant-plain structure built in the early 1800’s with a handful of parishioners clustered in the first few pews. I doubt more than twenty people have attended a Sunday service in the last three decades. The congregation was vibrant when I was eight but
Church: The Third Parent Read More »
This Christmas my mother gave me a fantastic, hilarious collection of poems called God Got a Dog. In one, God goes to beauty school, falls in love with nails, and opens a manicure parlor. The poems are deceptively simple. Theologically, they’re out in left field, playing with our notions of holiness and embodiment and images
Pigeon Holes: How Labels Hurt Writers and Writing Read More »