“You have to write the book that wants to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children.” –Madeleine L’Engle I was ten when my librarian grandmother pulled from her suitcase
Today I must retravel
The taut ground of soothsayer Who broods in caverns for a glimpse of light. How have I lost the glinting stone I kept so long in my fist? I have thrown down despair And taken Struggle And now it prowls
Go Where the Longing Is
Perfectionism is a thief of time. I used to be plagued by this wily thief—I’d let it into my mind and give it full access. There it would scold and prod and criticize. And I would go slower and slower
The Violin Diet
With the Full-Bodied Novelist Retreat coming up this weekend, I’ve been playing the violin again. There is a connection, so stay with me here. I usually let months go by without my music. I play only to prepare for performance,
When It’s Hard to Relate
As a writer you know you must allow your characters to live through you as they unfold on the page. But what if the character feels unlike you? A character you can’t relate to is hard to, well, relate. But
Wordless Times
I lost my father in July. Then in August, my husband underwent a high-risk surgery. And then last week, I had surgery to determine whether I have cancer. (It looks like I do not.) Now everything that has always felt
Writing the Hidden Story
I love those “aha!” moments when a character sneaks up on me–and I suddenly realize I’m not writing the book I thought I was writing. It might mean big changes, but it invariably makes a deeper and more authentic story
Game of Poems
Dancing on the Razor’s Edge You speak in riddles because You ache to speak. You ache for space To expand and contract. You cast your words into the chasm, To be caught by one Whose breathing holds your breath.
Can We Talk?
I have not shared any of my work-in-progress here because it has felt too close to the bone. It’s a YA. It’s about art. And it’s about time-travel. It’s about a girl who feels responsible for keeping someone else alive,
I Held Poems
Those most beautiful I couldn’t read for a crowd. When Sexton, blind with love, Saw her daughter’s life stretch out, When Thomas sang in his chains like the sea, And refused to mourn– Once I was in that cold