“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 a book called A Wrinkle in Time.
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?
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
You speak in riddles because
You ache to speak.
You ache for space
To expand and contract.
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.
Those most beautiful
I couldn’t read for a crowd.
When Sexton, blind with love,
Saw her daughter’s life stretch out,
