Writing is a solitary pursuit--the imagination guiding the hand moving the pen. I'm pretty old-school, valuing the work of good editors and the revisions process before letting my words go public. But life is short, right? And sometimes, just sometimes, we need to spout off.

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A writer, mother, teacher, friend, I love books, blizzards and beaches, music from Hildegard von Bingen to the Beatles to Bonnie Raitt to The Brood; I love medieval churches, red wine, creme caramel, and roasted beets, and walking the woods and coastlines of home. 

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Hope springs eternal

Today, in the midst of marking, a break to take in an uncanny blast of spring. A tease, but still. Sunshine, melting snow. A reminder, nevertheless, that things thaw, move, flow. Even when the world appears frozen. The flat-earth of mid-winter. But the memory of warmth, of buds popping; a tiny flame of expectation, optimism.
The example, the inspiration, passed on to me yesterday, that Paul Quarrington wrote right up until his death, finished his memoirs just in time. Such fierce devotion to the craft, to the purpose behind it. A humbling in the midst of my grumbling. To die with a pencil or a brush or a lump of clay or a weaver's shuttle in hand--to die as you live, my brilliant friends, exercising the hope that comes of having a gift.

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