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. 

Thursday, January 14, 2010


Haiti: suffering that is beyond our comprehension. Another horrific situation that begs the question Why? Why the poorest of the poor, and not someone else (us)?
Unanswerable, of course. All we can do is donate money and pray and hope that the goodness in the world trickles down to those most in need.
A situation like so many others that once again makes us question the value of fiction, of storytelling.
When fiction's cousin, journalism, muscles up to the plate and calls the shots. (Bad mixed metaphor, sorry).
And isn't everything we write triggered by a question? Fiction the determined little critter that tries to burrow through the rubble where nothing is so clear as black and white.
Journalism shows us the bodies, the crumbled shanties. It shows our Governor General (bless her!!!) crying at a press conference. It pulls at our hearts enough to dig out our credit cards and make our pledges. Thank goodness.
But when the missing are given up for lost, journalism pulls out. Wham bam...(you know the rest).
It leaves the relief workers and the survivors themselves to clean up the mess.
And the storytellers picking through the dust, collecting relics, trying to piece together something: the true tale of how it is, how it was, how it will be, to endure the horrific.

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