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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. 

Monday, January 25, 2010

Rain rain go away

Drizzle. A bag-full of essays to mark. The flipside of the writing life, the activities we do to fund our writing habit.
But sometimes teaching makes a good buffer between the writer and the neuroses of writing. The trouble is, like writing and mothering, it can be an endlessly thirsty sponge. The only limits on your efforts are those you place yourself.
Is it harder for women teachers and writers who let their motherly urge to give and give some more dominate?
The hardest thing is being unable to see the fruits of our labours. At least not any time soon.
The long haul, the hanging-in. Persevering.
Being able to look at drizzle the Maritime way: Hey, at least it's not snow.
And the essays are short.
And while I'm digging myself out of the marking pit, a brilliant idea will rise out of the murk. Turn drizzle to dew.
At least, let's hope.

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