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.

About me...

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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. 

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Writing the bones

Forget les bons mots--for now. It's about letting your characters shout/yell/rant/rave/deflect and act out. The beautiful prose comes later. The trick is being patient, for now, with their clumsy calisthenics, their flat-earth chit-chat, as they wallow around presenting themselves. Reminding oneself, always, that layers come later. Poetry, meaning. A reflection of art as life--all of it wrapped up in the bodily, the "actual"--which translates, transmits its own significance, manifests the realer than real. Like a seed allowed to grow.

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