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. 

Friday, July 30, 2010

Dossiers etcetera etcetera

Every so often you have to stop everything and re-enter the real world. Case in point: have just spent most of the week putting together a teaching dossier for my employer. Like doing a grant proposal but with no $ in the offing. A good exercise in nailing down what the heck it is you do--as writing anything is generally a good way of reflecting back and making it all more concrete. But oh, how poisonous such methodical critical writing can be to invention and play. The brain cells rebel against this so much more readily these days, at this age/stage in life. Used to be I could turn on/turn off right brain/left brain on a dime. Not so much anymore. But, as with any onerous task, relief floods in when it's completed.
On a cheerier note the hummingbirds continue to make our backyard home. The other day I saw what must have been a baby no bigger than a queen bee, about the size of half my thumb, humming around the heliotrope. Truly the most amazing critter I think I've ever seen. Wings beating so fast the little thing got worn out and had to rest on the clothesline.
Small but mighty, almost invisible but there.
The creative spirit trying once again to anchor itself, those little talons hanging on to reality for dear life. Tick tick tick: how many days before September? Not enough. The rough first draft notes for a novel weighing on me. But, thank God they're there: a sketchy road map is better than none at all.

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