My grandmother is long gone. My mother is now too. My dad remains – and I know I shall miss him terribly whenever he too is gone.
It was a pleasant week in upstate New York’s Catskill Mountains, just outside of Windham. We did some necessary work inside of the house. We are returning to England on Saturday, so we are now with my father, visiting him at his house in northeast Pennsylvania.
I figured it was a good time for another blog post.
When we write, we have to employ everything at our disposal. Whether one writes a comic book, or a novel, a writer must be fearless. As a consequence, we may well be uncomfortable at times with what we create…
I’ve set my phone alarm for just before 11am on Sunday. We should just take that moment at least and remember.
I write this post to vent about this because recently I have been getting *extremely* negative feedback from a family member about my author Instagram page…
Authors of serious fiction can’t just roll them out to order for the holiday season. I’m not Sears… oh, wait, that may not have been the best comparison.
I had thought I was writing with them still to be around for years to come. Abruptly we had the rug pulled out from under all of us. Suddenly those novels had become, in a way, in my mind, literary tributes.
Writing is an often isolating endeavor, so opening a day, I have learned over the years, with a post on some issue that grabbed my attention, helps me clear my head and get going.
What nationality would you be if you could not be what you are? Do you ever *think* you’d like to be someone else, and from somewhere else?
I have lived here in England for nearly two decades. There are still times I don’t understand a “Britishism” tossed at me in conversation. Or my English Mrs. will warn me if I have just said something not normally heard here: “You’re speaking American.”
Who says “romantic” historical novels can’t teach us something?
If you fear what you create for the public will be critiqued, I suggest it would be best if you did not create anything for the public.
Macmillan grumbled that life had lost a huge joy if one is unable to read. Whenever I have those moments, I understand that feeling. It’s truly awful – an isolating and even lonely feeling – being unable to enjoy a book.
Fear not, we can at least still fire off an enraged tweet or concoct a cutting Instagram meme: that’ll make the bastard tremble at his keyboard, no doubt.
If I think back here to where I was at age 20 (then, I was living in Fairbanks, Alaska), and then at 30 (I was in Paris), and then at 40 (I was married by then and here in London), and, uh, well, you get the idea…