Down the Long Lane Helping Women Write
publishing, social media, craft, building a writing community
Three weeks ago, just as all this Covid-19 craziness was beginning to complicate everyone’s daily life, my husband Greg decided to tackle a do-it-yourself project which required cutting off our water supply. My familiar fear of a potential nightmare created an opportunity for me to practice patience, problem-solving, and kindness. So, here’s how plumbing is like writing.
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It’s Christmas Eve and I want to wish you all a happy holiday and hope that you receive or find a way to achieve your deepest desire in the New Year. I also want to apologize for being out of touch for the last month.
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Balancing my personal life and my creative endeavors is a challenge for me, a losing battle much of the time. Often, I make it worse by focusing on what I’ve left undone instead of what I have accomplished. That’s when the rant in my head begins, the name calling on a continuous loop—an endless list of words that help me tear myself down when I haven’t done enough, giving my inner critic the power to make me believe I’m not good enough and never will be.
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I’m redesigning my entire website, refocusing it on what I love to do and to write about: HORSES.
Don’t panic if you’re not a horse person. I’m hoping to find a community of people (or perhaps gather a new one) who just loves horses. You won’t need to know anything about horses to enjoy it. It’s not about “how to” but rather “why I love my life.”
In my future blogs, I’ll be talking about what it takes to care for horses and why the joy I experience is worth all the work.
Never enough time to write.
Throughout this last winter and early spring, I was able to write everyday, not just for an hour or two, but four to six hours each and every day. I’d hoped to maintain that pac
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I planted giant sunflowers in my garden for the first time last year. Actually, that’s not completely true. Two years ago, I planted eight seeds, two in each of the corners of an eight-inch-high raised bed. When the giant stalks grew taller than me, I tied them to the vertical, mesh-covered frame
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I always knew my oldest brother Mike was an artist, but I never imagined him as a soldier. Going to war seemed to conflict with his gentle nature. The three of us grew up living in lake towns outside of Detroit.
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n response to Maria Shriver’s question, “What gift did your mom give you?” I must answer, INTUITION and EMPATHY.
I lost my mom six years ago, but since I’ve been working on my memoir over the last four years, we’ve had daily conversations with her (no, I’m not crazy. I talk with the mom who lives in my head, along with all my other characters, real or imagined).
Read moreAttending a Writers’ Conference is […]
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My mom has been on my mind a lot lately. I lost her in 2007 from a stroke. She worked most of her life, and loved working despite the struggle of raising three kids at the same time. She kept house and cooked after coming home from work, often finishing the dishes after all of us had gone to bed. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I didn’t help her very much. I gave up offering because she said it was easier for her to do it herself. I think, now, as I reflect back, that she was trying to make my life easier than she had growing up.
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