Tag Archives: “Bees for Honey

Following the Bees

Two weeks ago—and it was a fabulous vacation, btw—I posted about Penelope Lively’s book Making It Up, with some observations about living out alternative lives in fiction.  What would have happened if…? Writers are often asked where we get our ideas for fiction, and (like most questions we’re asked), there are as many right answers as there are writers.  Still, I’m always fascinated by the variety of responses—even within my own experience. As sheepish as I feel admitting it, the genesis of the first story I wrote as an adult, the story that got me in the chair every morning … Continue reading

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The Many Faces of Mollie

When I was in junior high, I wrote stories about a girl named Kim Swanson.  I named her Kim because I wanted a name like “Kim”—popular, cute, perky.  I wanted to fit in, to belong.  “Lindsey” stuck out—I know, it’s a common name now, even a trendy one for a certain age group, but trust me, back then, I was the only Lindsey.  Well, Lindsay Wagner came along a few years later, but that just made for a lot of lame bionic jokes. Kim Swanson attended a girls’ school in New England: Furst’s Girls School, run by a thin gray-haired … Continue reading

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The Gift of the Tortilla

At writers’ group last week, I mentioned how hard it is to get back to work after breaking for lunch.  “Bring a snack in with you,” Monica said.  “Then you can keep going until two or three.”  She smiled:  “I eat a lot of nuts.” That got me thinking.  Not so much about nuts, or how to stretch out the work day (which, incidentally, I’ve been successfully doing once a week since last month’s productive retreat), but about preferred writing snacks.  I don’t mean the sandwich or the heated-up risotto from last night’s dinner, but the snack, the treat, the … Continue reading

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Sharing Our Work

The first time I showed someone a story I’d written, I thrust the pages at her and fled her office.  This was in 1992, another lifetime, when I’d come to realize that if I wanted to write someday, I’d better start writing.  The someone was an ideal early reader—intelligent, compassionate, wise.  She read the pages and thanked me, asked me about how it was to show them to her.  (Yes, she was my therapist, who not incidentally, helped me figure out that if I was ever going to write someday, I’d better start writing.) Not all readers since have been … Continue reading

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