Tag Archives: stories

Darkness & Light

Lent has officially ended. Today is Good Friday, the second of the three days (Triduum) leading up to Easter Sunday.  Today — or rather, tonight, at sundown — marks the start of  Passover.  I’ve been thinking today about story, without which we wouldn’t commemorate either event.  I’ve also been thinking, this Lent, about trust, about giving up my often desperate grip on control in my own stories.   I’ve been praying, I guess, about letting go.  Today, too, I am struck by the Triduum’s embrace of sorrow and agony, and how those dark places open us up.  Story does that too, … Continue reading

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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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If I Gave a Reading in the Forest, and No Tree Fell, Would Anyone Buy a Copy of My Book?*

While in grad school, some seventeen years ago, I taught my first class and gave my first public reading.  Both were nerve-wracking—I practiced for days, reading aloud  from pages marked up with little arrows and accent marks.  You know, slow down, look up, even take a sip.  I’ve always been one for preparation. When the time came, though, once I’d quelled the butterflies and got through it live, I discovered my inner exhibitionist.  After years of being the shy girl, the quiet bookworm, guess what? I loved to talk to a room of people, loved to hear myself read my … Continue reading

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Rising & Falling

I can’t get a certain floor out of my mind.  It’s tiled, worn, and – the best part, the part I can’t forget – undulating.  I’d attach a picture if I had one, but the entire time I stood on this floor, marveling at it and the gold mosaics around me, an officious guard with Nordic hair and a uniform one size too small kept calling out, in a harsh, beleaguered voice, “No photo!”  Many others disregarded him (as well as the prominent signs showing a camera with a slash through it), but I’ve always obeyed orders.  Just as well … Continue reading

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