Most writers struggle with finding writing time in their busy lives and they search for ways to be more productive with the time they do have. During a pandemic, it has become even more of a problem than ever before. As a writer, we have many other things to do besides write the novel.
Some of us are juggling extra “writerly” tasks such as:
“Dear Bern,
It’s Friday night and I’ve started my second glass of wine. Tom is watching some no-brainer tv so I thought I’d settle in and write to you.”
Thus, began an especially long letter received from a close friend in 1988. The letter flowed like our conversations, covering everything going on in our lives. At that time, when we lived far apart, receiving a letter was the next best thing to having a visit. In this letter, she shared news of the kids, workplace struggles, my sister’s upcoming wedding, her softball team’s calamitous night out and so much more. There was even a little sketch of a hooked rug she was working on. It was a lot of fun to read it so many years later.
I tucked this letter and several others she’d written, into my friend’s Christmas package, returning them to her.
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How do you take an eight by ten foot room above an unheated garage, still holding the remnants of a boy growing into a young man, and turn it into a writing oasis? With spider webs, discarded nerf bullets, spilled chocolate milk curdled into the hardwood and holes punched in the dry wall from baseballs, hockey sticks and frustrated elbow jabs, this room was far from my imagined writer’s nook.
When my son moved downstairs, I sensed an opportunity. Not unlike plotting a novel, this idea of having my own writing space, started with a question—what if I could create a space all of my own?
I invented a new condiment.
I know you’re probably thinking we don’t need a new condiment. After all, we’ve got ketchup, soy sauce, mustard, relish, plum sauce, salsa…is there space in the fridge and on the table for another one?
As a writer, I sometimes wonder if I have anything new to contribute to the book world. Occasionally when I enter a bookstore I have a moment of panic. There are so many books in there and how can I write another one to jostle for space on the shelves? Would anyone even pick up my book if I ever get published?
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A few very bright sunny days had arrived in the middle of ‘The Lockdown Winter’ as I refer to it. I’ve had trouble focusing on writing since December 26th. I can’t imagine what is worth writing about, as I am only conscious of the things I am not allowed to do at the moment. The way my brain works this thought took me scurrying down the familiar rabbit hole of “why am I so stuck?”
I have long been fascinated by quantum physics, poetry, and the musings of what is reality, and it shows in my writing. I go about coolly accepting the unreality of the universe, peering enthralled at the night sky, knowing I’m only seeing the light energy of stars that ceased to exist aeons ago. Read more
“Writing practice is like making bread!” I’d said, though I wasn’t sure at the time why I’d said it.
It started while I was making bread, I’d gotten a message that my turn to post here on our blog was fast approaching. I don’t know how you deal with, or feel about deadlines. For me there is a combined sense of excitement … and of dread.
I don’t share this here much, but I have ADHD. Deadlines are the enemy of many of my Read more
I don’t typically write about politics in this space because this space is reserved for reflecting on writing and books (and I will talk about writing and books, in a moment, honestly). But in light of the attempted insurrection at the U.S. Capitol last week, well, how can we not talk politics?
More specifically, I want to talk about the badass romance writer who may well have saved America.
Have I got you scratching your head, wondering what the hell a romance writer has to do with the current worrisome state of affairs in America? Well, scratch no more, because I’m talking about Georgia’s Stacey Abrams.