NO, not that one, I try to scream.
But of course, I can’t scream. I can screech, I can scratch like the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. I can grit my metal teeth, and I can stutter mid-way between too many pages.
But I can’t scream.
I understand her frustration. I’ve chewed up draft after draft of that dang story she’s writing. Continue reading
Hello! My name is Meredith Powers, and I’ve been asked to introduce my author, Pamela Wight, to you.
Well, of course, many of you already know Pamela as the blogger of Roughwighting. But I know her more intimately – she created me.
But according to Pamela in her response in D. Wallace Peach’s post (in the Myths of the Mirror blog), I kind of created myself. Continue reading
I flew to California this summer and survived the flight by reading a big thick book: Small Great Things by Jodi Picoult. The book caught me, like the way we get a hitch to our voice when something hits us profoundly.
I thought I knew and understood about race. About how unfair racism is. About how I’m not racist, because I don’t see the color of someone’s skin.
For instance, I was talking to “my” Starbucks barista today about a man who had entered the café at 6 the previous morning singing a Broadway tune in a much too elevated mood for most humans at that time of day. Continue reading
Last Saturday I participated in a “Shop Local” Book Fair at a beautiful picturesque library in rural New England.
Twenty other authors and I sat behind tables covered with colorful cloths and plants, candy in dishes and strong stubborn wishes that visitors would want to buy and read our books.
Photo: AP
As a writer, I wanted to hide behind the stacks of library books behind me. But as an author, I stood tall and smiled tremulously, feeling like Sally Field before she got her Oscar, thinking “Please Like Me (my books), really really Like Me (my books).” Continue reading
I was given notice this week.
Of my five-year blogging anniversary.
My mind automatically flew backward five years ago, when I lived in the SF Bay area, creating stories for the writing classes I taught, spending hours writing chapters for my novels, and stuffing it all in computer files and sagging file drawers.
And then my nephew arrived. Continue reading
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