And so

the week begins.
a scarlet sunrise under dark lavender clouds
inside, I question every word I tap out
one after another
loosens the clutch-y feeling
I think about the diabolical idiocy of being human
able to notice a gorgeous sunrise
and douse it with worry

the sky fills with bright lemon light
inside, the tiniest curve on my lips


I used to hate Sunday. It was the day before school began. It was day before the mouse trap snapped. It was the day before hum-drum routines took us down. Sundays made me feel sad and nervous.

Friday was my day. Friday was the end of classes and the adventure of the weekend beginning. Friday was driving into Boston (or hitch-hiking into Boston. Say what?) in my dad’s old blue Buick Electra 225 (aka the blue bomb) and staying at my Harvard boyfriend’s commune-like house doing very college-y things when I was in high school (say what?). Friday was going to Vermont and downhill skiing. Friday was spending the night at my best friend’s house. Friday was all anticipation and who knows what will happen. Even if nothing did happen, Friday still had the fizz of anticipation.

Now it’s different. There’s still a shift on Friday. But it’s when the unwinding of the week begins. The spaciousness of the weekend starts its exhale. By Sunday, I can feel the full belly breath of it. Even if I have commitments. Or need to catch up on stuff. Or want to sink deeper into a manuscript. I love the langour of Sundays. The longer conversations. Preparing a delicious plate of food. The lingering over coffee.



Today I am teaching a class on crafting openings that will make your readers lean in.

I have had many writing teachers. Many. Great. Good. Bad. Terrible. Fortunately the terrible ones have faded and I only remember the positive ones, the ones who cared about words and about creating stories that are the best they can be.

When I stand in front of a class, I always have one prayer. I hope I say something, just one something, today that makes their craft better. From all the great teachers, I have taken at least one bit of wisdom that has made my journey as a writer feel less perilous and less lonely because I have one more useful tool in my toolbox.

If I do that one thing for one person, I am happy.

Too Much To Do…

When I  moved into my first apartment and put that one key on my empty key ring, I remember thinking, “Oh man, I’m an adult now. Pretty soon, I’ll have lots of keys to lots of doors.” For some reason, having keys meant being grown and important and responsible and in charge.

Yeah, I know…humans are incredible meaning making machines.

Anyway, later, I leapt from keys to piling on lots of work and commitments so that I felt busy and important and in charge. To some degree, it worked. With each commitment fulfilled, people counted on me more. Asked me to do more. It felt good: being in demand. Plus I was growing and learning. It was symbiotic.

Then came motherhood. There is nothing like a 24/7 job that demands ALL your attention. I realized that I couldn’t do that job without taking care of me. I had to get sleep. I had to curb work. I had to replenish myself every day so that I could be a better human for my daughter. Gradually, that self care became the center piece of my life. It still is. Twenty two years later.

Yes, I’m still busy. Sometimes over committed. This week, I taught three entirely separate classes. I kept drafting my novel. I put food in my fridge, worked out and went to a doctor’s appointment. And I went to my day job. It was a lot. I feel tired. Maybe a bit too much. But here’s the deal: whenever I say: ‘I have so much to do’ or ‘I have too much to do.’ I always ask myself: Are you doing everything you want to do? Are you fulfilled? Happy? As long as I say yes, I’m good.

But I keep an eye on the key chain. I don’t need to fill it to feel important anymore.

A Simple Morning

To my left, on a table are two books. Two really good books. I am reading them at the same time. Two chapters a day each. They are beautiful stories. Not complicated.  Somehow, their simplicity stirs images and memories in me. A new story pops into my head. Hmmm, that might be fun to write and see what turns up. Then, conversations from the longer manuscript drift into my ears. Yes, write those down too, I think. The sun is brightly spilling into the room. The cat is sleeping on the unmade bed. My brain is awake and alive. I can feel this small communion between my heart and my brain. I wonder if that is where joy lives: my brain with its little ideas tickling my will and my desire. The two of them waking me up, making me feel alive and excited.