In the absence of data, our minds make up stories, and doing that is completely normal. But they’re exactly that: stories. Sometimes, we need to rewrite them.
Repeat: If this isn’t your thing, please come back on 12/1. National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). Bang out a 50,000 word (shitty) first draft in a month. It’s my 4th attempt. This time I’m free-writing in Word, copying and pasting here when I get a chunk finished, to put some pressure on myself to get … Continue reading Sharptooth: 7
Repeat: If this isn’t your thing, please come back on 12/1. National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). Bang out a 50,000 word (shitty) first draft in a month. It's my 4th attempt. This time I’m free-writing in Word, copying and pasting here when I get a chunk finished, to put some pressure on myself to get … Continue reading Sharptooth: 6
A writer I know was in her 50s when she discovered that her childhood was a lie. She learned the truth by accident, and the discovery knocked her off kilter, partly because it was traumatic and mostly because the truth came out right as she was starting to reconcile an already complicated personal history by … Continue reading Something about stories.
It is a bright September morning, and the weather has broken (as it always does, if briefly, after Labor Day) giving a hint of fall. I'm driving slowly through an old neighborhood, tourist-style, looking from porch to porch, block to block. I see a friend working in his yard, and I call through the open … Continue reading Jackie’s house.
I caught a nasty cold in Seattle, and it was - by and large - my own fault. It's possible you're wondering, "what was she doing so far away from Memphis?" and I'll tell you. But first I must give credit where credit's due. The reason I got a cold was that I failed to … Continue reading Don’t forget to write.
Inside Miss Pettibone's black leather pocketbook, which was lined in shiny black satin, were these things: a packet of facial tissues, a needlepoint case for glasses (with a spare pair of glasses inside), a red leather coin purse, a dusty pink compact, a tarnished silver lipstick case, a ballpoint pen, a bottle of prescription pills … Continue reading Miss Pettibone’s pocketbook.
Here's what I know about writing fiction: it's harder than you might think. Last summer when I hit a dry spell working on the memoir/essay/cookbook project I started, I decided maybe I'd take the hint offered by a writer friend and try my hand at fiction. What she'd actually said over lunch, journalist speaking to … Continue reading Southern storyteller syndrome