Writes all the things. Most of the things never write back.
A writer must say yes to life, to all of life: the water glasses, the Kemp’s half-and-half, the ketchup on the counter. It is not a writer’s task to say, ‘It is dumb to live in a small town or to eat in a café when you can eat macrobiotic at home.’ Our task is to say a holy yes to the real things of our life as they exist – the real truth of who we are.
~ Natalie Goldberg
I am now working on a writer’s version of Pinocchio, where a writer with wooden prose hopes to become a real writer someday.
I celebrate the first crocus, the first robin of spring. Someone else can celebrate the first blackfly.
Never try to drink a Muse under the table.
The first year of my life had to have been awesome; I don’t even remember a moment of it!
My next novel features a chicken as a hard-boiled detective in a seedy neighborhood who finds himself in the soup. The chicken’s sidekick is a pig who’s a bit of a ham, who does all the grunt work when not swilling down drinks.
Their first case is in search of a sheep gone baaaad who’s on the lam. The sheep has amnesia and his memory is wooly.
I misplaced my cordless phone; then something in the pile of remotes started ringing.
One good thing about a tornado watch – you never need to wind it. It winds itself.
Going outside right now is like a sunlit stroll on a warm, sandy beach.
Except it’s dark, and cloudy enough to obscure the waxing gibbous moon, and it’s 31 degrees out, and that’s granular snow, not sand, under my feet, which are wearing boots, not sandals or barefoot.
Other than that, exactly the same.
I put my thinking cap on inside-out; now I’m gathering in everyone else’s thoughts. Who knew my plants were so smart?