Our Writing Life column archive, which features an array of guest contributors.
I’d been a Twitter-hater up until then. I was all over Facebook, but I didn’t get … how anyone would find wisdom in a 140-character distillation of Justin Bieber’s deepest thoughts.
I realized calling myself a professional writer didn’t matter as much as I had thought, and that was actually a good thing. It knocked the pedestal out from under this career choice.
When my son, Charley, first asked me what my job was, I turned away from my dual-screen iMac and told him I was a graphic designer. He stood silent, face blank.
What could a pair of Disney princesses and the COO of Facebook have in common? In a Venn diagram of girls and words, of rebellion and equality, there’s more overlap than you’d imagine.
Last month, I broke a promise to my husband. It was a vow we’d made together, many years ago, when we swore we’d never pass our bad habits to our kids.
There’s something too intimidating and “big picture” about a memoir. Rather, my compulsion to write involves a much narrower focus…
Inscrutable, blasé, they are uninterested in deadlines, tangled plots or characters who have fallen out of line.
As a writer and a reader, I’m a scavenger of words, their roots sunk deep in time. I dig through layered meanings, brush the ragged edges of long-forgotten definitions, frilled and feathered connotations.
A good day writing is like a high tide, full to bursting with the motion of ideas. On those days, I scribble madly, relishing the depths, the fluid grace of words.
I am a wretched juggler, often late and usually forgetful. But, for all the balls I drop while writing, my husband and my kids are still my cheering squad, my pit crew, and my refuge.
