My goal was to offer an archive of my old writings to paid subscribers, but I couldn’t figure out how to do that (insert face-palm emoji), so instead I will just feature some of my favorite old pieces here, with a new introduction, as a way to thank those who graciously support my writing.
All of life is full of new births, and new births aren’t always pretty. I can’t tell you how many times I have died to the writing life, only to approach it again, weak and trembling, with no confidence or direction. All I have is a little dream-like faith that this wrestling with thoughts and words is something I do. In search of a foothold, I read. I read Wendell Berry, Douglas McKelvey, Lore Wilbert. I read myself. I’m not trying to become that person again, but she does give me courage. I know she died before those words. I know she had as much doubt in herself at that moment as I do now.
I ran through the rain today, leaving for a half-minute two baffled babies, just to find my copy of The Writing Life. Opening the door again, before two little pairs of unblinking brown and blue eyes, I read out-loud the first sentence I turned to, underlined in green: The sensation of writing a book…is the sensation of rearing and peering from the bent tip of a grassblade, looking for a route.
My watchers look at me, expectant, and my heart rises up again, expectant, too.
I wrote the below reflection in the early Spring of 2019. I am no more ready, no more fit than I was then, but I’m here and from the wear on my soles you can tell I’ve come some miles…
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