Thoughts about writing, and the universe.
A tension has been on my mind for a while, between the stories we tell in fiction and the question of meaning. It was on my mind in September 2020, then again two years later, December 2022. It seems that perhaps every year in autumn I find myself thinking about this theme. Here I am... Continue Reading →
Some stories seem to move more slowly than drying paint. They elongate scene after scene of a bland character sitting, contemplating, staring at walls. Whole novels can go by without the character doing much more than taking a sip of their watered-down beer as they contemplate the vagaries of their universes. How often do I... Continue Reading →
I'm an e-reader lover--the convenience of travel, the ready availability of English books when living in rural Norway, their searchability, the ability to convert my own writing into e-book format for a more authentic read-through--there are many things I love about these devices. But of course, the book as a physical object is not to... Continue Reading →
Copyright is of course a blessing for writers--it's there to maintain our rights to our own work, sanctioning those who would copy it or pass it off as their own. Copyright helps keep artistic work a viable industry. But from the other side, the writer who wants to incorporate quotations or references to others' works... Continue Reading →
I write today from Chicago, where we are quarantining before we visit family. The decision to travel in these times was a difficult one. During the summer, we determined we could not leave Norway. This time, with more information, we made the choice to come, and I pray it was the right one. In my... Continue Reading →
My husband and I took the money we would have spent on a trip back to the US this summer and bought a Raku kiln for our ongoing ceramics adventure. After more than a month's wait, the kit arrived finally in late July, and my husband spent a whole day (until about 11:00pm) working through... Continue Reading →
It is hard for me to just not finish a book. I hem and haw, delay. I grudgingly slog another page. There are so many books I want to read, after all--why agonize, insist on finishing one I'm not enjoying? Is it the uncertainty of how to mark it on my Goodreads account, or something... Continue Reading →
When the train doors open, we can already feel the heat. Nine forty-five, cloudless sky, the second heatwave of the summer sliding leisurely through Europe. We are spending the day in Pompeii. We've taken the train over from Naples, six euros for the express with air conditioning, three euros for the slow train. Last night,... Continue Reading →
The other night, I finished reading Ariel Dorfman's play Death and the Maiden, a haunting examination of Chile's reckoning with the aftermath of dictatorship. The play itself was emotionally powerful, concentrated in its characters and ideas (somewhat in the way poetry has a density of meaning, like the brief but all-consuming burst from a candy... Continue Reading →
The four faces of revising. Yesterday, I completed a first draft of rewrites to my novel manuscript. It's been three months since I began, thirteen chapters of new material, and copious reworking of the existing. It's a celebration, to be sure, and I'm content to bask in the glory of a milestone passed for a... Continue Reading →
Words like trees 