Saturday, May 9, 2015


As I started pulling out clothes to pack for the writer's workshop I will be going to this week, I realized that this is something I've never done before, even though I've thought of myself as a writer since third grade when I realized that the Nancy Drew book I was reading did not begin "Once upon a time," and I decided to start writing a story in medias res.
Underlying that realization was the dim awareness that there was power in words.

I took a class in writing poetry before I got married at what was then the New School for Social Research in New York City, from a poet who is still my mentor--and friend--forty years later. At the time, I took a class in poetry because I knew I wouldn't have time to write the Great American Novel, which was my ultimate ambition, but I discovered that I loved poetry and it was the ideal m├ętier for someone who would eventually have six children  I had to write in line-size snatches very often, though over a course of about 15 years I did finally write a novel.  It is languishing with a publisher in Great Britain, and I don't have many hopes at this point that it will be rushed into print.

But the workshop I'm going to is being given by a woman whose online webinars I have enjoyed, and since I have begun another novel, which is interspersed with poetry, and is different from other things I've written, I thought it would be a good way to veer off in a different direction and see where this winding path will take me.  

I have my train tickets and my hotel reservation, directions to the workshop, and I will probably be in better shape when I come back, since I discovered that the walk from the hotel is not a mile, as I estimated, but 2.73 miles.  So I will have to readjust for that, but it's in a beautiful coastal town in California and I can ponder life from a different perspective as I travel to and fro.  

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