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“The notion that one can write better during one season of the year than another Samuel Johnson labeled, ‘Imagination operating upon luxury.’ Another luxury for an idle imagination is the writer’s own feeling about the work. There is neither a proportional relationship, nor an inverse one, between a writer’s estimation of a work in progress and its actual quality. The feeling that the work is magnificent, and the feeling that it is abominable, are both mosquitoes to be repelled, ignored, or killed, but not indulged.”

– Annie Dillard, The Writing Life

Yet again I feel chastised by Ms. Dillard. She is a stern mentor, even in book form.
Continue reading “I Write Better in the Autumn (sorry, Samuel Johnson)”

Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friend.

The couple walks to the front of the church holding their child. She is asleep now (of course she is – it’s day time). They are awake now, every night, rocking her and feeding her and sleeping on the floor beside her crib. The baby’s needs come first.

They have laid down their life. Continue reading “Dying For Your Friends”

Mostly I just remember the heat. And the dust. And the fire ants. I suppose the cares and concerns of children remain on fairly basic levels, and as a four-year-old boy living in Laredo, Texas, those were my main worries.

I remember hearing that there was a swimming pool in our new trailer park. My mother packed us up for a walk through the mid-day heat. Now that I have children of my own, I know what a production that can be: changing into swimsuits, slicking everyone up with sunscreen, grabbing a few pool-friendly toys and maybe a lawn chair. She probably carried all of this plus my two-year-old sister. I probably walked, dragging my towel through the dusty dirt roads, eyes peeled for red ants wielding cross bows with fiery arrows.
Continue reading “My Life’s Metaphor For Disappointment”

This morning, somewhere in the midst of central Pennsylvania, I experienced heaven.

The streets weren’t made of gold. The church we went to didn’t have enormous pearls for doors – surprise, surprise: it was actually in a gymnasium. There were only a few visible angels (as opposed to a “heavenly host”).

So what was it about this particular Sunday morning that brought heaven to earth?
Continue reading “Heaven is For Real”

This week was a little different here at the blog as I abandoned my normal posts for something new: I gave you a quote on writing, a question, and you guys did the work. Here are some of the questions I asked, as well as some of my favorite responses:

Are artists generally melancholy, dissatisfied people, or is that just a stereotype?

“While there are a variety of reasons that spur individuals toward the creative process, I think that history shows the best and/or most creative have survived through a degree of adversity. That weathering results in a variety of creative drivers that range from neurosis to divine gratitude.” Tor Constantino

“I think there’s something about pulling out your pain and staring it in the face that can make people melancholy, or at least seem melancholy. A lot of people don’t look at their pain directly but deal with in other ways. That said, I want to agree with Janet – and I do to some extent – but I do see a lot of angst among artists, myself included I guess.” Andi Cumbo Continue reading “Written By You”

Each day this week I’m going to post a quote from a book on writing and then a few questions. If you have any thoughts regarding the quote or the questions, leave them in the comments. On Saturday I’ll highlight some of my favorite responses made throughout the week.

“Whenever I went to see him and asked him a question about Buddhism, I had trouble understanding the answer until he said, “You know, like in writing when you…” When he referred to writing, I understood. About three years ago he said to me, “Why do you come to sit meditation? Why don’t you make writing your practice? If you go deep enough in writing, it will take you every place.”

“There is freedom in being a writer and writing. It is fulfilling your function. I used to think freedom meant doing whatever you want. It means knowing who you are, what you are supposed to be doing on this earth, and then simply doing it.” (Natalie Goldberg’s “Writing Down the Bones”)

Why do you write? Why do you create? What is it about the things you love to do that keeps you going back to them? Continue reading ““If you go deep enough in writing, it will take you everyplace””