Memories of camping in the upper peninsula of Michigan have been with me all my life. I was just three when I went with my parents to a clearing on the shore of a lake where there was nothing but a narrow dock, a rowboat, an outhouse, and trees.
We slept in the canvas tent my dad used for deer hunting. The tent smelled of mildew, had no floor, and large flaps that tied closed.
At night our cots creaked when we moved. Continue reading “My first seeing”
It occurred to me the other day that I could just stop writing.
There is no reason why I must continue to work on my short fiction, essays, poems, and blog posts. I could just quit. Cold turkey. And what a relief it would be.
I would never again feel guilty about fooling around instead of writing, nor would I ever again feel guilty about spending an entire day lost in the revision of a story.
I would be free. Free! I could throw away all my half-finished work and all my folders stuffed with ideas written on scraps of paper. I could throw it all into the recycling bin and do other things. I could complete my to-do list; learn to bake bread; organize my photos; finish my genealogy projects; and of-course I would exercise a lot more often.
I dwelled on the pleasant possibilities of this for several minutes, and then began formulating my thoughts on the topic into sentences. I should write about this, I thought as I reached for a scrap of paper….