I woke in the night thinking about fairy tales and an email I’d received years ago from Stephen Fraser, a literary agent with the Jennifer De Chiara Literary Agency in New York. I’d sent him my novel Curva Peligrosa, hoping he’d represent it. Since he was the agent I was hoping for, I was delighted that he loved it. (more…)
A wildly comic romp on mothers, daughters, art, travel and death, the book should appeal to a broad range of readers. While the main characters are middle-aged and older, their zest for life would draw readers of all ages, male or female, attracting the youthful adventurer in most people.
It began innocently enough, my relationship with ChatGpt (CGPT). I didn’t intend for it to get intimate. I didn’t expect anything at all. I just was curious about what might happen if I submitted some text and asked for a response. 
August was our vacation month for some time. We took off for most or all of the month and traveled, usually out of the country. Then we spent the rest of the year swimming in memories of where we had visited, anticipating our next trip. 
From the window seat in our master bedroom, looking through the French doors into my study, I can see the white bookcases, lining one wall. They remind me of honeycombs we kept on the farm, books now the honey that my bees/mind goes after. They also are why I write, so I may add my own work to that collection. 
Recently, I tried revising a children’s story of a girl sleeping in an elegant dollhouse, an image I had in a dream awhile back that has stayed with me. But I felt extremely critical of what I wrote. I had to stop. For now. Let it breathe. Let the criticalness soften. Fall away. 
I’ve been rereading Paul Bowles’ The Spider’s Web, hoping to renew our nine-day visit to Morocco that we did some time ago. The book has added to my understanding of Moroccan life, its pluses and minuses. Reading it was similar to visiting another country. The novel offers its own Morocco, the country of Bowles’ imagination. But did it give me insight into Morocco I wouldn’t have had otherwise? 
It’s 3:05 on a Thursday (many years ago now, but whenever I sit down to write, I’m reminded of these sessions). I’m sitting in my classroom, asking students to join me in putting their thoughts on the page. This is old stuff to me. On my own, I do it constantly, dribbling out lines that seem to come magically from the pen (computer keys) and form themselves into what we call sentences, made up of words, phonemes, syllables, letters. 
I opened the I Ching at random this morning and came up with #38, K’uei / Opposition. The commentary says it is common for two opposites to exist together, needing to find relationship. I realize an opposition is being set up just in the act of writing my memoir Drop Out: my inner writer will be observing everything I do closely and recording what she finds valuable. I’m reminded of a review of Journey into the Dark: The Tunnel by William Gass that appeared in The New York Times Book Review:
Over the years, I’ve spent considerable time in therapy, analysis, and self-reflection, examining dreams, my relationships with people in the external world and with the “little people of the psyche.” I’ve also practiced meditation, participated in worship at churches and synagogues, and had an active interest in the spiritual life. In short, I’ve tried to become more aware, hoping that in the process I might become a better, more “whole” person. 
In medieval times, the labyrinth was considered the geographical and spiritual center of the world. Curious to experience what it’s like to walk one with other people, I enter San Francisco’s Grace Cathedral, remove my shoes, and begin my trek. The canvas surface feels rough against my bare feet, awakening the soles from their usual sleep. 
Recently I dreamed I was writing furiously on a piece entitled Thirteen Hills. This happened around the time I also was exploring the idea of a thirteen-month year by using the lunar calendar.
Is it possible to come of age at 60 or 90? Is it ever too late to fulfill your dreams?
I just finished reading Crowley’s The Solitudes with great relief. I haven’t hated a book so much in a long time, but I felt obligated to read it for the reading group I belong to. From the first page, I struggled to get interested in the work, rereading the first 30 pages or so two or three times and still not able to enter it emotionally or intellectually. The clumsy ungrammatical sentences (lots of comma splices) and clunky phrasings made him lose credibility with me from the start. Here are some examples of bad sentence structures: 
Why do I write? Because if I don’t, I feel as if part of myself has checked out. It’s as important to me as food. Okay, it is food, the word like a communion wafer that melts on my tongue, nourishing body and soul. It’s also like having a lover that never loses his attractiveness, beckoning on the fringes of my days, waiting to embrace me. How is death like a vacation?
July 28, 2025
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It occurred to me today, during a tine when many people are taking vacations, that preparing for a trip—all the many months of planning and making reservations and thinking that the departure day will never arrive—resembles what happens when our death day arrives. Okay, I realize this may sound gloomy and will probably chase away a few readers, but the parallels are there. (more…)
