​Is it real?
 
It seems people fall into several camps on this one. One: Writer’s Block is an excuse for being lazy, so just get busy. Two: Everyone gets to a tough, stuck point once in awhile, so give yourself a little slack, take a break, think about it, then … just get busy. Three: Something real and hidden is going on, like you need a career change or a divorce. Figure it out, change your life, then get busy. Four: You can’t write, because you don’t have anything to say, because you’re not a real writer, or maybe you just plain suck. Advice: Hire a real writer to do the dirty work. Or better yet, just stop writing.
 
The causes are listed as “fear”, “perfectionism”, “bad-timing”, “distractions”, “depression”, “no talent.” I think the problem is often too much self-criticism and self-editing while trying to write a first draft, famously called “a shitty first draft” by Anne Lamott.
 
I fall into the camp of “just get busy.” I know some people, some very good writers, who struggle at times, and some for complicated reasons. My struggle gets closer to the “you just plain suck,” when it’s time to submit to publishers, read aloud, send a draft to a critic or editor. However, in the meantime, I write as much as I can, as fast as I can, as often as I can. Here’s what helps me.
 
Free Writing
 
I’ve done a ton of “Free writing” of one sort or another, and find it, well, freeing. The idea is to just keep scribbling for a set period of time or length, say Julia Cameron’s Morning Pages. Three Pages first thing in the morning, no stopping, no editing. Or Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Practice. Usually done in a café in pairs, scribbling in notebooks for 20 minutes without stopping. Then there’s Tom Bird’s Divine Writer Within. I went to a seminar called “Write Your Bestseller in a Weekend.” This was the ultimate Free Writing exercise. We were crammed together in a room with the special music playing (coyotes howling, subliminal messages beneath the subtle piano) and wrote as fast as we could. We counted our words every twenty minutes, whether in a notebook, or on computer, so before long, we were driven by the desire to write more and more words in an hour. After a two minute counting break, the bell would ding, and we’d be back at it. I regularly wrote 2000 + words an hour, hour after hour, compared to a goal of 1000 words a day, to which I’ve sometimes adhered. Granted, of the 2000 words many were not always in sentences, or did not follow what came before the bell. The tenses and voice changed and shifted, the story jumped around, but what I got was a beginning, a middle, and an end, in short, a 30K word draft of a novel.
 
I believe in free-writing, the editor is mostly left in the dust, and the muse has a chance to shine through.
 
The first time I did free writing was in college, though I didn’t have a name for it then. At exam time, we were given a ruled notebook and a question or two, say comparing a work of Chaucer with one of Shakespeare. We had to hand-write an essay and turn it in to be graded an hour and a half later. I drank coffee back then, and sometimes took no-doz, so I was a little sped-up as I scribbled in my notebook. (Glad to be freed from the tortures of a pre-computerized typewriter, and my inability to type with any accuracy.) Somewhere in the middle, I would come to the nugget for which I’d been searching. There was still time to expand on my idea, tie it up into a final paragraph, and to seek that illusive A, which oddly, though I considered myself a bit of a dullard in those English classes, I earned more often than not.
 
This, I believe, is the essence of free-writing, even regular, on-the-computer writing that breaks through. If you go forward fast enough, without much editing or judging, without a plan or expectation, maybe driven by some kind of deadline or desperation, you eventually come to that nugget. The nugget can be a new plot twist, or a missing character, or a little bit of truth about the human condition, or even some insight into Chaucer. Some people call writing like that, “being in the zone.” I believe the zone is there, and can be accessed on a regular, though slightly unpredictable, basis.
 
One more thing about deadlines. I think often of all my unfinished novels or ideas for novels or novellas, or story collections, and I worry about the ultimate deadline: death. So, just like in English class, I am motivated to get the words and ideas down before that final bell rings.
 
Editing Later
 
Perhaps this post is more about the effectiveness of writing through the block in a free way, rather than the old-fashioned hunt and peck method, with lots of white-out and notes in the margins, or the computer equivalent. There’s plenty of time for editing later. If you have a chance to get something down, do it.
 
I do love editing and rewriting when the page is no longer blank, and I admit to editing while I go, as well, but there usually comes a point when I need to push out those pesky words and revise them later.
 
How good is it?
 
Just like hearing your own signing voice from inside your head, it is sometimes considered impossible to judge your own work. Can you let go of self-judgment? Can you go back and fix mistakes, improve your point-making without saying “I suck, I’d better quit?” My belief is that if you have a calling to do something, give it a go. A calling to creativity is a precious gift.
 
Here’s a quote from one my favorite articles on the subject of writer’s block:
 
“In general, it's a good practice to initially treat all blocks as emotional noise, something you can work your way through. You can work under the assumption that Writer's Block is an imaginary beast, a beast you can banish by writing. At the same time, the rare work stoppages that you can't defeat with enthusiasm and discipline are almost certainly signals that something's amiss in your life, your work habits or your goals. In that case, you'd be wise to work under the assumption that Writer's Block is a real live monster that you ignore at your peril.”
 
By Bruce Holland Rogers, The Writer’s Store.

Back in 1975 it seemed like a good idea to get married in a mountain meadow, even though it was on Indian Land, and we were officially trespassing. We drove up in our open-topped TR4, with its psychedillic dash, followed by a caravan of friends and family. My mother and my Aunt Hellen Dagmar, Uncle Hal and Eleanor, who left my small cousins behind in Philadelphia, Jim’s parents, Anne and John, brother Jerry and his wife Renee, college friends, Lisa and Joe, Santa Fe friends, Bob and Tammy, our roommates, Pam and Larry standing up for us. A few others we’d met at the restaurants where we worked that summer. It was a sunny day, though easily could have rained. We stood under the aspens and our preacher, Jack Gilpin, married us.
 
Jack was nephew of the famous southwest photographer, Laura Gilpin, hence his interest in Santa Fe. Jack wore a beautiful white suit, which soothed my new mother-in-law a bit. She’d first met him on the porch of our communal living house, and he was drinking a beer, and that shook her confidence that we were really getting married after a couple years of sinful cohabitation and her gentle prodding. “When are you going to decide?” Jack was probably not a real minister in her eyes, had she known, but I don’t think we told her. He was an actor, and had a ministerial card from the Universal Life Church. Cost him a dollar. Later, we would see Jack in small roles in popular movies. He played a lawyer, a hostage, etc.
 
We had a carrot cake and vegetarian enchiladas catered by The Golden Temple, a Sikh-owned restaurant on Water Street, and a keg of beer, carried up in Fred’s jeep. After the party, we all camped out in the meadow. Perhaps there were guitars. The grown-ups (I suppose you could call us grown-ups at age 23, but I’m speaking now about the aunts, uncles, and parents) went out to dinner at the Compound, the fanciest restaurant in town.
 
The honeymoon continued via backpacking into the Pecos. Who came with us? I remember Jerry and Renee, Fred, who else? Hard ground, sleeping bags zipped together, friends snoring around us, frigid mountain lake for washing in the morning. Not the most romantic. But hey, those were the communal days, and you might have called us hippies.
 
Still in love after all these years. Happy Anniversary, my darling. 
 

​If I were a painter, I could capture the moment. A young woman, a mother perhaps, perhaps younger, slight, wearing a flowered shirtwaist dress. She is leaning against a fencepost and her feet are hidden by the dry grasses. The perspective is distant, the figure suggested, her dress and hair pulled hard to one side by the wind. She seems to be bracing against the fence, against the sudden gust. She has one hand in her hair, forgetting her skirt.
 
On the other side of the frame, a man sits on a concrete step in front of a dilapidated structure, perhaps an old tool shed. He is long-limbed, lean, wearing blue jeans, a leather jacket, and cowboy boots. He holds his hat, which he was wearing a moment ago, against his long slim legs, stretched out in front of him. A longish piece of his hair, dark with a slight wave, perhaps uncombed, perhaps mussed by the hat, lifts in the wind. He is darkly handsome, a Western man, concentrating, squinting, as he stares at the girl. His gaze is unflinching, razor sharp, penetrating her secrets. His lips part.
 
Enjoy this moment for it catches the essence, the seductive stare, the girl, conscious of being watched. Nothing more passes between them, just the acknowledgement of her prettiness, his desire, her thrill to be seen that way for one brief moment out of an ordinary day of work.
 
Now superimpose the Gas-a-mat on St. Francis Drive, a Subaru, not a fencepost, and Sam Shepard the actor, famous, handsome, knowing it, waiting on the step outside the carwash. The year? Possibly 1986, the windy month of March. I was that young mother holding my hair instead of my skirt while I pumped my gas. He got a glimpse of my stockinged legs, and his lips parted.
 
Sam Shepard, dead at 73 in the summer of 2017. Thanks for the thrill.
 

I recently heard a TED Talk about choosing one new thing to do every day for 30 days. This was a self-improvement exercise. The idea was to pick something simple you’ve always wanted to try, say play the ukulele, and try it out for 15 minutes every day. To further simplify, the month would coincide with the calendar month. Since it’s now the middle of July, I figure I’m off the hook until August 1. I have a few ideas:
 
READ A POEM
 
I should read poetry, I know, I’m a writer after all. People read poems to me all the time and I admire them a lot. But I never seem to get all the way through one of those long ones in the New Yorker by myself. This would definitely improve me.
 
PRACTICE A CLASSICAL PIECE ON THE PIANO
 
How about one of those Chopin Nocturnes I once took a crack at? I’d start out not knowing it much at all, so the playing through might take a very long time at first, and be really really bad. I might get frustrated and it might be hard and it might hurt the ears of those I live with: cats and humans, both. Plus my piano needs tuning.
 
I think I’ll save this one for the winter.
 
TAKE A PHOTOGRAPH
 
My friend, Linda Durham, a discriminating person with an artistic eye, suggests not all the pictures should be “nice.” How about some ugly drying flowers, or bugs, or the inside of my laundry basket? I would, of course, need to post these on my Instagram account. And that means liking a bunch of pictures other people posted so they will like me back.
 
MORNING PAGES OR WRITING PRACTICE
 
Julia Cameron invented Morning Pages—three pages, long-hand first thing in the morning, no self-criticism or editing as you go. Natalie Goldberg invented Writing Practice, kind of the same, only you do it in cafes and any time of the day. The rule is, if the A-bomb goes off, you don’t stop writing. Not even if the waiter comes over to take your order. I’ve done both of these and it certainly keeps the words flowing whether on a personal topic or some fiction backstory. I have notebooks full of these scribblings and have never gotten around to reading any of it, let alone typing it into the computer.
 
TYPE IN MORNING PAGES
 
OK, so I could start sorting through all that crap, and create documents, editing as I type. A lot of work and I promise to do it someday. Or perhaps I’ll just leave these notebooks to my grandchildren.
 
OTHER GOOD HABITS LIKE Exercising, Eating Right, Flossing, Meditating, or Going to bed early
 
OK, I will, later, after the movie’s over.
 
MAYBE A BAD HABIT
 
A could play a game of Spider Solitaire (addictive, can’t play only one), or watch a bad TV show like my 600 Pound Life, or Hoarders, or What Not to Wear. I could eat a bowl of ice cream, or have a martini every day. I could take up smoking.
 
A BLOG A DAY
 
Here’s the one I’m settling on. A bit ambitious, but appeals somehow, as I always was overambitious. I can do it first thing in the morning, or after work in the evening while drinking wine (oh-oh). I could write 30 of them this weekend and then post them one-by-one, or I could dive off the deep end on August 1.  Maybe I could just post a picture, or write a single paragraph by way of simplification.  I could write about the news, my opinions, my dreams, post an old story that never got published. The benefits are many: I would have to give up being so OBSESSIVE about details and perfection. I could get people interested in my blog (maybe). I could become adept at posting, avoiding those typical mistakes that I’ve made before where I replaced my website picture with one of Melania Trump.
 
I would make Art Tucker happy.
 
THE WORRY
 
What if after a few months I picked up all kinds of new habits. What if I felt compelled to do everything every day, as the months built up. Here’s what a Typical day would look like:
 
Get up early
Write morning pages
Type morning pages into computer
Practice Chopin Nocturne
Have a Martini
Play a game of Spider Solitaire, OK play Spider for 2 hours.
Do 5 Salutations to the Sun
Take a selfie of me doing Sun Salutation and post it on Instagram
Browse Instagram for 45 minutes
Have another Martini
Eat some Kale
Eat some Ice Cream
Watch TV
Read a bedtime poem while flossing
Go to bed early

​As many of you know, I completed and published Incarnation last year. Starting with a roaring success of a book launch on April Fools’ day, I’ve been slowly working on getting Incarnation out into the world. To those who have come to my readings, bought and read Incarnation, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I continue to be astonished by your kind reviews.
 
Writing a novel is a big undertaking. I was not prepared when I started over thirty years ago, and was not as patient as I am now. After a writing class or two, I dashed off a 1200 page draft, full of digressions and bad writing. Yet I pinned my hopes on that version and began going to writers’ conferences, pitching to literary agents and editors. At one such conference, I met a “psychic” agent who touched her third eye and told me to cut the book in half. I’d already understood that the book was too long, and had been editing it down, so I accepted her advice without much resistance or deep understanding. It wasn’t until a few months later that her words hit their mark.
 
Fish Out of Water, as it was then called, featured interwoven stories, two narrators, two protagonists, two worlds. Kelsey, my modern scientist, dreamed of Iriel, a young savior living in antediluvian Atlantis. Much of the length of the book came from Iriel’s passage from her teenage days on her outlying Atlantian island to her journey to the mainland to the destruction of her world to her escape across the sea. My epiphany was that I could make Fish into multiple books. And so I am doing that, with Chosen, the first of the series just about ready to go. Meanwhile, Incarnation became Kelsey’s story and her past life as Iriel informed her spiritual growth, as she informed Iriel’s spirit.
 
Life after death holds a fascination for me, but not to the point that I want to hurry it.  I like being alive and like to consider the possibilities of the other world. Incarnation is the story of one possibility: that we have lived before, and we might live again depending upon where we are on the ladder of enlightenment, and that our souls inhabit a heavenly realm for a time before returning to our earth classroom, and that there can be communication across the realms. Behind the veil a kind of magic exists. Time collapses, bargains are made, angelic beings watch and protect, and a most magnificent God embraces all of it.
 
Particularly, I have looked for my father on the other side of the veil, listened for his voice, sought his advice, and at times, like a punch in the chest, have received his answer. YES, DO IT! Now more beloveds, friends, my mother, have gone to the seat of our ancestors. I have vowed to write about those ancestors and those realms in all the days left to me.
 
I will write, because writing is my calling, my pleasure, my way into myself, my way to understand the world, and perhaps I have a little imagination and talent. I will invent, I will channel, I will craft. That is the true gift of Incarnation. I have become a writer, a real writer.
 
A year ago, I took a workshop led by the charismatic Tom Bird, called Write Your Bestseller in a Weekend. And I did. Rain, like the early Fish Out of Water, is a mess. Thankfully, it is much shorter! The magic that happened in those forced march writing sessions was akin to channeling. Many have spoken of waiting for an elusive muse, or wading through writer’s block. I don’t choose to go there. Sometimes a piece needs time to settle into a final form, and I honor that. Sometimes I need to muse upon the change I might make, whether big or small. There’s a little niggling voice that says, that part is not quite right. Take it out, expand it, tidy it up, make this change or go in like a blind surgeon, and see what happens. Then once I make the change, it’s done and the work is improved. I believe that I am led in the right direction, in this and everything else I undertake.
 
How do I feel, now that Incarnation is finished, published, out in the world after thirty years? It couldn’t be done until I stopped knowing how to make it better. That went on for a very long time. Then suddenly, I had a publisher and we were working on the finishing touches. I did put in a little scene or two near the end, couldn’t help it. Atlantis keeps giving me those stories, those pictures.
 
What I feel now is the thrill of not knowing what stranger or friend is going to read my book and judge it, or love it, or want to talk to me. I’m still shy about that. Like wanting to jump off the stage and hide after an ovation, I’m not quite comfortable taking the praise or promoting my work. But I do want to keep performing and expanding my circle of readers. I do want to get into a dialogue with my readers, have my audience help me grow and move in some undiscovered direction. I want that thrill of performance whether it’s a reading, giving a speech that I’ve crafted, a radio interview, or publishing something I’ve written.
 
You’re such a lovely audience, such gentle readers. This much I know.
 
My sincerest thanks and my love to all. 

The other morning I looked out my bedroom window and saw a coyote eating a rabbit. I don't like coyotes because I have cats for pets, and have lost a number of them to the predator that roams freely in our neighborhood. However, this particular morning, Rufus and Dexter were safely inside, so I watched with fascination. I grabbed my phone and started taking pictures. After awhile, the coyote became aware of me ....

Or perhaps he became aware of another presence ...

A bobcat came to check out the feast, and the coyote retreated.
Bobcats represent the attributes of Awareness and Strategy, Clear Vision in Dark Places, Vigilance and Patience. They are known as solitary creatures. But hold on .....

 Another one appeared! 
Beautiful and wild, a privilege to see.
I take this as a sign, that we are together, protected, powerful and patient. Thank you to the animals who showed themselves to us and who crossed our path one morning.

 I live in deep blue city in a sometimes blue state. Everyone I know shares the same values, voting patterns, response to our president-elect, more or less. I know a few who voted for him, family members, clients, casual acquaintances, but I can’t really understand why. The chance to elect our first female president, a lovely grandmother with iron will, courage to face down considerable adversaries with strength and grace, and uncommonly high qualifications, made my heart soar with nationalistic pride.  She was my candidate from the beginning. I am blue for her and for every person who voted for her and for my two beautiful granddaughters who might have witnessed this historic sea-change. I pray a qualified compassionate female candidate will come forth in their lifetimes, let alone mine.
 
Compassion might be the defining characteristic of my blueness. Unless there is a war on American soil, I will never have a gun in my home. Nor will I allow anyone to bring one in. I am not afraid of the people I meet on the street or anywhere else I go. I understand some might be unstable or angry or be a true enemy to my health and safety. But I will still see their humanity hiding there, and if I have a chance, I will do what I can to reach in and touch it. I am also smart enough to sense and avoid danger when I see it. I will not teach my granddaughters hatred and fear, rather their antidotes, love and faith. I believe love is the defining principle of the universe. Love is what we are made of, love is where we are going. Love is what saves us.
 
I’m not without judgment; I’m not without sin. Yet I believe that ego does not always serve our highest purpose. Nor does greed. We are stuck between our need to survive and our ultimate goal to transcend the limits of our humanity and to embrace our Godliness.
 
Some might call me weak for my compassion and belief in humanity’s goodness at its core. But I am not weak. I am full of the courage to seek my path and to stand up for who I am and what I believe. You want to see a Mama Bear? Just threaten my beloveds.
 
Are my beloveds threatened now by this election and this president-elect? I don’t yet know. Are my beloveds threatened by an enemy without? That, I pray will not come to pass. But the future is yet to be written and I am a patient woman. I’ll give government a chance to make a future or to destroy it. There will be many rainbows and silver linings among the storms. There will always be a guiding light in the darkness. That much I know for sure. There is beauty in nature and there is only God.
 
I did not take to the streets in the 1960’s, but I might do so in 2017 or 2018. My eyes and ears are open. I will not bring a gun, but will bring my words and my fierce heart.
 
And I will make art. Talking to my wonderful son the day after the election, we agreed we’d make art. Art may endure beyond politics. Art expresses what is inside. Art lets us be who we came here to be.
 
And that is the most important thing of all. That, and to do good in the world.

​We grow zucchini in our small vegetable garden every year.  It is the most prolific vegetable, producing baseball bat sized fruits on a weekly basis. In mid-August I had a dream about an Oscar Meyer wiener type vehicle with the body of a zucchini. Two men were rolling it along on wheels. It was huge, as long as a bus!
 
Knowing the dream was a sign, I got up and went out to the garden. There I found the nice baby squash I’d seen just a day or two before, had grown to an alarming size. Nothing to do but pick them and go through the zucchini recipes. Zucchini fries. Zucchini spaghetti noodles. Stuffed zucchini. All done. So I thought of my puréed green soup, something I’d invented a summer or two before. Zucchini, onion, potatoes, garlic, chicken broth. Sour cream stirred in to make it creamy.
 
I read recipes but don’t usually follow them. I am more of an intuitive cook. I have an idea of what works together and tend to repeat myself with variations. I don’t spice heavily, relying on ingredients like garlic and onion for flavor, a little salt, fresh herbs, olive oil. Parsley stays alive in our front garden until thanksgiving or so. Chives too.
 
After that dream, I made two batches of green soup, each delicious, good for dinner or breakfast, and enhanced by the addition of a little sour cream (or a lot). Then my husband took over. He saw that he could use up many of the vegetables he’d been growing in the garden, including some larger squash that I’d passed over, and handfuls of Swiss chard. His first batch was a grand success, so he made another using the baseball bat sized squash I’d left in the basket. They were so big, I’d given up on them, thinking their skins would be tough, their insides seedy. But no, the blender worked miracles. They were just right for green soup.
 
Jim loves making green soup. He’s made it twice a week through the early fall.  He’s got at least one more batch in him before the freeze. Out to the garden, washing, chopping, sautéing puréeing. He’s frozen green soup, given it away to his clients, and we’ve enjoyed it every time.  He’s made his adjustments to my recipe, best thing is the chile or two he’s been sneaking in. Makes it spicy. And the carrots add a little heft and sweetness. He’s left off the sour cream except as a serving garnish He thinks he’s invented it now, and in a way he has. He has it down, and he creates the batch each time to perfection.
 
Here’s the recipe loosely.
 
Ingredients:
 
Red or white potatoes as a thickening base
Zucchini – lots of it and large ones are OK
Onion
Garlic
Fresh garden herbs like basil, chives, parsley
Chard or spinach, large quantities OK
One small chile or pepper (not two, Jim)
Salt
Fresh carrots if you like
Chicken broth
Cooking instructions:
 
Cut potatoes, onions, and zucchini in chunks. Sautée vegetables in olive oil. If using carrots, add those now. Once the vegetables are soft, add broth. Pile in a large portion of greens, and cook down until tender and reduced. Add more broth as needed. Add late spices like garlic and fresh herbs.
 
Purée soup in a blender, not filling it too full with the hot liquid. (I read a warning that said filling a blender too full with hot liquid can cause cracking, exploding, etc. NOT GOOD! SO BE CAREFUL!) Return soup to the pot and continue fished out the chunks and puréeing. Soup is done when most chunks are gone and the soup is a brilliant green color. Soup can be served with a dollop of sour cream. If not eating carbs, don’t have buttered toast. Otherwise it’s a delicious side.
 
Freeze leftovers (if any) to enjoy 

As they drove into Bandelier National Monument, a breathtaking canyon opened up below the road. Harrison told her the cliff face was full of caves where the Indians once made their homes high above the canyon floor.

"You see dozens of them here," Harrison said when they came upon a grazing doe and her fawn. "They're practically tame."

Harrison crossed the creek and veering into an open field of golden grasses. He squinted into the light. "There's a cave up there."

"I see lots of caves," Kelsey said.

"Look," said Kelsey. "Pictographs."

They sat with their backs to the cliff, watching the sun drop behind the bluff across the valley.

"It takes half an hour to cut down a tree, and two hundred years to grow it back," Harrison said. "A terrible karmic debt, in my view."

"The earth is like God," Kelsey said. "It has a long memory, and infinite capacity to heal."

​I’ve heard people say, “I write because I can’t not write.” At first glance this statement appears self-aggrandizing, i.e. I am that very special kind of person who was born to write, and you, that not-so-special person, are not like this and furthermore you wouldn’t understand.
 
I have enough trouble with specialness, being an only child (and the mother of an only child). I am a tribe of one, a unique snowflake, the center of the universe. So of course being also a very good introspective introvert (as are many only children) I would avoid this attitude at all costs.
 
But let’s follow the I-can’t-not-write idea a little further. If I, for instance, am caught up in pre-tax season, pulling together paperwork, proving the books for my 12-15 entities, I am usually not writing anything other than a few e-mails (granted, they are edited three times), but I’m not really writing. I might find myself getting a little dull, a little grumpy as I engage that problem solving part of my brain for hours and days on end, rushing to finish while still achieving numerical perfection that is only a little elusive because it is achievable. I get the bulldog complex. Won’t let go, won’t let go, won’t let go. Here’s what’s in my brain: If I can just get this done, I will be able to take a few days off to do some writing. If I just put it all away in neat color-coded folders, send the package off to the CPA, I will be able to WRITE this weekend.
 
Yes, I like to write. It is fun, it is satisfying, it is pleasure. It is my reward.
 
But it’s not really true that I can’t not write the same as I can’t not eat or can’t not breathe. I suppose I could not breathe, but I’d be dead then, certainly a valid state of being, or non-being, I suppose.
 
Here’s a better truth: I LIKE to write.
 
When I sit down at the computer or over a notebook and start typing or fidgeting with some sentence or paragraph, I get all smiley on the inside. Here I am at last, free and creative. I don’t know where I’ll be led. It’s like traveling to a foreign country. Around the next bend is something new. Or someone new.
 
Or I find myself wrapping my brain around a nice structural book-length problem. I don’t suffer from writer’s block (though sometimes I just want to go watch TV).  Usually, once I get started, the time disappears, and it’s soon lunch time and I’m hungry so I better stop to eat. (This also happens when I’m at one of my favorite clients’ office cranking through the numbers, absorbed, and suddenly look up and it’s four thirty.)
 
“Keep telling,” my six year old granddaughter Sadie said on a recent visit. She had discovered that I had written a book, that it was published and I was going to do a reading and a book signing in the coming days. So every evening she would sit with me on the back porch and ask me to, “Keep telling.” I’d describe a little more about Atlantis and Iriel and Kelsey and the characters and the story. When I got to the point of needing to provide a PG version of the romantic and sexual tensions that plagued the main characters I told her, “Kelsey has two boyfriends.”
 
“I have six,” Sadie responded without missing a beat.
 
Keep telling, that’s the essence of it. Writing seems the most sensible thing to do in light of the stories that run around in my head and the partly edited books that live in my computer.
 
Making art is an added benefit. Writing, like music, has that surprise element of beauty, a description, a truth, a discovery. When I’m writing I have a chance to express something that I didn’t know before. Maybe my characters reflect some personal truth that I haven’t quite understood, like, what it was like to be a teenager dealing with the death of a parent, or even remembering falling in love or being a child or winning a prize. Or more simply, didn’t I always want to travel to Atlantis?
 
Here I am with my feet in the sand at last, and the smell of salt in the air and the hush of the ocean filling my ears and clouds drifting overhead and the heat of the sun warming my back.
 
And then there’s that ambition.
 
What I really want to do is write something good, something really good. I want to express a UNIVERSAL TRUTH that inspires people, that makes people weep, that makes them laugh and go AH! I want to create a character so universal, so admirable that no-one ever forgets them, whether a Rocky Balboa, or an Anna Karenina, or a Siddhartha. Or a world or history so profound or interesting that everyone wants to go there … Or just make something beautiful.
 
Are we there yet? No, not yet. How much longer? Until the end of my lifetime, I suppose, and even then I probably won’t know for sure.
 
So in answer to your question, writing is my soul’s expression which is pretty close to soul purpose, which is pretty close to my reason for being alive.  That’s why I write.