Sunday, September 23, 2007


It's funny how we stay the same age in hour heads no matter how old we get. I was remembering snippets of the past, the picnic bench that was almost as high as my shoulders, snow piles on the side of a country road, higher than my head, sneaking into the drive-in theatre in Dallas and cutting my foot through my sandals, mother putting her make-up on at the kitchen table, hair in curlers, a quiet strength and sense of self. I couldn't possibly be older now than she was then, but I am. Little things pop into the head, your baby's face when he was six weeks old, you touched him all over to remember this moment that wouldn't last.

Part of what writing is for is to put down those moments, in fiction or nonfiction. We use all the memories to create what we have on paper. The details are what make fiction sing and draw the reader into the story.

Writing sang today. It may not be a masterpiece, but it seemed to flow together, jell into a viable, living form. Love those days.

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