Whether you’re a brand-new writer or writer of many years, be sure to check out Carol Edgarian’s letter to a young college graduate who wants to write but doesn’t know where to start.
Barbara’s Riffs on Life
The Writing Room: Different From, Different Than – Which Is It?
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Some of my favorite books on the craft of writing. Photo by Barbara Falconer Newhall[/caption]
Some of my favorite books on the craft of writing. Photo by Barbara Falconer Newhall[/caption]
I was at the gym working on my pecs and abdominals the other day when I spotted a flyer announcing, “Belly fat is different than other fat.” Shouldn’t that be different from? What’s correct? I hadn’t a clue. Read more.
Geographic Mobility in America — Watching My Grown-Up Kids Disappear
Most of my grandmother’s children – there were seven of them – lived out their lives within walking distance of their mother’s white frame house in Scottville, Michigan. Not my father. He moved away. So did I. So has my son. Read more.
A (Pillow) Case of the Human Condition: Time to Crack Open That Hope Chest and Live a Little
I waited too long to get married. By the time Jon and I said our vows, the contents of my hope chest had become outdated, old-fashioned, fussy — unusable. As a result, after thirty some years of marriage, I continue to be the owner of a dozen or so beautiful, hand-embroidered, virginal pillowcases. Read more.
A (Contagious) Case of the Human Condition: How a Mother of Preschool Kids Outsmarts the Mighty Microbe
I believe in microbes. Microbes are like God. You can’t hear them, taste them, smell them or see them with the naked eye. But you know they’re there. Lately, I’ve had more experiences with microbes than with God. I’ve been sick a lot. Read more.
Feng Shui Tip for the Writing Room and the Bedroom — Your Mother’s Not Allowed, and Neither Are the Kids
There are no photos in my my writing room. No kids, no parents, no family. Pictures of my parents have the worst effect on me when I’m trying to write. “When are you going to get a real job, Barb?” they shout from their frames as I enter the workroom. Peering over my shoulder, they pass judgment on me and my thoughts, “You’re writing about that? Shame on you.”