Veteran journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall riffs on life as she knows it.
I want to write about tulips today. I don’t want to write about sex. The trouble is, for me, writing about tulips means writing about sex: something about their juicy curves brings erotic metaphors to my particular mind. I had thought that once my mother — and father — were no longer alive and reading over my shoulder, I’d be able to write my heart out, but . . . Read more.
The fifth-century Saint Jerome kept a human skull on his desk to remind him of his mortality – memento mori. But if you’re like me and you like to take walks in the woods, you don’t need a skull taking up space on your desk to remind you that sooner or later everything dies, including you. That’s because the woods are full of dead stuff. Read more.
Art. Bouquets. More art. More bouquets. My idea of a good time. I spent the day yesterday at the annual Bouquets to Art show at the de Young Fine Arts Museum in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park — joined by two friends who enjoy flowers and art as much as I do. Read more.
You get an idea for a book. You like it a lot. You think people are going to want to read this book. You’re stoked. Then you fret for months and years over how to transform this idea you like so much into a 250-page manuscript that people will actually read. Read more.
I went away for the weekend, and when I showed up in my writing room on Monday morning my laptop had crashed. “It’s not your fault,” said the computer repair guy. “Computers are machines. Machines break.“
Basically, there are two kinds of Californian. Those who are delighted by a sunny February day. And those who are dismayed. Jon is one of the latter. You can chart the weather by Jon’s moods. Read more.