Veteran journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall riffs on life as she knows it.
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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.
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.
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 By the time Jon and I said our vows, the contents of my hope chest had become outdated, old-fashioned, fussy — unusable.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.
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.
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.”
I’d like to recommend Harvey Cox’s newest book to all my non-believer friends. So many of the sophisticated, highly educated people I know labor under the assumption that they have to believe – to assent intellectually to – the factuality of traditional Christian teaching. They don’t. And here’s why: The idea of a fixed creed to which a true Christian must subscribe dates back, not to the life of Jesus, but to the emperor Constantine. Read more.
The kids were still pre-schoolers at the time, and it had been another night of sleep deprivation for me. “Tell me it gets easier,” I said to my friend Nancy. “Well, actually it gets harder,” she replied. Nancy has a daughter three years older than Peter. She keeps me briefed on the parenting realities ahead. Read more.