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For those of you who have come to this blog after reading my article in Minnesota Women’s Press, or my recent post on, welcome!  This is a blog about the art and practice of writing the old fashioned way, pen-to-paper style.  With the ballistic growth of the Internet since my days at the University of Wisconsin-Madison in the early-nineties, when there were two links: (I don’t even think they were called “links” back then) “phone books,” and “international phone books,”  I’ve noticed the slow death of the actual practice of sitting down within the landscape of our own minds, with the quiet art of a pen unfurling words on a page revealing our unique penmanship.

The act of writing is an art form in and of itself.  An art of the mind and body, of interpreting emotion through our experiences, of taking what is in our heads and hearts and drawing it out, letter by letter, word by word on paper.  The art of the inner dream unfolding itself, reflecting on itself.  That’s what I hope to preserve and inspire, for myself and for anyone who comes to this site to seek inspiration within their own writing lives.

At times it is difficult for me to navigate and share this art in a technological world.  Especially when ten times out of ten I would prefer sitting in a coffee shop with my colored Sharpie pens and a bunch of blank pages rather than hunting and pecking around for an outlet and Internet connection.

I am not against typing on a computer.  I recently wrote a book that way.  And I’m typing this very moment, the cord of my computer snaking out of the door of my Treehouse onto the deck where I can feel the breeze and listen to the birds as they serenade my efforts.

But the art of writing that sustains and grounds me has nothing to do with computers or technology.  And time being the finite thing that it is, I get surly when my well-meaning web guy urges me to feed Twitter and Facebook and all of that other social media stuff that I believe just distracts us from living our own precious lives and moments.

During this summer, I plan on soaking in Life with my five-year old son Oliver, who prefers to pull his socks up to his knees on a 90 degree day rather than wear sandals, my three-year old daughter Lucy, who changes her outfit 14 times a day and who is a mischief-maker disguised as a golden ringlet-curled leaping angel, and my best friend and husband Paul, who I sit behind on our tandem mountain bike as we prepare for the 100 miles of Leadville in August.

I will continue to write for myself, in the pages of my journals, trying to harness and remember these moments in my life right now, but during this brief Minneapolis summer, I will only be posting when the inspiration blows through me and I cannot help opening my computer to share my epiphanies.

I will return to regular postings this fall, when Oliver enters kindergarten and Lucy begins preschool, when a schedule returns routine and cadence to our days.

Until then, I urge you to stop back now and then for little bits of inspiration here and there or to email me with any questions or comments.  I also urge you to buy yourself a pack of colored Sharpies and a journal and revel in the uniquely wondrous and ordinary moments of your life.  Because this time, right now is all we have for sure.  And right now, this very moment, and all of the moments following make up our lives.  Write about yours.


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