Tag: writing

Blog, Ramblings

Defining Success

Alexandra Alessandri

With the upcoming start of the semester, the notion of academic success is thick in the air. I can smell it. The word is chanted through the halls, written in dark, bold colors, and engraved in the minds of new and continuing students. We want them to succeed. We want them to want to succeed.

The thing is, success is such a charged word. It’s what people everywhere hinge on to deem their worth in society, in academia, or amongst family and peers. So it’s almost as if there’s a movement to counter that. Let’s not care about success. Let’s not worry about passing college. Let’s not allow “the big man” to determine our success.

And in part, I understand. Success is sometimes overrated. Or rather, someone else’s concept of success is overrated. When it comes down to it, we have to decide for ourselves what success means. And then we need to go for it.

According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary (online), success is “a : degree or measure of succeeding b : favorable or desired outcome; also : the attainment of wealth, favor, or eminence.”

As you can see, the definition varies. For many, success is “the attainment of wealth, favor, or eminence.” I will say this now: this is a hollow form of success. Sure, it’s nice to have money. Sure, it’s nice to have favor or eminence. But if that’s all you have, I feel sorry for you. Because that isn’t true success. Of course, that’s my humble opinion, and I know many who will fight me ferociously on this.

I like to think of success as the second part of the definition: “favorable or desired outcome.” This gives more room to fit in our own unique goals and aspirations. It makes success reachable since we can break up our big goals into reachable, smaller ones, and with each smaller success, build up our confidence in ourselves. In this way, success could be earning a nice paycheck, but it would be so much more than that: It would be satisfaction in our career, it would be love of what we do, it would be balancing our private and professional worlds. Each of those constitute success.

So how does this translate into the classroom? Success isn’t just about getting the A in the class. A’s are (pardon the redundancy) overrated. And if the statistics and research is correct, A’s are inflated anyway, so they don’t count as much as they used to. Success isn’t all about passing exams. Instead, success is about learning along the way. If you end a semester knowing more than when you started, you’ve succeeded. If you’ve built solid peer and mentor relationships, you’ve succeeded. If you’ve helped anyone along the way, you’ve succeeded. Success isn’t all about the end result or the big picture; it’s also about the process and the smaller steps along the way.

Of course, this means that in order to succeed in part, even if it’s not with an A, students need to care about themselves enough to have goals. Students need to roll up their sleeves and pants, and get ready to get dirty with learning. It’s not always fun. It’s not always pleasant, but it is worth it. It really boils down to students caring enough about their goals. If education is where you see success, then you need to do your part. Success isn’t just handed out; it’s earned.

And I would do well to remind myself of this conviction when it comes to my own goals and aspirations. Just because I haven’t reached my ultimate goals doesn’t mean I haven’t succeeded. I just need to look around me at what I have accomplished to know that I have, indeed, succeeded.

Blog, Ramblings

Incoherent Musings (or Not)

Alexandra Alessandri

My mind has been a bit depleted of blog topics, what with the end of the summer term upon me (grades due in less than two days!), grading, and working on my own writing for my two classes. I feel a bit scatterbrained, sitting in front of my computer, urging myself to post something, anything, but all I do is stare straight ahead, mouth slightly ajar. I wonder if I can fall asleep in this upright position. I’m exhausted from today’s grading marathon, but I’m still here, urging myself to write. So these might be some incoherent musings.

I’m working on a picture book manuscript for one of my classes. I’m hoping to get good feedback on it and maybe prep it to send out. I love how writing works – much like memory actually, when one memory triggers another then another until there’s a web of memories knitting together your past. Writing works like that for me – I start writing something and then, the ideas start coming. One by one. I jot them down and then tackle them in whatever order is most pressing. It’s not terribly organized, and one of my tasks at hand is organizing myself to focus on ONE project and ONE project alone, from start to finish. Otherwise, I’ll be spinning in circles without ever reaching the end.

So, for the time being, apart from the materials for my classes, I will be focusing all my creative energy around this fiction project, possibly a novel. The characters in this project have hijacked my subconscious and I find myself needing to know exactly how everything plays out. I’ve come to realize this will be a YA novel, and I’m excited by that (and terrified!). The next two courses taken at UCLA’s Writers Extension program will be dedicated to getting my behind in the right gear for this project. Because, damnit, I will get this done. I’ve received some very positive feedback from people I trust who are in the business, so I’m jumping in. All else will have to wait (im)patiently, and I’ll have to resign myself to jotting ideas on margins of documents.

Healthwise- I took another jab at acupuncture and noticed a short burst of energy immediately following the treatment. I’m going to give it the 6 weeks I have per my insurance and see how it helps. The doctor also started me on some natural Chinese herbs to help balance me out. I still haven’t gone to the yoga, though I’m hoping to get myself there soon.

I think that’s as much energy as I have right now. Until later. Chao.

Blog, Health, Ramblings

Sleep Paralysis – A (literally) rude awakening

Alexandra Alessandri

A few months ago – I think it was towards the end of April – I had a pretty freaky experience.

It was early morning, around 6:00 AM. My husband had just kissed me good-bye on his way out to work; I was still in bed, in that half-asleep, half-awake state where all I want to do is surrender to sleep once more, but my consciousness is telling me my son is likely to wake up with the beep-beep-beep of the alarm being deactivated and reactivated.

Sometime in that in-between state, I start hearing a hish-hish-hish; I feel a presence near me and someone with a deep, male, husky voice is speaking to me, only I can’t understand what he’s saying. It sounds like parseltongue from Harry Potter! I go to move my head, and I can’t; I’m frozen in the bed, unable to move arms, legs, head or trunk, and I’m seeing but I’m not sure if my eyes are open. My chest thumps harder; I shiver and feel the prickling on my arms as the hairs rise. I try to move again, but it’s no use. Finally, I am able shake this thing off and move. I turn, sit up on the bed, and look around. I see nothing; I hear nothing. I want to go back to sleep because I’m still drowsy, but I’m too afraid what just happened. I feel lost, uncertain. What the heck just happened?!

After that “episode,” I called my husband and told him what happened. I sort of laughed about it, but the experience kept nagging at me. What had I experienced? Was there some other-world being in the house with me? Was it a spirit, a ghost? Was it a hallucination spurred on by the meds I was taking? (At this point, I was taking prednisone to help with the connective tissue thing I have going on). I didn’t google it then. I brought it up at my rheumatologist’s appointment and she wrote it down as a side-effect of the prednisone and ordered me to stop taking it.

Life went on as usual, and I didn’t experience that hallucination – or whatever you want to call it – again. I figured yep, that was the prednisone and that was that. Until yesterday morning. This time, I was in my son’s room. Again, it was in the early morning hours, but this time before my husband left for work. I was curled up, uncomfortably, at the foot of my son’s bed (he’s been having sleep/nightmare problems again – another story for another time). I remember turning over on my right side when it started happening again. I heard the hish-hish-hish sound (again – like parseltongue) but this time, a lower, childlike pitch. When I heard it, I tried to turn over, but like last time, I was frozen, stuck in that fetal position on my right. I felt the tightness in my chest, the fear swiftly covering me. There was somewhere there with us, with my son, and I couldn’t move to help either one of us, if needed. So what did I do? I started chanting, in my mind, my Our Father’s and Hail Marry’s and Glory’s I could fathom. I found it somewhat ironic that in my current state of crossroads when it comes to my religious faith, I should resort to the familiar prayers taught to me.

Like the last time, the sensation passed, and though drowsy, I was awake. I looked around my son’s room, looked up at my late-father’s crucifix over my son’s door – the same crucifix that had accompanied my father during his years in the priesthood, a present from his mother on his ordination – and heard nothing, saw nothing. My son was oblivious to anything and sleeping soundly. I returned to my room and told my husband what had happened. We both looked at each other with that “that’s weird” look, but said nothing. He left to work, and I sat in my bed, laptop on lap, and turned to Google.

I have to say what I found was interesting and had nothing to do with the spirits my mind was conjuring up. Apparently, there’s this thing called Sleep Paralysis that happens either right as one is falling asleep, or right as one is waking up. The symptoms are: inability to move limbs or trunk, a feeling of crushing or suffocating (didn’t really have this one), and sometimes, hallucinations, either auditory or visual. I definitely had the auditory ones! Here’s an article I found on About.com regarding this sleep disorder. Before the first episode, I’d never (EVER!) experienced something like this, though I did walk in my sleep when I was younger and I did (and sometimes still do) talk in my sleep.

I guess I’ll be bringing this up to my doctor, though I hope it doesn’t happen again. It’s not a very fun experience.

Has this happened to anyone else?

Blog, Writing

The Writing Process

Alexandra Alessandri

It’s always fascinating for me to listen to authors talk about their writing process, the way they reach that creative catharsis that results in a book. Or a story. Or an essay. Or a poem.

Some authors start with a character. This character can appear in a dream, or she can seep into the author’s subconscious, stalking the author until the author has no choice but to write her into existence. There is no plot yet, no specific outline of a story – just a character. Once this character is written, she takes the author by the hand (hypothetically of course) and leads her into the story. The result is the plot, the what happens, and it’s as much of an adventure for the author as it is, later, for the reader. It’s a process of discovery.

Other authors have the seed of a plot in their minds. They heard from a friend, or from a stranger, the intricacies of an event that were captivating, and that started the writing process. They explore the importance and ramifications of said event, look at the “what happens” and “how it happens” and then build characters to fit this plot. It’s still a process of discovery because even though the skeleton of the plot/story is known, the words that make the story real for the reader are discovered as the authors write their stories.

And then there are those authors who simply sit at a blank screen, or a blank page, and just start writing, letting their muses take them into the worlds they’re creating, without so much as a single preconceived notion of the final product.

It’s hard to say which is the best method, and I’m sure there are some people who swear by one method or another. I don’t think there’s a perfect method, but rather one that works best for you and for the given project.

In a piece of non-fiction, the plot is already known, so starting with a structure, an outline, might work best. If a character comes and doesn’t leave you alone (I’ve had these), run with the character until you get a clearer picture of the plot, and then go from there. If you don’t have either character or plot, but you want to write something, then write, and see where that writing takes you.

In the end, what’s important to keep the writing alive, the creativity moving, and the muses around, is to just keep writing. For a few minutes, a few hours – whatever. Just write. (INSERT the Nike “Just do it” commercial…) Write it down. Then revise it. Chop it up. Change it around. Add to it, delete from it. Mold it like you’re molding a piece of clay until the end result is just right.

Blog, Writing

I Am

Alexandra Alessandri

I Am – by A. P. Alessandri

I am from the Andes and the Amazon rainforest,
and from the warm sands of SoFla.
A mountain girl in the magic city,
bred with frijoles, sancocho and Burger King.
A speaker of romance whose tongue
becomes a contortionist–
Erre con erre cigarro, erre con erre barril.
Roll your tongue, mija, ole, niña.
A gringa among my people.
A Latina among my people.
Often confused for a stranger.
A hyphen in a world that devalues hyphens.
A hyphen in a world that overvalues hyphens.
A Paisa and Miamian born in Queens,
who celebrates Noche Buena with
buñuelos and natilla and El Niño Dios
then spends Christmas morning
unwrapping Santa Claus under the
six-foot fraiser fir from somewhere up north.

My father used to say in Latin,
de gustibus et coloribus non disputatum,
but we still argued about our differences
and the colors of our people.

I am my mother’s daughter,
a pseudo- perfectionist
who dreams of the Blue Ridge Mountains,
while moving to Cumbia and Vallenato.
I am my father’s daughter,
a seeker of justice
torn between the Ave Maria‘s and
the duplicity of the Church.

I am me.
Broken, idealistic, indecisive, strong, whole.
I am my mother’s mother and my father’s father.
Or my mother’s father and my father’s mother.
I am them, and yet I am not them.
I define binary opposites.

I am.

Blog, Travel, Writing

Another day in a beach town

Alexandra Alessandri

The rain threatens late today. It starts as a low, long rumble as we take an afternoon stroll on the beach. Towards the north, where the land and sea blend together into a solitary line, the dark clouds form shadows of mountain peaks and I almost forget that we’re in Florida’s east coast; there are no mountains here. The rain never comes, though.

The afternoon stroll was a good ending to a good day. I could get used to days like these: taking morning strolls on the beach; building sand castles and watching small shells dig their way back into the sand, far away from us and the birds that feed on them; swimming in the pool, trying out water aerobics; napping after lunch to the sound of the waves coming and going; taking an afternoon drive or walk or just sitting in the balcony, writing. I could absolutely get used to this.

I’ve been productive today, with my writing classes. For my children’s writing workshop, I finished a superhero assignment that I thought would dismantle me. One of my first sketches included Super Mom, whose powers include seeing all (a la having eyes in the back of her head – yes, clichéd, I know) and who constantly battled her nemeses Grumpy Grandma and Know-it-All Friend. A bit lame, and more a platform for a disgruntled mom than a kid’s superhero. Though I might revisit these “characters” even if for a comedic post. What I finally submitted was much better than this. I hope.

In my personal essay workshop, we had a guest author pop in, and it was very interesting. Christine O’Hagan was kind and answered our questions candidly. I always find it helpful to listen to the advice and wisdom of authors who know the ropes, who’ve published in the field I’m interested or tackling. I particularly loved when she said (and I’m paraphrasing) memoirs need to be written with compassion and humor. Compassion and humor – so important. In the process of writing my memoir (and it’s still very much a work in (early) progress), I’ve come to understand that memoir writing is not a vendetta, it’s not the opportunity to get even with someone. Memoir writing is writing without judgement, to understand and make peace with a past and with people in that past. It’s a journey and an exploration about an event (or events) and person (or people) that were significant in life and that, by sharing this experience, others can understand shards of their own lives.

Now, I sit here in the balcony. My son is asleep (finally – no nap today), and my husband is next to me, on his iPad. We’re quiet, and the only sounds that come are from the waves, the breeze, and the keys on my laptop as I’m typing. It’s a beautiful rhythm. Our vacation ends in two days, and I don’t want it to. I want to stay here, in this beach town, indefinitely. I want to get used to this routine.

Blog, Travel, Writing

Scenes from a Beach Town

Alexandra Alessandri

The smell of rain is thick and suffocating. It fills my lungs and I gasp a little. It’s that thick.

In the morning, the surfers were out in the water. We watched them from our balcony overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. They formed a jagged line out there, small on their surfboards, and they glided, moving with the same rhythm as the waves. I don’t know whether they spoke or yelled to each other; the waves drowned out any noise outside their own rhythmic whoosh as they hugged the sand, then slowly crept back into the deep.

A soft rumbling of thunder tells me the pool is out of the question, something my son is not too happy about. Instead, we climb into our car and take a small drive, stopping first at Starbucks for some much-needed coffee. There, my son orders a cookie, then pays for it, by himself. He’s almost four and proud of his accomplishment.

My son is hungry, so we head to Pistilli’s Italian Restaurant and New Jersey Style Pizza in Melbourne. We’ve been to this place before and loved it; this time is no different. We scurry from the car into the restaurant; it’s started drizzling by now, a small mist that is enough to dampen but not soak. Inside, the lights are dim, the curtains half-drawn. Large posters featuring The Godfather and The Sopranos frame the entry way. A sign in the front tells us “Welcome – Please Seat Yourself” – and so we do in a booth by the back, near the kitchen.

The decor is simple and Italian – pictures of wine bottles and grapes, Italian chefs, a small decorative sign that says “Good Food, Good Wine, Good Friends.” Tammy, our waitress, rushes from table to table; she’s alone today, but she doesn’t miss a step or mix an order. Soon, we’ve ordered our meal: two slices of cheese pizza each for my son and me, and chicken parmigiana with pasta and a side salad for my husband. While we wait, Tammy brings us some bread, and we sit back, listening to “Shake, Shake, Shake Senora,” which reminds me of the movie Beetlejuice every single time. In the kitchen, the sizzling, clanging, and chopping seems to move to the song.

When the food gets to us, we dig in. Perfection. My pizza is just right: not too much sauce, and it’s more sweet than spicy. The thin crust is not crispy, and the cheese stretches when I take a bite. This is how I like pizza. And the slices are large. My son eats an entire slice; I eat two. My husband likes his meal, too, though he eats half of it, along with half of a pizza.

We are back in the apartment. Our stay is courtesy of family, and we’re grateful. This small break by the beach is what we needed to unwind, to let the ocean sweep our worries and stress and take it back out to sea, so we can revive and renew our energies.

My son, who claimed – “I’m not tired! – in his strong, defiant little voice, is passed out on his air mattress. His soft snores tell us he was, in fact, quite tired. The sliding glass door is shut, but the waves’ rhythmic lullaby reaches us and I think we, too, will take a nap.

Outside, it’s still dark, though the east is showing some breaks of sunshine peaking through puffs of clouds. A solitary surfer remains in the water, sitting on his board. I wonder what he’s waiting for, bobbing with the waves.

 

Blog, Writing

Mamá Adela

Alexandra Alessandri

I never met Mamá Adela, my paternal grandmother. She died in the sixties from breast cancer, when my dad was still a priest. From the stories my Tio Germán tells me, my dad was in Chile when he received word of my grandmother’s declining health. He asked the Church, and was granted, a transfer back to Manizales, where he spent his time by her side.

Like my dad, she smoked cigarettes until the end. My dad often told me how he’d sneak some to her, a last gusto, because at that state, why deny her simple pleasures? Perhaps smoking was a comfort for her, a tool to embrace a death that was hers. Her husband, my grandfather, had died ten years earlier in a motorcycle accident. He was too young. Maybe she saw her sentence as a way of seeing him once more. Maybe she’d missed him, especially since the children were all grown. Or maybe she shuddered at the thought of being bound again, in the afterlife. I don’t think the latter holds true to her memory, though.

In the picture I have of her, tacked on a collage on my living room wall, she is still young. She’s sitting, staring off to the side, her hair a neat, dark bob, her thin lips in a line. No smile. I don’t think it was customary to smile in those days, but I wonder if she had other reasons not to smile. The photograph is circa 1934 and four of her six children are pictured; the final two would follow in the years to come. My dad, the youngest here, was about four or five. Germán, the oldest, must have been about eight. In the photograph, Ruth is standing next to my grandmother, behind the three sitting boys: Rodrigo, my dad, and Germán. The only ones smiling are my dad and Tia Ruth. Tio Rodrigo’s lips are also in a straight line, his eyebrows scrunched;  Tio Germán doesn’t scowl nor does he smile. When I was a child, I loved this photograph because it’s the only photo of my dad as a child. All I have of my dad’s youth are stories. This is one, tangible proof that he was, in fact, a child – funny haircut and bright, wide eyes and all.

I wonder what my grandmother felt, sitting beside her children. Did she feel divided? Did she care that she had no choices? I wonder if that’s why she didn’t smile, why she bore her cross, that woman born with the century, without complaining but without smiling. I look at her and want to know her, understand her, as if that is the key to understanding part of who I am.

I ask Tio Germán, the eldest of her children and now well into his eighties, about her and he tells me stories of her my father never did. She had poor health, unidentifiable pains the doctors couldn’t name, so they sent her to Aguadas, a valley near Manizales that provided much-needed warmth for her aches; Manizales was just too cold. She went to Aguadas with my dad whenabout six or seven, while my uncle stayed behind with my grandfather. I don’t know how the others were divided, but I wonder whether my grandmother yearned for that solitude, for that brief period of independence.

The stories I’ve heard of her are conflicting. My dad referred to her as docile, sweet; my cousins, the ones that met her, remember her as stoic, stern, and the one who punished.

In this photograph, I can see traces of both women.

Blog, Writing

Story Finished

Alexandra Alessandri

I finally finished the story on which I was working. Yeah! I can breathe relief, and go back to grading papers. I started it last summer, put it away for an entire academic year, only to pick it back up this summer. The revision was brutal. It’s my least favorite part! But I’m done. Finished. (I think). I recognize that a story is never, truly finished (until, perhaps, it’s published, but even then it can always be improved somehow, someway).

So now I’m sending it out to a few places, hoping to finally get a break.

Regardless, I’m happy with it. I feel like I’ve just given birth: exhausted, in pain, but exhilarated and thrilled.

I can now devote some time to this other story, one whose idea was conceived last summer (it was a busy, creative summer!). This is a longer piece, though I’m hesitant to say I’m embarking on a novel. It’s too scary a thought right now. I have my memoir to think about, to add to. But this story just doesn’t let go of me. Wherever I turn, it’s there. The characters haunt me, asking me when I’m going to write them down. I have scribbled notes, written character sketches, and drafted a scene which I’m thinking of carving into a short story. I can tackle this one part at a time.

Maybe I’ll go back to reading John Dufresne’s  Is Life Like This? A Guide to Writing Your First Novel in Six Months. There’s no way I’ll be able to write the entire thing in six months (I do have a day job and a family that compete for my time), but, maybe it’ll help me get started.

It scares the shit out of me, though. A novel. Maybe if I approach it like I did my Master’s thesis. Once section at a time. Maybe then it won’t seem so daunting.

Or, maybe I’ll go back to working on my memoir. I was about a third in before I stopped to focus on shorter pieces. Maybe.

 

Blog, Writing

Rules for Fiction Writers

Alexandra Alessandri

Last summer, during my Postcard Memoirs course  from UCLA’s Writers Extension online program, I was given a heap of helpful and useful links. One of those, in particular, I’ve found myself coming back to over and over again, and it’s not even for non-fiction!

The article, if you want to read it all, is “Ten Rules for Writing Fiction,” and it’s a compilation of several authors’ do’s and don’ts for writing fiction. Some of these rules (actually, many of them) can also be applied to some areas of nonfiction, especially memoir (short or long).

The following are among my favorites.

Elmore Leonard — “Never use a verb other than “said” to carry dialogue. The line of dialogue belongs to the character; the verb is the writer sticking his nose in. But “said” is far less intrusive than “grumbled”, “gasped”, “cautioned”, “lied”. I once noticed Mary McCarthy ending a line of dialogue with “she asseverated” and had to stop reading and go to the dictionary.”

“Never use the words “suddenly” or “all hell broke loose”. This rule doesn’t require an explanation. I have noticed that writers who use “suddenly” tend to exercise less control in the application of exclamation points.”

“If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.”

Diana Athill — “Read it aloud to yourself because that’s the only way to be sure the rhythms of the sentences are OK (prose rhythms are too complex and subtle to be thought out – they can be got right only by ear).”

Margaret Atwood — “Hold the reader’s attention. (This is likely to work better if you can hold your own.) But you don’t know who the reader is, so it’s like shooting fish with a slingshot in the dark. What fascinates A will bore the pants off B.”

“You most likely need a thesaurus, a rudimentary grammar book, and a grip on reality. This latter means: there’s no free lunch. Writing is work. It’s also gambling. You don’t get a pension plan. Other people can help you a bit, but essentially you’re on your own. Nobody is making you do this: you chose it, so don’t whine.”

“Don’t sit down in the middle of the woods. If you’re lost in the plot or blocked, retrace your steps to where you went wrong. Then take the other road. And/or change the person. Change the tense. Change the opening page.”

Roddy Doyle — “Do keep a thesaurus, but in the shed at the back of the garden or behind the fridge, somewhere that demands travel or effort. Chances are the words that come into your head will do fine, eg “horse”, “ran”, “said”.”

Helen Dunmore — “Finish the day’s writing when you still want to continue.”

Geoff Dyer — “Keep a diary. The biggest regret of my writing life is that I have never kept a journal or a diary.”

“Do it every day. Make a habit of putting your observations into words and gradually this will become instinct. This is the most important rule of all and, naturally, I don’t follow it.”

Anne Enright — “The way to write a book is to actually write a book. A pen is useful, typing is also good. Keep putting words on the page.”

Jonathan Franzen — “Fiction that isn’t an author’s personal adventure into the frightening or the unknown isn’t worth writing for anything but money.”

Esther Freud — “Find your best time of the day for writing and write. Don’t let anything else interfere. Afterwards it won’t matter to you that the kitchen is a mess.”

“Don’t wait for inspiration. Discipline is the key.”

Neil Gainman — “Remember: when people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong.”

PD James — “Increase your word power. Words are the raw material of our craft. The greater your vocabulary the more effective your writing. We who write in English are fortunate to have the richest and most versatile language in the world. Respect it.”

“Don’t just plan to write – write. It is only by writing, not dreaming about it, that we develop our own style.”

“Write what you need to write, not what is currently popular or what you think will sell.”

Al Kennedy — “Have humility. Older/more experienced/more convincing writers may offer rules and varieties of advice. Consider what they say. However, don’t automatically give them charge of your brain, or anything else – they might be bitter, twisted, burned-out, manipulative, or just not very like you.”

“Have more humility. Remember you don’t know the limits of your own abilities. Successful or not, if you keep pushing beyond yourself, you will enrich your own life – and maybe even please a few strangers.”

“Remember you love writing. It wouldn’t be worth it if you didn’t. If the love fades, do what you need to and get it back.”