Writing

A little bit more about me and about writing.

My Grandmother

My grandmother traveled the world, but spent most of her life in Kimball, Nebraska. She was a writer who published stories in the 30s and 40s, then quit writing for reasons which are still somewhat of a family mystery. I absolutely loved visiting her in Nebraska.

Sometimes when I am at a party in New York, I will hear someone make a disparaging comment about Nebraska, or farmers or the Great Plains. I don’t have a lot of patience for this kind of arrogance.

My grandmother encouraged my imagination and reading habits from an early age (my parents limited the amount of TV I could watch to 2 hours a week). We called each other "Mole" and "Rat" on the phone, after the characters in the Wind in the Willows. When we went for walks, we pretended we were on the Yellow Brick Road. She was pleased when I grew up and fell in love with the Brontes; I had learned that imagination and passion weren’t reserved for children’s fiction alone. I wish she were still alive today because I still want to reach for the phone and call her when I have read a good book. Reading friends are precious.

As for why my grandmother stopped writing—I don’t really know. The one thing I can say is that writing is really difficult. Most writing days are spent alone, at the computer, with no one cheering you on. Most days my mailbox contains a rejection letter (or 2 or 3). It can be depressing. I wouldn’t begrudge anyone who gave up. At the same time, the only way to have any success at all is to keep moving forward. >> Next