Technical writers or non fiction writers scribble to pay the bills and for the love of the analytical or the exercise of truth or deception.

Fiction authors write to illuminate their world or escape it.

Whichever kind of writer, it's all about staying alive and helping or entertaining others.

The Writing Life

Like most writers, I have a love of reading and the power of words. When I was younger, I read everything I could get my hands on, but I don’t consider myself well read. I consumed books like a starved person, so quickly I hardly knew what I had read. By some strange process of osmosis, I learned from everything I read, but I cannot give you an erudite discussion of characters, plots, or authors. I can only tell you it’s lodged some where in the core of my being and informs my writing.

In addition to reading, I’ve spent a life time writing---from that first elementary school composition to my college days when I studied French literature and wrote explications de texte. Along the way, I fell into technical writing--to put food on the table and pay bills. In the 90s, I had the good fortune to take a dialog class with Sol Stein, former owner of Stein & Day publishers in New York and a prolific author. That led to his California-based writers’ group, Chapter One. It was a rigorous, ego-bruising experience, but I was intent on learning everything I could about fiction writing. A few years ago, I also had the good fortune to study with another writer, Louella Nelson, an experienced romance writer and teacher of fiction writing. She provided a different perspective and balance to my writing.

My novel, DREAMING OF LAUGHING HAWK, a mainstream, Sixties era novel, is available on Amazon in print and ebook (also available in Canada, Europe, Japan, and Brazil). Download a free sample. If you like it, I hope you'll download the book and post a review on Amazon.

Monday, February 23, 2015

A Short Story: Running Away (Part 1)

Lora: The Tunnel

There is a cold drizzle coming down. It is raining in my heart. I am sitting in a street underpass in my neighborhood late at night with my 5-year old daughter Mila and 10-year old son Jordan. I pray no dog walker comes along and I have to explain what I am doing here squatted in front of this little fire of twigs we have collected. We are camping out. Sort of. I do not know why I am here except that my husband will be checking all the hotels but he will not be looking here yet. I must be out of my mind. I wonder when he will call the police. Not yet. He has a few cards he wants to play first. He thinks I am pathetically weak and foolish. I'm sure to screw up. I have to think clearly.

I hand out sandwiches and bags of chips to my children. They are giggling. I am glad my son is still a little too young to ask critical questions and little Mila thinks this is all a great adventure. For months, on my long soul-searching walks, I imagined I could find a hiding place in the surrounding terrain, like a lioness trying to find a safe place to stash her cubs. Escape was always on my mind. I know hiding out in a park doesn’t make sense, but I have actually been planning—trying to stay alive.

“Sshh.” I don’t want any passerby to hear us.

They button up their jackets and wiggle into their sleeping bags. “The ground is hard,” Jordan says.

“I promise you a softer bed tomorrow.” I had better figure out where we go from here. I cannot afford to make any mistakes.

to be continued . . . 

1 comment:

  1. She's in desperate trouble. No car and a husband with murder on his mind? I'll stay tuned for the next installment.