Irish author Edna O’Brien spoke candidly in an interview about the difficulty of writers having a social life, even – and especially – when the writing is going well. Admitting that this leads to a necessarily “lonely” life she said, “Every writer dreads losing the momentum, and to keep it you can’t be truly sociable.”

It’s a creed I’ve lived by and written about. Friends kindly describe me as “dedicated” and others say “obsessive,” for I try not to let anything or anyone interfere with the hours I need for writing, I am too attuned to time running out to have tolerance for “wasted moments,” meaning non-creative days.

But today I’m writing words I never expected to, for my head is turned in a different direction. It’s because of a shocking phone call from one of my newest friends. Actually it’s a friendship that’s never had a chance to fully blossom. I met Emily in my synagogue, the only woman there I felt kinship with. Apparently Emily felt the same rapport, for in-between our frequent chats she suggested we have lunch together. With my usual reluctance to let anything interfere with my writing schedule, I kept postponing the date. It’s true I had an overly loaded plate, for I was also teaching a memoir writing class and lining up talks about my books. She also has a busy life, with a large family. So for several years it was “one of these days…”

Finally we did get together for what I thought would be an hour or two. Even then I left my desk with a grudging feeling of “should,” promising myself to keep the luncheon short. But I quickly jettisoned that, for being with Emily was a rare experience. She wasn’t interested in idle gossip or chatter, but brought up subjects that opened wider doors – provocative books, the ethics of art and religion, as well as our mutual concern for the downward slope of our country. As we parted – after four hours! – we agreed it had been a wonderful stimulating afternoon and we should do it again soon. But “soon” can be a relative word.

Life, as the saying goes, gets in the way. My partner had a near fatal fall, resulting in permanent disability and a changed life for both of us. Helping him has consumed so much time and energy I’ve become more frantic than ever about salvaging my writing. So I kept assuring Emily we would get together again “when there’s time.” What a futile phrase that is. There’s always “time,” but not always us.

In December I called to say let’s start the New Year with a belated lunch. She said it would have to wait, she’d just been diagnosed with cancer. She would call me when she saw how the chemo treatments were going. The disease was merciless and rapid; she’s now in hospice.

Yes, writing is a number one priority in my life, alongside of my children and grandchildren. But to what extent should it crowd out other things, other people? This is not a mea culpa, for it isn’t guilt I feel about my friend. My “mea” is an abyss of regret, of loss, for what I let slip away.

For years my mantra has been an anonymous quote I once found: Writing is who I am. I have said it repeatedly and proudly. But today I revise it: Writing is my passion, it’s what I must do. But it’s not all of me, nor should it be. The challenge we would each do well to ponder is: How do we best divide ourselves between our work and the rest of living?

BOOKS: Widow’s Walk – available through; Turning Toward Tomorrow –; Ten Women of Valor and Role Play- both available through; also Amazon Kindle.


One February years ago a friend’s child had to have open heart surgery. His mother told me, “I walked into a coffee shop, saw all those Valentine candy boxes on the counter, and ran out. I can’t  stand the sight of those blood-red hearts!”

It shocked me into realizing how images we take for granted can be painful for someone else. Valentine’s Day is around the corner as I write this, with cheery voices on TV and radio telling us to remember our loved one with candy, flowers, champagne, what not.

Reality check: There are a multitude of people for whom the holiday is a reminder of a “loved one” who is gone –perhaps through death or divorce. Or who may be far away geographically. It can also be emotional distance from a child, sibling, parent, friend.

For years I’ve just said, how sad for so and so.  But I realize this doesn’t help them. What does help is my hand reaching to that friend or relative or neighbor, even if it’s a phone call to say “thinking of you.”  Better still, an invitation for the two of you to get together that difficult day.

Of course, the wounded ones may be ourselves! My “Valentine” is still alive – more or less. Body here, mind gone somewhere I can’t follow. Aloneness comes in many forms.

So what can we do to help ourselves?  I’m back to a favorite passion: journaling. After many years I still find mystical help in writing my feelings. It enables me to share my sorrow and hopes, and to find ways through them. (On the other hand, if the  distance from that special someone is because of betrayal, venting anger in the safety of those pages can be a great antidote to depression!)

I’ve advised so many students and readers to journal. Also, to write a letter to the person who’s gone.  Say how much you miss being together, and how you’re managing to go on. The letter will never  be mailed, but it can be surprisingly  therapeutic. It can also be  a letter that does get mailed – -an attempt to reach out through the barriers  of estrangement or to tell a good friend that you appreciate the loyalty and caring.

P.S. As a perennial dieter, I’ve decided  that  Valentine’s  Day is a time to give myself  permission to indulge in guilt-free chocolate. There’s no rule that says we can’t buy those treats for ourselves!

BOOKS: Widow’s Walk – available through; Turning Toward Tomorrow –; Ten Women of Valor and Role Play–; also Amazon Kindle.


This winter has been my “season of discontent,” a continuing obstacle course between helping the seriously ill person I love and trying to find space in my head for creating new stories.

So it was interesting to come across an excerpt from Hortense Calisher’s autobiography, HERSELF. Calisher, who was married and had two children, was middle-aged before she was able to begin writing. She was bluntly asked by a famous writer if she had “wanted” children and didn’t they “interfere” with attempts to write?

Calisher’s reply was emphatic :”Yes, I did want them and, yes, they did interfere – but everything does. And everything contributes.”

Refusing to use the “escape route excuse” of motherhood, she describes having to walk her youngest child to and from school every day. But while walking back home alone and then back again to pick him up, she wrote a story in her head.. She also used moments “in- between housework” to write poems.

Poetry has become my alternate route. Unable to find a clearing space for longer works, I’ve discovered I can express the conflicted feelings of being a caregiver in the brevity and immediacy of poems.

Yet there’s another side to this “life gets in the way” aspect.. Calisher is candid in revealing that the main obstacle wasn’t the burden of family, but a lack of belief in her ability to write – or that she even deserved to be a writer. Comparing herself to great authors of the past, she decided she could never write as well as they did, so why try?

This absence of self-belief is the greater hurdle for so many of us. Easy to say, “I have too many problems/chores/demands so how can I possibly find time and space to write?” Maybe we’re tuning out the real message in our inner circuit: ”I’m not good enough.”

When Calisher found strength to plow through her myriad obstacles, she
became one of the 20th century’s most prolific writers – dozens of novels, short story collections, memoirs. Ironically for someone who didn’t believe she was “good enough” to be a writer , she won numerous prestigious awards and became only the second woman to be president of the American Academy of Arts and Letters. Undoubtedly writing became easier for her once the children were grown. But Calisher had grown, too, by all she recognized and fought through.

“Everything contributes. …”
After a year- long drought I’ve finally written a new story. What surprises
me is how different the writing is from my pre-crises efforts, and how strong the voice is. Did having to fight to give birth to this story contribute to its strength?

Yes, it’s all a balancing act. But it needn’t throw us off-balance.

BOOKS: “WIDOW’S WALK” – available through; ‘”TURNING TOWARD TOMORROW”; ; “TEN WOMEN OF VALOR” and ‘ROLE PLAY”- and Amazon Kindle.


Sticks and stones may hurt my bones
But words will never harm me…”

That defiant 19th Century children’s chant is wishful thinking. Words can be weapons of personal as well as mass destruction, resulting  in long- lasting wounds. If you have any doubt about this, consider the effect of President Trump’s vulgar dismissive words about people of different color, which have inflicted pain on Haitians , Africans and everyone who respects human dignity. ( Ironically, the children’s chant originated in a publication of the African Methodist Episcopal Church!)

We each have a responsibility to be careful of the words we inflict in a moment of anger. We should choose our written words even more cautiously, for what’s in print is more permanent.

Our twitter-addicted president doesn’t even seem to have the benefit of an extensive vocabulary. Rhetoric is not his forte.  Unfortunately for his ego, no matter how far he demolishes his predecessor’s  legacy, Obama’s masterful command of language is on indelible display in his published books and speeches.

As writers, it can be useful to read aloud what we’re working on, for we become aware of repetitive or boring words. Speaking for myself, I’ve become aware of words I use too often; for instance, ”stare.” In my stories, it seems someone is always staring at someone or something. What about glance, glare, peer, or even giving someone a piercing look ? Just think of the variety that could spice up the page. Even that famed childhood chant has different variations. Historical references to “never harm me,” also include hurt me, break me, and down me.

If you’re looking for ways to avoid the banal, it’s worthwhile to wander through “Thesaurus of Alternatives to Worn-Out Words and Phrases ,” edited by Robert Hartwell Fiske. It’s a collection of what Fiske calls ”dimwitticisms,” trite expressions where less worn words would be more arresting. For instance, ”You get under my skin”(a common Trump ailment apparently), Fiske suggests that our irritation could be alternatively expressed as nettle, rankle ,chafe, etc.

What life we might give our words when we spice our conversation or our writing – even personal E-mails – with the unexpected. It’s like adding unique seasonings to a recipe, or showing up in a color you’ve never worn before. This makes observers take notice. Isn’t that what we all want? And how much more enhancing to use the power of imagination rather than resorting to bluster.

BOOKS:”WIDOW’S WALK” – available through; “TURNING TOWARD TOMORROW” –; “TEN WOMEN OF VALOR” and “ROLE PLAY”- and Also Amazon Kindle.


As the traditional ball goes down at midnight, I invariably hear a chorus of, “May it be a good year.” I admit to voicing this prayer myself.

But I’ve come to realize  there’s no such thing as a “good” year. Before I’m accused of sounding like Scrooge, let me add there’s also no totally annus horribilus  – to quote Queen Elizabeth’s famed complaint after a 1992 that saw a disastrous fire in Windsor Castle, as well as fiery misdeeds by the royal heirs.

What I share with Her Majesty is time that doesn’t come in lump sums. A year is made up of minutes (some 525, 600 of them – and more in a Leap Year). Surely within these thousands of moments there are experiences, fleeting though they may be, that brighten our hearts.

I admit to telling friends, “This has been a terrible year.” Yes, it’s been my own ”horribilus” in many personal ways – primarily the  incurable illness of someone I love. (On a larger scale , the dismal events going on in our country,which throw a shadow over most of us. But that necessitates a blog in itself).)

What I’ve discovered is that within the darkness there can be nuggets of gold. In the same 2017 I just railed against, I also had a heartwarming birthday with my children, reunited with a long-lost friend, managed to get some writing done in my fragmented hours, had moments of laughter, and just the other morning was surprised by a vivid dawn rising in front of my window.

Thankfully I kept a journal throughout this year. It’s enabled me to sort out my feelings and grasp some that at least verged on happiness. Reading through this journal last night underlined for me how clearly the year – and life – aren’t monolithic, but many- layered.

If life is, indeed, made up of small fleeting experiences, let’s be wise enough to pay attention to whatever joy we are blessed with – and collect these moments for warming ourselves on the darkest days.

Wishing a healthy and serene year to all!

BOOKS: “Widow’s Walk” available through; “Turning Toward Tomorrow”–; “Ten Women of Valor” and”Role Play” – both with and Also Amazon Kindle.


“One damn thing after another!” I’ve been repeating these words too often lately. True, I have ample cause to feel this way, ranging from the illness of someone I love, to fear about our ailing country. My negative words have met with “sure is” agreement from everybody – with one exception. For recently they drew a different response when I was talking with a Colorado woman named Amy Marks. After thinking about it for a moment she said, “I don’t see life that way. I find that things come and go.”

Since Amy has always struck me as remarkably well-balanced (and someone I’m proud to call my daughter- in- law), I thought maybe she’s on the right track. At least, a better track than I’ve been on recently. She went on to explain that her “come and go” philosophy is her way of “finding a balance between negative fatalistic thinking and overly enthusiastic ‘sunshine and puppies.’”

Her words set me thinking about the ways we’re all so quick to assume total disaster. How often when a friendship hits a bump in the road we decide it’s over forever. Or when a relationship does end, how certain we are that we’ll never be loved again. Or find a better job. Or. . . .

As writers we know that rejection of our manuscript can plunge us into, “It will never be published.” That “never” view is even worse when a story we’re struggling with stays lifeless on the page or screen. This invariably sends us downhill to , “I can’t even write anymore.”

My first short story was rejected 28 times. I told my writing group I was giving up on it. A new man in the group seemed surprised at my attitude. “Twenty-eight?”
he said. “That’s nothing. My stories have beeen turned down 30, 40 times before being accepted.” Though doubtful, I sent my story off again “one last time.” It was published.

Of course, this doesn’t happen every time. Nor do friends who’ve abandoned us always do a turn-around. Or a new lover or job magically surface. So what do you do during those times when life is undeniably grim?

One survival key, Amy offers, is to “remind yourself there have been good times before and there will be again — even if it’s as small as reading a news story that makes you smile (rare these days!) or waking up to a sunny day in December.”

Focusing on a temporary view isn’t guaranteed to solve every problem, but it may keep us from seeing life through perennially dark glasses.


BOOKS: Widow’s Walk – available through; Turning Toward Tomorrow –; Ten Women of Valor and Role Play- both available through and, also Amazon Kindle.


Post-Thanksgiving many of us are left with a heap of leftovers. We’re thankful for the abundance, but the ingredients don’t always add up to a successful meal . We may have too much cranberry sauce  and too little turkey, for instance.

The same imbalance can be true of whatever we’re writing. There may be overkill on one aspect of the story and skimpiness on another. The skimpy is easier to deal with, for overkill may require “killing your darlings,” as Faulkner sagely advised.

Poet Colette Inez is often faced with this dilemma, since poems demands less rather than more. During one of her poetry workshops, which I was fortunate enough to be in, she confided that whenever she has to cut a line she particularly cherishes, she puts that typed line or lines into a special drawer in her desk. That way, she feels the words haven’t been lost, but are waiting for another poem where they might fit in better.

While I don’t have an actual drawer for my “leftovers,” I do find that I can use the episode that clutters a story somewhere else.  In an early draft of my novel “Role Play,” the heroine found herself pregnant at a time when she was trying to build a career as an actress. She burst into tears when the doctor gave her the news. Trying to comfort her, he said ,“Lots of theatre folk have children.”  When she demanded he name one example, the doctor came up with John Wayne! I tried the chapter out in my writing group and drew welcome laughter. Yet reading it aloud (an invaluable help!) made me recognize a hard truth – the episode got in the way of the action. Solution? Ruthlessly press the delete key!

That abandoned episode remained in my head and recently I added it in a short story where it’s a perfect fit – sort of like the prince finally finding the right gal for that glass slipper.

I once wanted to submit a story to a contest, only to discover it was 700 words too long for the strict guidelines. “I can’t cut any of this,” I cried to my computer. However, the contest was too inviting. Armed with the hard copy and a red pen, I set out to see what I could remove from my precious words. When I managed to do this, I was surprised to discover the story was stronger without the extra verbiage.
That Delete key can be our ally. Like me, you may find your story or chapter is better without the trimmings.

BOOKS: “Widow’s Walk” available through; “Turning Toward Tomorrow” –; “Ten Women of Valor” and “Role Play” – and Also Amazon Kindle.


There was a wrenching article in The New York Times recently about an infamous Irish “Mother and Baby Home.” The gentle title hid the fact that it was a punitive hell for unmarried women who had the misfortune to get pregnant. The babies born there were either given away for adoption (to the heartbreak of their mothers), or grew up in the Home, starved for food and affection.

They did go to the local school, where they were shunned by children from “decent” families. One of them, six-year-old Catherine,, offered what looked like a wrapped candy to a Home child. That hungry girl eagerly unwrapped it – and found it empty. The candy was gone. She stood there holding that useless paper, surrounded by children laughing at her.

That was many decades ago. Catherine is now a grandmother, but she has never forgotten the devastated look on the child’s face. It haunts her to this day. So she’s dedicated her life to helping the women find children who were taken from them, and the adult children searching for their mothers. Yet, despite her laudable work, Catherine hasn’t forgiven herself. She keeps searching every record to try to find that child who was her victim, but to no avail.r

Guilt  is a common denominator. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t bear the memory– and scars – of something wrongly said or done. But just as Catherine has translated her guilt into selfless acts, we have the choice to translate ours by writing it out.

One way is to do this secretly in a journal. A good exercise is to describe guilt. What color is it? What does it feel like? What is it saying to you? What would you do differently? It’s surprising what ripples this can lead to on those pages.

Guilt is also a great supply of material for stories, usually in disguised form. I had a huge burden of guilt for not responding when a former friend reached out to me after a quarrel. She had accused me of not being available enough after her husband died. What made me blow up was her comparing  me to a  “better” friend.  I never forgave her. She died  a year later, a suicide.

Some time after that I wrote a story about a teenage girl who was in school when a mass murderer broke in. When bullets hit the lights, she crawled out of the room in the darkness and was horrified to realize she was crawling over a classmate lying there. She heard his whispered plea for help, but was afraid to stop . The boy died. The girl could never forgive herself, which led to a portrayal of the ruthless hold that guilt can have on us.

I’ve been asked so often where this story came from, since I’ve never been in that murderous situation. But what made the story work were my own “bad girl” feelings that enabled me to be inside the girl’s obsessive dwelling on what she felt was her failure to save the boy. Creating my fictitious heroine helped me cope with my feelings and realize how I was punishing myself. (After enough time had passed, I was able to write an undisguised story about the trauma with my late friend.)

The popular axiom is: Write about what you know. I prefer another saying: Write what you’re afraid to say.  It can be surprisingly freeing


BOOKS:  “Widow’s Walk”- available through; “Turning Toward Tomorrow” –; “Ten Women of Valor” and “Role Play”– and Also Amazon Kindle.


I’m always pleased when a reader tells me he or she has begun journaling.
So I hate to be the one who sounds a note of caution. This has come up today because I’ve received a letter from a woman who says that though she finds journaling helpful, she’s puzzled by the one-sidedness of her entries. “I only seem to write about issues I’m struggling with,” she says. “I don’t find time to write about happy moments.” Is that a good way to journal, she wants to know.

This syndrome was familiar to Marion Milner, a 20th century British psychoanalyst and author. Milner believed too many people ignore their brighter moments, but that it’s valuable to pay attention to them by including them in journals. In her book A LIFE OF ONE’S OWN (published under the pseudonym Joanna Field), she stressed the importance of understanding the thoughts that go through our heads during enjoyable experiences.

If a friend (relative, colleague) says or does something hurtful, I can fill pages with my rage and pain. If that same person then apologizes and assures me our relationship is important, my spirits zoom up. Yet the happy experience doesn’t merit nearly the same space (if any) in my tearful journal.

When I was seeing a therapist, I would come to each session with an hour’s worth of tragedy. I mistakenly believed that talking about good experiences was a waste of time –not to mention money! It took years before I recognized that it was more balanced to include the brighter side of my life. It’s similar to the way many of us tend to focus our attention on a rejecting person (trying to get love from the proverbial stone?) but take the genuinely loving one for granted.

According to Milner, the value of analyzing the varying emotions we feel in joyous moments is that we can then explore what other experiences could give us that same satisfaction. Not be dependent on that one person or thing! (What else can I find that will make me feel loved, respected, esteemed?)_

Of course, recording enjoyable times has another pay-off: we can relive even years-old high points by turning the pages of our journals, If we’ve taken time to record them, they will always be there for our recapturing.

To paraphrase the great English poet Keats, writing is a way to “live beyond our midnight.”


BOOKS  :Widow’s Walk – available through; Turning Toiward Tomorrow –; Ten Women of Valor and Role Play – and

Also Amazon Kindle



The sports world – and the rest of us – were shocked this June by news that tennis star Venus Williams was involved in a car accident that fatally injured a passenger in the other car. The police immediately declared her guilty – with damaging headlines .

Life and death – and culpability – are certainly more momentous than tennis matches. But for Williams the timing was especially difficult. It was just weeks before she was due to play at Wimbledon for what might be her last chance at the championship.

If it had been me, I would have curled into a corner obsessing about fate. (Why didn’t I drive down a different street? Why did I drive at all that day? ad infinitum.)

But Williams is made of tougher material. She’s been well trained, because despite having Sjogren’s syndrome, an anti-immune disease that weakens the muscles, she’s refused to give up tennis.

Williams admits she was “devastated and heartbroken,” by the car accident. But during the anxiety-ridden time before she was cleared of wrongdoing,  she didn’t retreat into hiding. Instead she resolutely showed up on the tennis court every morning to practice. “This is what Venus does,” a friend explained. “She goes to where her strength is.”

Each of us might profit from asking ourselves, where and how can I strengthen myself when everything seems against me? I remember a widow I interviewed for my book “Turning Toward Tomorrow.” Since she was only in her fifties, there was a “a long road to look down,” she said. To fortify herself she went on her knees – not just to pray – but to garden. “Putting my hands in the soil sort of orders me,” she said.

I, personally, am not much of a gardener. Yet thoug the method may differ for each of us, the goal is the same: To find whatever gives us the ability to survive.  As I’ve discovered, this doesn’t come from the cookie jar or the wine bottle, but from returning to whatever makes you feel special and strong. Or, as Venus might put it, like a champion.

When I’m too stressed to feel like “bothering” with anything, forcing myself to the computer to write just one sentence can ignite a change. For one sentence can lead to two…and three.. . . and before I know it, I’m writing. Which is my way of hitting the ball over the net again.

BOOKS: “Widow’s Walk”-available through; “Turning Toward Tomorrow” –; “Ten Women of Valor”” and “Role Play” – and Amazon. Also Amazon Kindle.