My first novel, The River in Winter, was published in 2009. I recently finished my second novel, The Wide Night Sky. I live in South Carolina with my husband and our two awesome dogs.
I start out to write five days a week, and then it runs to six days and finally seven. Then, eventually, that wave of weariness overwhelms me and I don’t know what’s the matter. That is, I know but I won’t admit it. I’m just tired from writing.
As you get older, writing becomes harder. By that I mean you see so many more potentialities. Things like transition used to trouble me. But not any more. When I say it’s harder, I’m not talking about facility. You learn all the so-called tricks, but then you don’t want to use them.
Haven’t been posting, ‘cause there’s been no time. We’re moving and it was surprisingly difficult and arduous to get these rooms into this state. The dogs were no help at all.
… to read, we need a certain kind of silence, an ability to filter out the noise. That seems increasingly elusive in our overnetworked society, where every buzz and rumor is instantly blogged and tweeted, and it is not contemplation we desire but an odd sort of distraction, distraction masquerading as being in the know. In such a landscape, knowledge can’t help but fall prey to illusion, albeit an illusion that is deeply seductive, with its promise that speed can lead us to more illumination, that it is more important to react than to think deeply, that something must be attached to every bit of time. Here, we have my reading problem in a nutshell, for books insist we take the opposite position, that we immerse, slow down.– David L. Ulin, The Lost Art of Reading (via litverve)
You can’t just write and write and put things in a drawer. They wither without the warm sun of someone else’s appreciation.– Anne Morrow Lindbergh (via writersrelief)