Years ago, I attended a conference where Christopher Paul Curtis spoke. I remember him saying he spent every Saturday morning writing at his local library (I believe in the children’s section) working on what would become The Watsons Go to Birmingham. He left me with a mental image of this big man huddled over a small table at the library, scribbling away on a pad of paper. Most Harry Potter fans have heard the story of J.K. Rowling beginning to write the series in a London cafe with her baby napping in a stroller next to her. I once read that Philip Pullman used to work in a writing shed in his garden where he wrote every morning until he’d met his daily quota.… Read the rest
I had plans for a glorious, productive weekend which came to a screeching halt Saturday afternoon when I got hit by a doozy of a migraine that eventually found me spending my Saturday night in Urgent Care rather than at home reclining with my husband and watching 500 Days of Summer as originally planned. Today I nursed a residual migraine, still woozy from the combination of ceaseless vomiting and morphine the night before. The upside of all this is that today it was snowing, the gray soft light a very welcome thing to someone with a migraine hangover. I spent the entire morning reading in bed as snow fell outside my window.… Read the rest
The world is a funny place. I sat down with my breakfast this morning and a book I’d just pulled off the shelf. I wanted something different than the thriller mystery I’m currently in the middle of (I’m not so keen on eating a poached egg while reading the description of a three-day old murdered man). When I skimmed my bookshelf for something to fit my mood, my eyes landed on The Invisible Child by Katherine Paterson. I finished my egg about two pages into one essay, but I sat there to read on, finished that essay and then read two more.… Read the rest
I can remember sitting on the living room couch, my feet barely hanging off the edge of the cushion, listening to records—or LPs as my parents still call them—through speakers that flanked our upright piano. Two of my favorites were comedy albums—Bill Cosby and Steve Martin. When I listened to my musical albums, like Sha-Na-Na or Disney’s Mousercise, I danced or turned cartwheels in the open space of the living room. But those comedy albums were like read-aloud stories, and for those I sat quietly and listened.
I don’t know how many of the jokes I understood, or exactly what it was that I found funny.… Read the rest
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