Things are crazy busy in this neck of the woods. Right now I’m demolishing a 1950s basement in Seattle with my son. (I am in the muscle bussed in from out of state.) So I am reblogging this writing post from back in May. I wish I was writing more but as it happens, life intervenes. Happy autumn!
The more I write fiction the more my psyche, my subconscious, my mind — challenges me to look deeper. Inside my head where the ideas come from, where fears abide, where whatever creepy or amazing or fascinating thing happened to me as a child lives. At my very first writing conference I met a therapist and asked her if she could help me remember parts of my childhood. She demurred. She said something along the lines that lots of stuff was best forgotten. We are so vulnerable as children, easily scarred. We all have scars, scabs we pick at in our fiction in our old age. My sincere wish is I don’t write grim, depressing books as I age.
Not that I am *particularly* elderly — yet. But this year I turned a significant leaf in the calendar. I spend a little time each day razzing myself for thinking “old…
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