I don’t write to be famous, I don’t write to be known, I write because I am and I want to be read. How sad to fill a room with paintings no one sees or play music no one hears. Writing is talking without sound, singing without score and dancing without movement and yet, it is all of them. It is a solitary art conjured from thought and expressed by the need to communicate.

HEAD SLAPS, SPEED BUMPS and LIGHTBULBS, one woman's WTF, oops and ah-ha moments of life.

They were published once, and as every writer knows, once is not enough.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Merry Christmas

While researching agents and editors, publishers, wish granters, gate keepers and God, I came across a short story that is as beautifully written as the birth certificate of your first child. Amy Einhorn mentioned the story in a Poets and Writers interview. If she loved it why would I not try to find it?

Truman Capote’s A Christmas Memory.

What I know of Truman Capote fits on the head of pin labeled Studio 54 and In Cold Blood. To me he was a swishy talking, funny looking little man with a reputation as a writer I thought must be a misnomer by way of a bestseller, which by chance, went stratospheric. Oh-my-God, how can I call myself a writer? To have not gazed in awe at the little man, who stood so tall and towered with words, makes me feel unworthy.

I’m sure the link doesn’t work so copy and paste might have to do.

The story will stir your heart, the writing will blow your mind.

Truman Capote – Live on little man with the diminutive voice which rumbles this writer's soul, live on.

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