November 9-10, 2009:

Since I seem to be in a writing funk (ie little writing is going on) this seems as good a time as any to remind us all that writing is not just sitting with one’s fingers on the keyboard. It happens when a writer reads the newspaper (an angry father holds a school principal hostage), looks out the kitchen window (a gray squirrel saucily scolds a blue jay who scolds right back, a kind of creature stand-off), watches a tv show (plain bride buys a sexy wedding dress and becomes a beauty in a magical second), talks to a friend (who’s ex-husband spoke to her at their son’s wedding, the frst time in years) or dreams waking or sleepping.

All of these are stories. Not stories I may ever write, but they are all filed away in the storage cupboard I call my head ready to be brought up again, examined, mined, reanimated, cultured–where is that damn petri dish?–borrowed, worried, reworked, used, abused. Call it what you will. But writers use every bit of their lives.

Be good to us.

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