• Bridge Ladies

    Bridge Ladies Sometimes I think a meteor could strike the earth and wipe out mankind with the exception of my mother’s Bridge club — Roz, Bea, Bette, Rhoda, and Jackie — five Jewish octogenarians who continue to gather for lunch and Bridge on Mondays as they have for over fifty years. When I set out to learn about the women behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, and most of all the ragged path that led me back to my mother.
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Fake Trues That’s That Shit I Don’t Like

What is your narrative of your writing life? Were you singled out as the most talented writer in High School, voted most likely to get published? Were you the hot shot of your MFA program, whispered about with jealousy and contempt. Did you publish the first story you ever sent out and then never again? Did you slink away from a writer’s conference without a single friend or contact? Did you never send anything out?  Are you getting up a dawn, or, like Mary Higgins Clark, typing away on the fire escape after all the kids are asleep? Are you a  starter who never finishes? Do you get up at dawn and feel saintly or stay up all night and smoke? Are you frail, intrepid, Quixotic or cautious. Are you proud or ashamed?

What’s your story?

101 Responses

  1. Hot shot; starter who never finishes; stay up all night and smoke; ashamed.

    All things I’m changing.

  2. I spit out a couple thousand words a day, WIPs or bloggery. I am mildly embarrassed and pitifully compensated.

  3. For me it all came too easily and too young. Staying up all night and writing led to a heady wonderful year in Boston writing poems. And they were published. I went drinking with Derek Wolcott and Joseph Brodsky while they did imitations of Keats with a cockney accent. I wrote a book long elegy for a friend who had died of Aids and part were published in Partisan Review.
    Perhaps I felt that I could always come back to writing. I know I was afraid of the isolation, that my feet would never touch sturdy ground; I yearned for normalcy and was terrified of feeling flimsy and tossed about by my mind.
    But I left. I became a psychologist. And I still write poems- I will always write but I never send them out. They pile up on my desk and my daughter asks me what they are.

  4. I’ve always been an avid reader and wanted to write a book just because I loved to read. In 8th grade I had an English teacher who constantly told me I had a talent for writing – she was the first to ever make me take notice. When I reached grad school I received praise from my profs about my writing style. So I guess my teachers were always my biggest fans and the ones who made me think “Maybe…”

    But over those years between college and now I started much without finishing, and gave up. Got an amazing idea suddenly a few months ago, after 10 yrs of not writing, and I am now the mom/teacher who is writing in between everything my kids and students require of me. I feel inspired, but cautious. My phrase for writing is “I worked all day on the computer.” I don’t talk about my writing with people, which is why I was so grateful to find his blog!

  5. In every single creative writing assignment or class I have ever taken part in, I have always been the hot shot, the exemplar. I never expect it; it’s always a surprise, until I hear my words read aloud. Yes, I think, I am the best. Always, except here. I feel greatly outclassed by all—yes, all—the writers who comment here, if not by their talent, then by their persistence and work ethic, which counts for much more, I feel. If I weren’t a member of a cult I’d feel downright inferior as a person too.

    And with the exception of MFA programs and writing conferences (I’m still a virgin in that respect), yes to all of the above.

    And I am ashamed. I don’t think I can move on until I own that.

    • I think you just owned it, TP. And for what it’s worth, your comments and persistence and stories here seem to me as good as if not better than any. Your gift is obvious.

      Funny how shame and gifts so often go together. Sounds like a good story.

      Everyone is a member of some cult or another.

      • Thank you, Mary.

        »Everyone is a member of some cult or another.«

        Considering how many species are competing for resources on this planet, the human race can be considered a cult. And we definitely have an attitude.

  6. Well, it’s past midnight here, so to start, I fit the profile of a late-night person. The rest is a murky tale of intentions and efforts at odds with that nasty inner voice for claim to some talent. At the moment the inner voice is, thankfully, silent. I’m writing and learning and networking. The rutted road is a familiar place; my steps are slow, but determined.

  7. The first story I ever sent out was published, then republished in a Best Of anthology. I wrote with ease at school, even moved to Paris to write The Novel. But the length and depth and risk of a novel sent me spinning. And the waiting. I stayed with stories and poems for a long while. An agent contacted me about one but I was in love. I fell in step with another person’s creative desires and left off with my own. Plus kids. There was no writing on the fire escape.

    Now I’m back on board.

  8. My teachers were always wistful and sentimental around my writing, which made me distrustful and scared.

    I’m a pleaser with a big authenticity issue–just an hour ago, sitting here on this Tuscan seaside patio (I know, I know), I was writing ad copy. A cigarillo-smoking Milanese man asked me if I was writing “a book.” I immediately froze, not wanting to go there–so I said, “not at the moment.” He pressed. I told him I was writing bag copy for a crouton company to which he replied, “Oh, so you’re writing bullshit.”

    Bingo.

    • Hey, some of that bag copy contains damn fine words!

    • As someone who reads bag, box, bottle, and can copy, I salute you!

    • Next time, say you write porn, (sotto voce) grocery porn.

      Or just lie. You’re allowed.

      Actually, if you’re composing a book in your head in any way, shape or form, (outlining, research, or just percolating)—even designing the dust jacket or fantasizing the blurbs—that counts.

  9. These are all very interesting answers. I had no idea what it was like for everyone else.

  10. told before, love to tell it, self-infatuated, will try to refrain

    yes and later it was what went wrong?

    yes and it was bar the door the wolf is at hand

    yes and there was early success a drizzle a sprinkle a passing shower then years of no rain parched years dust on the tongue

    standing in the corner cocktail in hand one drink limit no mistakes allowed no missteps there’s no net

    sent out sent out sent out put out put out put out jota puta ay cabron que lastima no se lo tiene

    wanking in public fucking in front of the mirror running away turning away time is infinite and a lifetime ein augenblich

    endings are the hard part farewell my lovelies farewell

    not working hard enough not running fast enough not present for duty when the circus comes to town

    coward to the bone the windmill to be tilted with the truth to be confronted the lie to be denied it was so dark in there

    proud of my shame
    shamed of my pride

    purposely trapped in the self-constructed hall of mirrors the cabinet of bland curiosities

    told before love to tell it endings are the hard part my lovelies

  11. I was sick a lot as a kid and missed school often, fell behind in everything and was stuck with a bunch of kids in the lowest reading level. My 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Smith, recognized my potential and worked with me during recess (when she could have been hanging out in the teacher’s lounge) and after school to take the necessary tests to jump me up to the highest level. My 5th grade teacher, Mrs. Rothstein, liked a story I wrote and told me I wrote well. I’ve been writing ever since. That’s it — my whole friggin’ life based on a bit of praise 45 years ago.
    Mornings are best, but I jot down notes all the time. Everything gets finished and nothing is forgotten, just tucked away for future review. Anyhow, a huge, loud HOORAY for good teachers who are doing great work and rarely get the recognition (and pay) they deserve; enjoy your well-earned summer break.

    • I’m living on that same piece of teacher’s praise myself! I have a card from that 8th grade English teacher of mine tucked away in my writing folder. I’m so glad you ran across those great teachers – renews my faith in the profession. And I’m enjoying my summer thanks! “Working at the computer all day.”

    • Mike, your school story prompts me to admit to my own episode in elementary education. The day of the entrance exam for the school my parents wanted me to attend, I awoke sick and with a high fever. Not deterred, my mother bundled me off to the testing site. Despite hallucinating through most of the questions, I was accepted, but placed in a class for “slow learners”. Took the nuns a year to realize that test score wasn’t accurate. (One nun was particularly kind and followed my academic progress well past high school.) It was a confusing time for six-year-old-me; the experience shaping both my wry outlook on authority and the nagging sensation that I am a marble rolling along a board of square holes.

    • Everything gets finished and nothing is forgotten: that’s great, Mike. Really, what more could anyone ask for? Wish I could say as much.

      • Thank you, Mary — I wish I could say the same for all the projects I’ve started around the house.

  12. At the age of 23 I teetered so close to the edge of fame and fortune that if I had not blown my chance, you all would know my name and have studied the velocity of my rise to success. Boy that sounds like bullshit. Anyway, I fell off the publishing house’s meteoric push to the edge and here I am 40 years later glad and sad the way things turned out.

    To some I am considered a success because I have a bushel basket full of by-lines but because I do not have a title page to my credit I often feel like a failure. It is because of you Betsy, and this wonderful group of dysfunctional, very honest and supportive writers I have learned how blessed I am because of what I have already accomplished, to stop whining and write.

    I ache to have an agent; someone to guide me through the childcare of my babies in the nursery and the kids in the waiting room. I long for an agent to help my mature children make their way on their own. Two novels complete, thirty short stories, a memoir and enough essays to make Fulghum proud.

    Because I do not have a MFA, lack contacts and publishing-insight and because I stopped for many years to punch a time-clock, carpool, do laundry and all that other life-crap my greatest disadvantage now…time.

    Do not waste that which you think you will always have…another chance.

    I feel as if I am on the brink again. Ah…maybe that’s because I need another cup of coffee.

    • I enjoy reading what you write, Wry. And I’ll bet I’m not alone.

    • I’ve no doubt that Betsy will forgive me if I say that I don’t think an agent is quite so wonderful as you imagine. I’ve had a slew of them, and I’ve liked ’em all tons — but they don’t make me a writer and they’re not totally responsible for any of my successes and failure. I could say, “I’m responsible,” but I don’t believe that either.

      The work is responsible.

      • You can write magnificent words, blockbusters that break hearts and records but if someone doesn’t open the fucking gate… you’re pages are nothing more than TP.

    • After a shower and a little clean-up I reread what i wrote this morning. I sound so freaking desperate. That’s why I write at night, a little wilted but less emotional.
      Coffee, Special k, life is good.

  13. I’d never written anything but academic papers and the odd letter until, someone from past, someone that I couldn’t acknowledge, died. I wrote to purge the pain. And after the wound had healed, I kept writing. The upside of grief.

    Many years have passed. My writing time and approach has evolved. Presently, I write in the mornings until lunch. I go back at it afterwards if I’m on a roll, stew about if it’s at the beginning of a fresh chapter, ruminate. It’s part of the process.

    When I’m not at the keyboard, often I’m thinking about my novel-manuscript, the characters. At times that consideration is conscious, other times ideas and details appear, seemingly from out of the blue.

    I’m committed, with a tendency toward perfectionism that isn’t always beneficial. But I’m learning to let go, to accept ‘good enough’ and move on. It feels good, right.

    The end of this calendar year is the deadline I’ve set to finish this final, completed draft. In the New Year I’ll give it to two trusted readers, edit and then start the query process.

    I don’t feel sad about ending this project. I’m excited about finishing and moving on to the next story. There’s a few in my noggin.

    • I totally get this, Deborah. Good luck finishing this project, and here’s to the other stories in your head, the ones patiently waiting their turn.

  14. I don’t remember much about writing when I was younger other than a 6th grade teacher who called my mother in to discuss it…but nothing ever came of that. I remember reading a ton, hiding in books really. I didn’t ALWAYS want to be a writer, I didn’t even realize it was a possibility.

    I’m a get up at 4 am girl and then keep a notebook of paper in my bag so that I can write down a few hundred words while the kids have their tennis lesson or are playing with their friends at the pool. During the school year I work so that’s why early morning is the strategy for me.

    I’m proudish (working on proud, touching the hem of proud?) now, but I wasn’t always. Ever since I decided that there was no shame in going after something I really wanted, there has been slow and steady progress towards it, but I had to learn how to get out of my own way. Last week I signed a contract with a small press for the first two books in my series.

    I’m still figuring out the taste of those words in my mouth.

  15. I’ve been working through decades of psychosomatic paralysis at other people’s descriptions of an Olympian-level Labyrinth of manuscript and submission rules and the poor odds of ever seeing my fiction in print.

    I’m almost there.

  16. I have written always. Published often. Now I find myself a ho-hum mid-lister whose latest ms. is being shunned by publishers for having lack lustre sales on books they turned their backs on. I feel like the Count of Monte Cristo. Vengeful, full of myself and vows to even the score.

  17. Teachers in high school thought I should be a writer. I wanted to be an artist. Went to a fine arts college. Left after four days because I missed my boy friend. Transferred to another college to be with boyfriend. Became a teacher. Married boyfriend. Divorced boyfriend/husband. Taught 2nd grade for 33 years. Retired. Became a writer. Published first novel at 60. Fourth novel will be published next spring. And then I’ll die.

  18. I wrote poems as a kid the way other little girls kept diaries, pink books with plastic locks. There was a time in my life when the only thing that was going well for me was writing. And I write still to honor that. And to get published. And because it’s more interesting than 90% of my life. And, when it’s going well, it makes me feel incandescent.

  19. Never took a writing class, never attended a writer’s workshop, never stood out. In my 20s the closest I got to the publishing world was as a part-time sales clerk at B. Dalton’s (second job, nights and weekends). Started writing jewelry history (yes it’s a real thing) only because there were stories out there that nobody was telling — a skill that came in handy later when I wrote catalogue copy for Christie’s auction house, when those stories became very valuable provenance. In my middle 40s I finally married up and had the leisure to write two books. Now I’m 56 and for the first time in my life I’m ambitious and, for the first time in my life, writing has become a struggle.

  20. I’m about as boring as it gets. Up at 5-5:30, grind it out in the basement office until it’s time for Cheerios and ironing a shirt. Then it’s off to the real job, which never feels like the real work. Read a book during lunch on the comfy couch I found at a nearby college. Come home, cook dinner for the fam and try not to make it obvious I’m thinking about how I could be doing more instead of how the lawn needs to be mowed.

    When I was a student I remember how much more romantic writing seemed–and how little I wrote compared to the time I had. With two kids and a full-time job I’m more productive than ever before. I’m listening to the ticking of the clock.

    Sometimes I feel like I’m married to writing. Much of the initial romance has worn off, but something like it comes back when you let yourself relax, and you remember you must love the motherfucker if you’re getting out of bed every day at five for it. Because the only alternative to writing is not writing, and fuck that.

  21. I first started writing in attics & trees. My first book was a diary with a little lock and key. I was the neighborhood storyteller, the daydreamer, the girl with an active imagination, the wrong path, they said, and put me on another.

    My mom got sick so I finished my science degree for her. One summer, I ended up writing patient histories at a nursing home for the State of NJ, which someone said should be a book. Family responsibilities & craziness grew and I’m proud to have faced those things with perseverance and humor. It’s a long story, one they say I should write about, but won’t. Wes Anderson & Cheever & Beattie have already done it exquisitely.

    Now, it’s gratitude I feel. I have a fire escape like the one in the picture. I also spend a lot of time writing (and restoring) in a 200 year old house. It has an attic, which is mine. I absolutely know what it’s like to not have the time and opportunity to write. Nothing will get in the way of that ever again.

    • Love this.

    • Holy crap you just brought back memories. I remember buying different journals as a kid (“diaries” were for girls, I guess). I remember feeling like I couldn’t write anything in them, that nothing I thought of was good enough for them, what with their professional-looking paper and covers. They looked like real books. It was just the idea that I might write in them, that when I did, it would be worthy. To this day I find myself buying cheaper notebooks for this exact reason. I have a stack of moleskins, but they were on clearance, and I had to write some total shit in them just to dirty them up so I could continue.

      Thanks for the memory.

    • Thank you both.

      Scott, I wish you had lived on my street. You’d have gotten it. Instead, my brothers & his friends used to steal my diaries and read them. Hence, the attic & trees for hiding them. I got revenge, though, but that’s another story.

      • Glad to hear you’re back at it. And I wish I would have lived on your street too. People might have stolen and read mine, but writing was always a secret for me. Plus I lived in the country, which meant a lot of alone time, which probably in the long run helped with the writing.

        The attic sounds great.

  22. My first novel, The Mouse Family, took me three years, from 4th-7th grade. It was very loosely based on “The Brady Bunch.” With mice. Been writing ever since. Mostly I don’t send out.

  23. Up at 5, in bed at 9. Just went to my first conference and loved it — two weeks that went by way too fast. (that’s saying a lot when you’re living in a dorm at almost age 50 and sharing one bathroom with 6 other women).

    Never wrote a word, not even a diary entry, until my 30s, and only then because I’d gone back to get my B.A. and needed a writing elective. Far from a hot shot. Published the first story I ever wrote.

    Got an MFA not because I wanted to write a book, but because we’d just moved across the country and I felt lost. Spent 3 years there reading great books, experimenting with form and genre and structure, and not writing the book I was supposed to be writing. Was shocked that anyone would publish the experimental stuff, but they did.

    I feel like an outcast, an impostor amongst real writers because I didn’t start writing as a kid, don’t feel that urge to constantly write, and I hate sitting down to write something, anything, new. I hate starting! I write because I love fighting through draft after draft after draft to find out that what I thought I so desperately wanted to say in the first version is not remotely close to the final story. The writing is not addictive for me, but the discovery is.

    And to the commenters here: you are all real writers to me. I come here as much to hear what you have to say as to read Betsy’s intro.

    • I don’t feel that urge to constantly write either. I’m more of a visual artist at heart. I did write when I was a kid, until someone found my pages and I was outed. And that’s how I still feel when I write. Outed. It’s difficult for me to share. But I do write every day. Does it make you more of a writer to work from compulsion, or to work despite a lack of compulsion?

    • Teri, I didn’t start writing, with the idea of being a writer, until I was thirty-seven. Before that it seemed like a colossal waste of time…that thinking could not have been further from the truth. (Further or farther, doesn’t matter you get my drift.)
      Let me say this loud and clear to all you late bloomers:
      IT DOES NOT MATTER WHEN YOU START IT JUST MATTERS THAT YOU WRITE. Ah hem, I had to clear my throat, shouting does that. FIVE OR NINETY FIVE, WRITE GOD-DAMMIT, WRITE. Okay so Gods last name is not dammit, I’m going to hell anyway.

      • Thank you. I wouldn’t have had the courage to say anything if I’d started sooner anyway. The women in my family were not allowed a voice, and it took me awhile to say, “whoa, hey, wait a minute.”

  24. i started writing 10 years ago and i write short stories now being accepted by literary magazines. never a formal student in the english department in the sky, i’ve taken several writing classes as an unclassified student and learned something from each.

    i’ve attended writing workshops and find them helpful for meeting deadlines. the cost of an MFA program seems ridiculous–what i’d love is a guided reading program and a discussion group.

    i methodically send stories out on fridays–that’s my business/paperwork/mail day. this is occasionally effective because i’m persistent.

    i write when i can which is to say i fit it around my everyday life. the busier i am, the more i write, so i tend to keep myself busy. i work in short bursts and self imposed deadlines are helpful.

    i’m a good writer but i’m no genius, and i’m all right with that. i have a voice. and i love shorts. i’m obsessed with short stories.

    i volunteer at a literary magazine and read in the collective.

  25. I’m an early riser, but I’ve always been a late bloomer, really late. I felt writing would one day be a part of my life, but first, I spent years, no, make that decades, thinking about it. My mom says I get that “thinking” crap from my dad. She calls it procrastination. In school, I did what I needed to do, I didn’t try to write anything worthwhile. I read, all the time, that was my thing then.

    As I got older and while I was still thinking about writing, I got a job, got married, had two kids, divorced, got a different job, got re-married and kept working. In the meantime, I began to dabble with writing a book. Many of you know (if you recollect a previous post from months ago) that I spent 25 years at a company that went into Chp 11. That made me really start to think. What would I do once the job was gone? I know. Let me get the degree I never got… and let me finally finish the book. Degree? Check. Book? Check. Lost job? Check.

    I’ve always hidden my writing..never talked about it, always felt it wasn’t good. When I finished writing the book, I finally searched for someone to read it, and to give me a valid opinion. The first editor who read it said “you have a voice, the thing so many aspiring writers lack!” I was stunned. It was the very first time I’d ever heard anything about my writing – I was 51 years old. That was in 2010. The book needed a lot of work – but it was those words after all that time that put me here today.

    I will be proud if/when there is an editor at a publishing house who says yes, we want to publish her. If that never happens, then, I don’t know that I could say I’d be ashamed.. highly disappointed maybe, but not ashamed.

    • Relating to your story! Thank you for sharing!

      • Hi there Hope – that’s why we love the Betsy blog…she starts us off with insightful thoughts, provoking questions and then we get to tell our stories, or give our opinions and find out about each other…how writing, publishing worked for some, while not yet for others. Like your name, we always have hope.

  26. When I was a kid I wanted to be an actress. Really I wanted to be Joan Collins and get to tell everyone who had ever been mean to me to fuck off when I was gorgeous and famous. Fact was I had no talent. And I wasn’t a writer. Every story I reluctantly wrote for class in junior high on up got me sent in to the guidance counselor for evaluation for therapy. In college I tried writing plays because I wasn’t sure what else to do. Years later out of school those turned to monologues turned to nonfiction prose. The path there was a playwriting teacher who suggested I hit a hard return on every punctuation mark and edit like it was a poem (something I knew nothing about) where all needless repetition had to be eliminated and every word made to count. That and read everything aloud. Then aloud to another living person. Cats don’t count. Brilliant guidance.

    Now comes the bragging part where mostly I can say I’ve just been incredibly lucky to have beaten the odds. Lit mag roulette. The first piece I sent out was published. I sent out twelve and published seven of them, the last in 2006. Then I fell in love and started a full length memoir of that relationship seeking to answer the question of how damage and damage can interact to create something beautiful. We all know fucked up people can be each others’ salvation but I want to find something of our story that doesn’t just sum up the constellation of pimples on my ass. What started out as drugs and knives and lesbian sex oh my has turned into something I hope a passionate imagination can live up to and deliver on.

    I haven’t really sent out anything during the last six years–the excerpt I did on honest reflection wasn’t a stand alone piece with any real merit. The first short piece I’ve written in the past six years was a finalist just now but not published. I realized last night I send shit out in the most haphazard way. I think I’m organized but that’s a delusion.

    The house always wins though. Manuscript so far roundly rejected–rightly so. It’s gotten better with every requested rewrite. Again, for those people who I’ve encountered who haven’t even signed on with the investment of an editor but have provided feedback in a professional sense have been wonderfully generous and accurate. Again, my love for editors. (And an agent who ultimately said no.)

  27. I should be a bitter cynic, but I’m not.

  28. I just returned a bit ago from the beautiful Aspen Writers’ Foundation Conference and am now having to look at myself slightly differently. It’s kind of freaky. I’ve always thought of myself as an early-morning writing troll, toiling away in the darkness before dawn in my troll cave, never to see the light of day. Lurking. Writing.

    Now, having met with some agents and big publishers there, all of whom were interested in my submission, I find I might have to come blinking into the light. I’m not sure whether or not I’ll burn.

    One bigtime agent from a massive firm who handles huge writers we’ve all heard of gave me her card and wants to see more of the book. She said she “rarely” does this at these conferences, or maybe she said “never.” I know I head the words “saleable,” and “very well written.” Either way, I wanted to ask her if she was high. Or on drugs. Maybe she’s never sat and talked to a writing troll before and didn’t know the species. Maybe it was just the altitude. It’s high up there in Aspen. John Denver knows.

    Is this how it all starts? Has anyone ever had these kinds of experiences where this Brand Spankin’ New path is set out in front of you and you have to realign what you’re doing with your writing and where you’re going? Should I step out onto that path? I can’t quite get my head around it.

    The cave is safer.

  29. I just want to thank all of you for revealing yourselves here. It gives me tremendous hope and motivation. I’m going to save and print out this page. Best wishes to all of you gorgeous souls.

  30. I am stepping forward now, afraid you will all turn your backs and spit. I am doing something I’ve seldom seen done here.
    Because many of you were so kind to comment on one of my blog-posts I was encouraged to expand the piece and put it out there. It was published today on Divine Caroline. To those upset by my shameless promotion… today of all days in this place of our stories as writers I think it fits. Again thanks to all who commented on the original piece. You warmed my heart.

    http://www.divinecaroline.com/24133/130035-imagine-when-regret-passed-generation

  31. Wow! I get back home to see all these kind and encouraging replies to my post and I must say it’s given me a bit of courage. I feel the weight of your urging me on and it’s quite nice and…I don’t know…Buoyant? Is that a bit of cheer I feel in the depths of my troll soul?

    Thank you for that–for your good vibes! I truly mean it.

    Well, I guess I better get this submission ready as it’s been a few weeks already since all these meetings. (In my defense, I must add that the one agent did tell me to send it to her after the 4th holiday, so it’s not just foot-dragging on my part.) Shall I let you know how it goes here on the blog comments? Or would that be bogarting Betsy’s blog? I’m usually a lurker here, keeping with my cave-dwelling status.

  32. All of these stories have inspired me! I want to talk more about experiences and such – more than I could place here. So you all have coaxed me out of my shell…I just set up a blog to write about writing and talk with people! There isn’t really anyone in my life that writes, so it will be a good way to connect with people I guess. Hmmm…a little nervewracking.

    http://livingawritinglife.blogspot.com/

    • Hmmm…that was my post. Not anonymous, just forgot to put my name in! Thanks everyone for sharing your stories!

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