• 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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Thank You Disillusionment



Now that I’m officially not working on a writing project, I want to talk about how it feels. It feels fucking great. My skin is clear, my nails are manicured, I’m sleeping again. I don’t know how I ever wrote at all. It’s so hard. LOL. Seriously, if you told me I had to write another book right now I would start crying and never stop.

How the fuck do you do it?

12 Responses

  1. The one time I absolutely could not write — when my dad died — I got started again by deciding to write every day for a (calendar) month, a completely meaningless story. There was a real freedom in that. Just saying.

    It didn’t turn out entirely meaningless, of course, but it made a nice change, and was fun, in a way. I highly recommend it.

  2. The nonwriting honeymoon wears off and you start getting tetchy.

    As for how do I do it? I have no fucking idea. I’m pretty sure writing makes me a terrible spouse.

  3. “How the fuck do you do it?”

    How the fuck do I not?

  4. I’ve had that thought before…what if? What if I wasn’t working on a project? Oh, the freedom! Oh, the lack of stress! Gosh, I can wander the internet and not feel guilty (like I do right now when I should be writing!)

    But…if I wasn’t, I’d also feel like I should be. And then I’d wear myself out thinking about that fact. I should be writing…I should be writing…I shou….

  5. There is always something to be repaired, cleaned, moved, or changed here. Home, boats, cars, self. The next big outing on the water takes some preparation, too, and is an important project in itself.

    The itch is always there, cooties for the otherwise afflicted. There is no lotion for it.

  6. Writing doesn’t keep me awake at night. The day job does. Writing is the escape, the thing that keeps me from edging off the cliff. It’s work, for sure, but the kind that centers me, stimulates and excites.
    The question isn’t how do I do it. It’s what the fuck would I do without it?

  7. Not writing is the souring of a dream, it’s a withering seed, a broken synapse, possibility aborted. But to pluck words of the air, string them together, and say something, anything… lofty, naughty, funny, cosmic, dumb, universal, incidental, monumental, small…whatever…and then perhaps the spirit soars again with purpose. #Langston Hughes

  8. I mostly just keep making notes until enuf momentum and built and I can start the actual writing of the new project. I’m pretty much almost there right now. The relief of finishing the prior project has not waned enuf to make me willing to take on the hard work of starting the next. But soon.

  9. Just self published my first after reading your forest for the trees… got two more in progress.. can’t stop! You kicked my ass, but I’m not sure how to unkick it. Guess I should be grateful and carry on…. but I haven’t slept in weeks. Damn you, woman 🙂

  10. Eczema and self loathing. With the eczema, which starts on my fingers and travels to my legs via my fingers, comes the steroid cream, thank you nurse practitioners! which enhances my self loathing to epic dramas on the roof where I plot revenge and my meaningful end. Then the itching starts again and I come down to my nice safe place behind the glass of my closed window and write hundred page wish lists with dialogue and action sequences which by turn enhance my self loathing which starts up the itching in my fingers and fuck you are right it is a nightmare. But it’s all I have. That’s all I got.

  11. I do it because I am sliding down the side of the hill everybody says I’m over.
    I have a lot to say and less years in which to say it.
    So, what the hell would I be doing if I wasn’t writing? Painting?
    Canvases not walls.
    Just the thought of not working on some sort of writing project makes me feel like a slacker.

  12. The writing is a total bitch, for sure. But I’m losing even more sleep over the whole publishing aspect. Wracking my brain over pages of “homework” from my publicist, figuring out how to finance any sort of book tour, worrying that I finished the fucker–and am seeing it published–but it will only sell ten freaking copies. I’m beginning to believe writing was the easy part. Is there a therapy group for writers?

    Oh, wait–this blog is it.

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