• Bridge Ladies

    Bridge Ladies When I set out to learn about my mother's bridge club, the Jewish octogenarians behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, their gen, and the ragged path that led me back to my mother.
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Oh Simple Thing, Where Have You Gone?


sb01-firesecuritysafe-smallIn the last few weeks, more than one writer has mentioned that he or she is working on something “just for themselves,” “no pressure,” “a totally different genre,” etc. I get it. It’s the desire to write in obscurity, which is ironic since the desire to come out of obscurity is so overpowering before you get your work out there. It’s a desire to protect the creative process, to stop second guessing what the market, agents, editors think. When writing ceases to be fun and by fun I mean rewarding, you need to reboot. I still think that the person writing just for him or herself still hopes the work will be met with open arms. What am I saying? You can run but you can’t hide.

Where do you go to hide?


13 Responses

  1. “Where do you go to hide?”

    I hide in plain sight.

  2. The tree I try to hide behind is but a twig, way to narrow to cover the girth of my writing.

    Wow, very profound for so early in the morning.

  3. I’m not at that point yet.

    I’ve often thought about creating a new blog without any sort of profile, or explanation of who I am, and write about whatever I want. Opinions about this or that which I generally keep to myself.

    I would call it A Bitching Blog, or something like that. I could then whine and complain about whatever had tweaked my sense of decorum or righteousness that day. I could bitch about rude people. My mother. My husband. My neighborhood. All with a wonderful sense of freedom, without worrying about the fallout of discovery.

    Wow. Wouldn’t that be great???

  4. Yes. I’ve been hiding in this cave of writerly obscurity for a year. I needed to do this in order to save the art girl side of my life. So, I’m writing short stories rather than novels, sending some out and getting back to basics, semi-apart from the industry stuff.
    It’s been a reviving year. No regrets.

  5. Down by the river. Deep inside a hedgerow behind my first childhood home. Behind a furry face, drugged out eyes still visible behind all the hair. On the road and deep in the forest. On a mountain top and lost at sea. On a natural red rock bridge high above the canyon. In the kitchen the first time I heard my baby’s laugh. These are places I remember.

  6. I’ve been hiding in plain sight and behind this name for 13 years now, and it’s been great, sort of gonzo fun. Denying your own existence for fun and a little profit is fun, too, but not for everyone. I have a friend who swears he knows who I am, and how he knows it. I listen to the details and tell him that, as an investigator, he’d make a great meter maid.

    So, a fictional writer telling semi-fictional stories, finding what he finds.

    There is a real place where I hide now and then, alone. Less than two hours away under sail, anchored in about eight feet of water, marsh grass on three sides…roosting birds chatter at night, fish splash, and sometimes dolphins sound beside the boat. There is no background light, and the only sounds are born and die there. As night ends, fishermen come from up the creek, slowly and quietly.

    That’s fact, and I think of it as a sort of fountain of youth, though it’s not working as well as I’d like. Maybe I should go more often.

    • Your description of your hiding place reminds me of when you wrote about sailing quietly while it snowed. Frank, when you get it ‘write’, you really get it ‘write’.

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