My sister’s lovely post on the writing life.
It’s 6:30 p.m. on Ash Wednesday, and my children are listening to Christmas music. It’s understandable; there’s still snow on the ground that’s been around for weeks, hiding underneath the snow that fell on Monday and shut down the Shenandoah Valley for two days. The days are getting longer, the chickens have stopped being stingy egg-layers, and even Cancer-Dog has a new spring in her step, but outside, it looks and feels like the snow-crusted dead of winter. This Saturday we’ll turn our clocks forward, but at the moment it doesn’t feel like the right time of year for it. Now is the winter of our discontent. Stupid groundhog.
It’s been a wintry month in this writer’s soul as well. Sometimes it’s difficult to maintain hope in the face of the overwhelming odds that define this profession, this calling–this imperative–to write. You know that writing is the thing you’re…
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