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Why write?

It's really like people who do jigsaw puzzles. They bend over the table putting the pieces
together in an order that creates a picture. They tend to be quite intense about it, and
they find it hard to walk past the table without finding and putting in another piece.

Writers do that. They put words together in an order that makes sense, at least to them.
They create a picture with the words. They certainly can be terribly intense, and if
the writing is going well, they keep going back to the computer (or the big yellow
legal pad if they're the longhand kind of writers) and having another look, often
unable to resist the temptation to sit down and keep going.

The big difference between the puzzlers and the writers is that it's quickly apparent
whether the puzzle has been done correctly or not. Some writers may be so confident
of their abilities that they, too, know what they've done is on target. But many
more are unsure -- they tend to poke at the words, change some, fret, look for
reassurance from a reader they trust.

They can also feel dissatisfied, almost as if the work is not quite finished. It's
the way a jigsaw fanatic feels when there's a piece missing, and it's time to
kneel on the rug and search carefully. Writers hope not to have missing pieces,
but they instinctively know when something's not there -- and it can be tough
to search the book and the brain and figure out what the missing link is. Read More 
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togetherness

My sister and I spent eight days, 24/7, together recently and discovered we could actually do
that. When we were much younger and she six years younger than I, she was such a pest.
I remember protesting to our mother about one thing after another, and the answer was always
the same: "She's going through a stage." One day, in desperation, I answered back: "But she's
always going through a stage."

Her present stage is quite wonderful -- organizing a sort of book tour in Washington and Oregon
for me and driving me around some of her favorite places in the region that has been her home for
more than 40 years. We rolled through mountains in Washington, yellow aspen leaves brilliant
against the dark Douglas firs, and emerged into the wheat, hay and hop fields of eastern
Oregon where the country rolls and rolls under an enormous sky, the golden fields punctuated
occasionally by precise rows of staked grape vines. The clouds seem far away here, the rivers
large, the houses scarce.
In small towns, main streets seemed busy, and we visited one independent book store after
another, giving them a copy of the new book, "Rose," and having a chat about what we were
doing. We weren't expected, but the welcomes were warm and in one store, the Book Stop in
Hood River, Oregon, the man behind the counter pointed to my name on the book and said,
"Is this you?" I answered,"Yes." His finger moved to the line that said "A sequel to
"Sarah's Daughter," and he stunned me. "Two of my daughters readyour book," he said.
Hood River is now on the map for me. Read More 
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off the walls and on again

We've repainted a room, or, rather, we hired an expert to do it. Amateurs
removed an amazing number of objects prior to the redecorating --they pretty
much cluttered up two other rooms. Now it's time to put things back. But not
the same way. We're moving pictures around. Every time we get a new
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Minor thoughts

As one who has an aversion to anonymous blogs (if you think it and want to say it, then do -- and tell us who you are), I find this blog page a bit intimidating. But my name is here, so, first blog:

It's January cold, gray with only an occasional shimmer of blue sliding out, tree branches black against the toneless sky. A deer ambled out of the woods two days ago and scuffled up the snow under the Jonagold tree to get some apples. Fall's billions of acorns are well buried now. When an unseen smell or an unheard sound spooked her, she and the deer who was waiting in the woods flew away in elegant Prancer Dancer style, seeming to rarely hit the ground as they went across the field and then out of sight. Read More 
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