writing life

Trail of Memories


Edie Changes Her Mind is one of those library books I checked out every week as a child. The little girl on the cover is a night owl. She refuses to go to sleep. One evening, her parents dismantle her bed and let her stay up. After that, Edie learns to appreciate rest.

I haven’t thought about the book in decades. Edie would have been forever lost to me except for the fact that a few weeks ago, I began to write about nocturnal tendencies and early childhood. The combination of those two topics opened a spring of long-forgotten memories, and out spouted Edie!

Once I remembered the book, I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten.

As I work on my own book, I often call my mom to ask her about family events I don’t remember well. My mom’s recollections are fuzzy. She says, “I wish I had kept a journal.”

I know the feeling. I wish I had kept a journal as a child. I wish I had kept a journal in law school. I especially wish I’d kept a journal as a young associate in a law firm. (What inner turmoil!)

A lot of things from the past might be painful to recall, but I still wish I’d kept a written account. I am afraid the memories of what happened in prior years are lost forever.

But they might not be.

One thing I’ve discovered is that writing now (meaning, today) helps me remember then. Dig around your brain, move around some debris, and you’ll find an old trail to follow. One trail of thought leads to another and before long you’ll bump into Edie. It’s strange how buried memories resurface when you write.

Want to see what you might rediscover if you grab a notebook and scribble away? I’m teaching a private 4-week personal essay workshop this October. One spot left. Contact me for details.

I have trails on the brain lately. It was the theme of my latest newsletter. I’m having way too much fun putting the newsletter together. It’s like a mini magazine. Next month’s theme is on … well … subscribe here to find out.

Still not sure you want to join? Read the Trail Mix issue to see if you like it.


Top 10 Reasons to Join My Newsletter

I’m launching a newsletter. Why join? Here are the top 10 reasons:

  1. You’re a relative and don’t have a choice
  2. You’re a competitor keeping tabs on me
  3. You love books and want to swap good reads with me
  4. You have a story you’d like to write and see in print one day (each newsletter will highlight a magazine or outlet seeking submissions)
  5. Deep conversations don’t scare you: life, death, God, big fears, pondering the meaning of those little yellow Minions–bring it on
  6. You want a sneak peek inside the book I’m writing (I’ll share excerpts, you’ll get the scoop on its progress, and you may even influence what’s in its pages)
  7. You believe in fate and think there is a reason why you’re reading these words right here, right now … or not, but what the heck, you’ll sign up anyway
  8. You want to support a starving artist
  9. You want to nurture your creative spirit
  10. You want to be one of my CEOs (chief encouragement officers). My friend Holly says all writers need ’em … lots of ’em. She’s right. Thank you for your encouragement!

What’s the difference between the blog and newsletter? To paraphrase publishing expert Jane Friedman, the blog offers sips of champagne. The newsletter is the bottle. In other words, I don’t hold back in the newsletter.

Most people who write newsletters give a free gift to new subscribers. Will you? Of course! As a token of my appreciation, you’ll get my favorite books list, artfully created by multimedia designer Ryan Han. (Thank you, Ryan!)

How do I sign up? Scroll straight up to the tippity top of this page. Next to where it says Jenny’s Newsletter, type your email address in the box. Then hit subscribe. It’s that easy.

A Writer’s Hands


In a small way, my law career and writing career have merged. Since January, I’ve been writing a newsletter for a nonprofit legal service.

To gain a better idea of how the legal clinics run, I headed to the District one Saturday morning to observe. I showed up at the wrong time, 15 minutes early, so I set off in search of a coffeehouse. Within two blocks I stumbled upon on outdoor Dunkin’ Donuts kiosk. Good enough. I placed my order for a coffee and stepped aside. That’s when I noticed a woman who looked very, very familiar. She was walking a Pug. I chased her down the street as I tried not to spill my coffee. Sure enough she was a paralegal I used to work with at a law firm in London almost 20 years ago. She now works for the U.S. Department of State. Her Pug’s name is Daisy.

Anyway, the encounter got me thinking about my time in London right out of college. I attended All Souls, Langham Place, a church at the north end of Regent Street. But just because I attended church didn’t mean I was present at church. At that point in my life I went to church because I believed it was the “right” thing to do. I completely spaced out during the sermons. I was aware that the rector emeritus was a well-known preacher and author (John Stott), but other than the amusing way he pronounced words like vitamin and advertisement, I couldn’t tell you a thing he said behind the lectern.

When my faith finally took hold (over a decade later), I began to listen to Stott’s sermons online. I also read his books. I couldn’t get enough of him. Unfortunately, he died in 2011, so I will never again have the chance to sit under his live preaching. I’ve kicked myself in the butt countless times for being there without being there. Ugh!

In last month’s newsletter, I shared this story:

In one of his sermons, writer and preacher John Stott told a true story about a woman who worked with her hands. She was an American doctor who lived in London and specialized in chiropractic medicine and physiology. On Sundays, she attended All Souls, Langham Place. Once a year, without fail, Stott said, the woman would ask the pastors of the church to bless her hands. Stott (or one of the other pastors) would kneel with her and present her hands to God, asking God to enable her to do His work and healing through her hands in service to Him.

I love that. In the newsletter, I went on to write about the prayer and a lawyer’s hands. Yet I can’t stop thinking about how writers need the prayer, too … especially writers. After all, our hands are the tools we use for our craft, whether typing on the computer or composing on paper with pens and pencils. Our hands give voice to what we want to say. They help us communicate our wise (or foolish) thoughts on the page. How does a writer have healing hands? One way is finding that balance between truth and grace.

Shoes, Writing, and Shoe Writing

UntitledWrite about the shoes you wore. 

I was in a writing workshop, and that was our warm-up assignment. A stream of consciousness exercise.

“Shoes are fascinating,” the teacher said.

Shoes? Fascinating? Not to me, I thought. Unlike most women, I’m not crazy about shoes. Why shove my feet (the foundation of my body) into pointy-toed, 4-inch, ciggy-heel stilettos, known to cause bunions, hammertoes, and nerve pain? I feel similarly about platforms and peep toes, which are linked to other painful ailments. I scribbled all this down in my notebook … and kept writing. On second thought, maybe I did have something to say about shoes. My essay “Shoe Love” is running in the back page column of Modern Woman, on newsstands now.

* * *

Speaking of shoes, in her book Still Writing (a wonderful memoir on craft), Dani Shapiro suggests shoes as a possible way to begin a story. Shapiro writes: “Just the way we put one foot in front of the other as we get out of bed, the way we brush our teeth, splash water on our faces, feed our animals if we have animals, and our children if we have them, measure the coffee, put on the kettle, we need to approach our writing one step at a time. It’s impossible to evoke an entire world at the start. But it is possible to describe a crack in the sidewalk, the scuffed heel of a shoe. And that sidewalk crack or scuffed heel can be the point of entry, like a pinhole of light, to a story, a character, a universe.”

Well said. Now go ahead and pull out a pencil and paper and get to work. Write about the shoes you wore.

Hope is a thing with feathers…

Estes Park, Colorado, is stunning. I was just there for a writing conference. I brought with me a notebook, pencils, and pens but no camera. Note to self: always bring camera when travel to gorgeous Rocky Mountain National Park. Anyway, one of the first things on my To-Do List when I visit a new town is to look for an independent bookstore. Sure enough, I discovered Macdonald Bookshop on E. Elkhorn Avenue. Look at this gem I found in its poetry section:

The Unauthorized Audubon

A print artist and a poet teamed up to create a book about imaginary feathered friends. One of the poems, “Appalachian Mustard Seed,” will bring to mind the famous parable from Luke 13. Another, The Blessing Birds, will remind you of the Beatitudes. I’ve reprinted “Appalachian Mustard Seed” below with the permission of Michigan State University Press. Or you can watch a short YouTube video of Anita Skeen reading her poem here.

Appalachian Mustard Seed

So tiny it might be thought
to be a bug–an odd beetle–
or a tuft of cottonwood
taken by the wind.

Mountain folk call it
the mustard bird.
They say it appears–
when you need to believe.

In what, it never matters.
The need takes you
to alone space–the dark
barn, the path through the woods,

the room with one window.
Here you might offer the crumb
of a prayer. You might say
if only if only if only

When you grow silent
you will feel a flutter–
if you are lucky. You will feel
claws become your roots.

–Anita Skeen

The Golden Notebook

ComposeIn the spring issue of Compose, a story about the day I met writer Abigail Thomas:

Abigail Thomas wrote about her socks. Of the books of hers I’ve read—all of which I adore—that’s the scene that sticks out most. She sat on the ground in a bookstore and changed out a pair of socks that didn’t match her new shoes. The socks were black with red peppers. Her writing captures ordinary life moments with such beauty and emotion that I’m compelled to keep turning pages.

A couple years ago, I traveled to Thomas’ hometown, Woodstock, New York, for a magazine assignment. I was writing about infertility (and going through it myself), and was attending a fertile heart workshop. Before I left, I typed out an email to Abigail introducing myself. I told her how much I enjoyed her writing style, and asked if she would meet me for coffee Monday morning. Then I agonized over whether to hit “send.”

I’m shy.

I clam up around strangers.

I’m the type that skips parties in favor of staying home to read books.

When I make phone calls, my heart pounds, and I pray for voicemail.

Continue reading>>

A day in the life of …

A doctor, a therapist, a portfolio manager, and a writer walked into a bar.

(This is a true story, not a joke.)

The doctor shared compelling tales about life in the ER. Resuscitations and stomach pumpings. (By the way, it’s best to go to the emergency room at 7:05 a.m. or 7:05 p.m., right after the shift change when doctors are fresh. So next time you have appendicitis or cut off your finger, try to time it right.) The therapist had lots of great advice based on years of working with nutty patients. The portfolio manager had important (if not exactly thrilling) insights on investments. Finally, three heads turned toward the writer. They were dying to know about her day. What was it like to work on a book? On a magazine story?

I gulped.

The writer was me.

Being a writer sounds so romantic. I wanted to tell them my day was as they likely imagined: I went to a hip coffeehouse and pecka-pecka-pecka-pecked on my keyboard; words were flowing; my computer was smoking; I sent the piece off to an editor and it was accepted on the spot; look for it in next month’s issue of The New Yorker!

In reality, being a writer is not so glamorous. It can be infuriating, depressing, agonizing, and very, very slow. Coffeehouses are too loud. I cleared my throat and tried to explain a typical day: “Well, I sat at my desk, wrangled with sentences on the page for two hours, got up, went for a run, sat down, and wrote more pages. Then I ate a sandwich.”

BooksIt’s not unusual to work on something for weeks only to later scrap the material. I go through dozens of wrong drafts before I make my way to a right draft. It takes months, sometimes years, for a piece to make it from my laptop to print — if it makes it at all.

I have stiff hips and a permanent knot in my left shoulder. And my neck — I’m beginning to look like a flamingo. I love what I do (mostly). It’s all part of the messy creative process. To me, it is exciting. Then again, I also find organizing my bookshelf to be a rip-roaring good time. I like to organize books by color.

And there you have it: a day in the life of a writer.

A Writer’s Isolation

Yellowstone Has Teeth

Speaking of national parks, I’m reading Yellowstone Has Teeth. It’s about a couple who lived year-round in Yellowstone for a decade. The winters were brutal and isolating. This January, I got a teeny tiny taste of that kind of life when I spent a few weeks in the wilderness. It was cold and barren. Lonely. No bears or birds to watch. I plowed through Seasons 1, 2, and 3 of Downton Abbey. Ate a lot of soup. Skied (alpine and nordic). But most of the time, I hunkered down and worked on my book. Over the years, I’ve had to learn to write regardless of my schedule — crammed or empty. I do think it helps to separate and concentrate, although writing is hard either way. And no matter whether I’m in a public coffee house, at home, or secluded in the wilderness, it’s solitary work. The other day, I read an article about isolation written by a mother. She has four kids, yet feels removed and cut off. It was a good reminder that isolation isn’t always so obvious. And that it lurks in all sorts of lifestyles and vocations. Classes and workshops are a great way for writers to join together. I plan to take at least one class this spring and teach a couple this summer. After this polar vortex winter, it’ll be nice to emerge and connect.

Without Words

I often walk before I write. A walk helps me work through places on the page where I’m stuck. But the other day, the opposite happened. It was stunning outside. I was in the middle of nowhere — among nothing but acres and acres of wilderness and hushed mounds of white snow. Pine trees stretched heavenward. Mountains bulged. The air was crisp, and I felt the warm sun on my face. Back at my desk, I was without words.

Psalm 19 says, “The heavens declare the glory of God. The skies display His craftsmanship. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they make Him known. They speak without a sound or word; their voice is never heard. Yet their message has gone throughout the earth, and their words to all the world.”

They speak without a sound or word.

Love that.

Last summer, Ron and I visited Moab, Utah. We spent two days hiking in Arches National Park where we scrambled over boulders deep in the red rock. Again, I was awe-struck by the dramatic landscape. I’ve wanted to write about our trip ever since, but like my recent walk in in the wilderness, I thought, what is there to say? Creation speaks for itself. So maybe that’s it. Maybe the best thing I can say about Moab is simply this: If you ever get the chance . . . GO!

Ron at the trailhead of Devils Garden Primitive Loop

Ron at the trailhead of Devils Garden Primitive Loop

Skull Arch

Skull Arch

Kissing Turtles Arch

Kissing Turtles Arch

Landscape Arch

Landscape Arch

Fiery Furnace

Fiery Furnace

View from a (very narrow!) ledge

View from a (very narrow!) ledge

Delicate Arch

Delicate Arch

Enjoying God's creation

Enjoying God’s creation

We didn't want to leave

We didn’t want to leave this beautiful place


This Friday I’ll be at the National Press Club talking about writing the personal essay. To prepare, I pulled a document box off my shelf that contains a bunch of notes from prior writing classes. As I sifted through my papers, I came across a book recommendation from Barbara Abercrombie. She said this book makes a great baby gift:

I hopped online and used the “look inside” feature to flip through the book (and its sister book), written by Deborah Underwood. My eyes welled up. The book holds a touching message, and it’s beautifully illustrated. I ordered it for my nephew. But you know what? I really need to order this for adults, myself included!

Where are the quiet moments in your life? In mine?

On Friday I’ll talk about the elements of an essay, finding topic ideas, and different ways to pitch editors. But I think the best advice I can give is to quiet down. Quiet is a gift. Writers especially must learn how to have daily quiet times.

Quiet can be uncomfortable.

I’ve noticed, however, that when I move beyond the uncomfortable part of quiet to the still and peaceful part, I want to stay. And I often discover that I have nothing to say — that what I was going to talk or write about was mindless chatter. So I wait in the quiet. (Sometimes I have to wait awhile.) Eventually, I might find a thought to share. If not, that’s okay. I’ll listen in silence.


In 1 Kings 19, the prophet Elijah was lodging in a cave on a mountain, and the Lord passed by. The text says that a strong wind broke rocks into pieces, but the Lord was not in the wind. Then there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. Then there was a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. After the fire, “a sound of gentle blowing.” That’s where Elijah encountered the Lord.