writing life

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.

Sunday Night Dinner Conversation

Photo courtesy of deviantArt

If pigs are given space, they’ll sleep in a clean area, but if they’re confined, they’ll sleep in their poo.

“At times, humans are like a pig in poo,” my friend Lindsay mused.

“How so?” I asked.

“We feel warm and cozy in the muck. We know it would be better for us if we left the muck, cleaned up, and moved to a healthier place. But change is hard . . .  and scary. It’s easy to stay stuck in the poo. We tell ourselves the same story over and over, and that sad tale becomes the narrative of our lives.”

I’ve been thinking about the pig in poo all week. What areas of my life need to be cleaned up? What mental and emotional confines have I locked myself into? What narrative have I made myself believe? Is it time to make a change? I really like the pig in poo story. So I thought I’d share it.

Bear Hug

I was on the upper deck of the writing cabin reading/meditating lost in thought and prayer when all the sudden a bear wandered in the backyard. He was two feet away. Gorgeous cinnamon color. He walked right through the wildlife pond (which was dry because of such little rain), over the herb garden, and to solar panel that runs the outdoor water pump. He sniffed the panel for a few seconds then he disappeared into the thick oak brush and pine trees. I stayed silent and observed. It was the neatest wildlife encounter I’ve ever had. I felt completely safe on the deck (up one story) behind the railing. For a split second I thought about racing to grab my camera, but I decided to simply stay put and enjoy the sacred moment.

I’m at the cabin at work on a book and making a big push to finish the current draft. I still need your prayers. I have savored my time here before “cubical life” begins (one week from now I start a temporary gig at a magazine). Here’s what I’ve read this trip: The Trouble with Poetry by Billy Collins; Weekends with O’Keeffe by C.S. Merrill; Wait Until Tomorrow by Pat MacEnulty.

Anyone intrigued with O’Keeffe’s life and art should read Merrill’s book. O’Keeffe hired the author to catalog her personal library and the two women developed a friendship. And MacEnulty’s book was the best surprise. I bought it last time I was out here and tucked it away in the loft so I’d have a book ready and waiting for me . . . but I had forgotten that I had done that. So when I found it I was thrilled, and the best part is that it’s a wonderful read. It’s about a woman who becomes the caregiver for her elderly mother.

I’ll sign off with a bear hug . . .

Summer Solstice

I burst out of the prop plane and stepped onto the tarmac at the small airport in southwest Colorado. After a wet and gloomy June in D.C. (double the amount of rainfall than usual), I enjoyed a truly sunny summer solstice. Hope you did, too. The wildfires out in Colorado are bad — so while I soaked up the yellow rays I did pray for rain (with as much earnestness as I could muster). In other news…

Hot Off the Press: (1) my essay “A Climate Adjustment” is running on the back page of the June issue of Chesapeake Bay magazine (available on newsstands); and (2) my piece 5 Great Places to Paddleboard is in Bethesda magazine’s ultimate summer guide issue.

Book of the Month: I am still on an Elisabeth Elliot kick. Since she published over 20 books, I’ll probably be on this kick for awhile. A few days ago, I started A Lamp Unto My Feet, an out-of-print book about her personal reflections while reading Scripture. As trivial and foolish as it sounds, I can get quite discouraged that Ron and I still cannot seem to work out our “geography issue.” This precious book has helped me navigate that problem. Sunlight, after all, is only physical. The true Light is spiritual.

Wishing you an enlightened summer!