I’ve always been inspired by words. From earliest childhood, I’ve never gone out without an ample supply of reading material in case I should get stranded in some vast wordless desert. (Incidentally, I’ve observed that few things are as annoying to the impatient as the sight of someone happily engrossed in a book while waiting in a long line. This amuses me.) Words have immense power to transport us to other times and places, and they must be absorbed and wielded with thoughtful judgment.
My reading pile is always teetering (unless it’s just tottered). Some of my favorite books are Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s journals, Edith Wharton’s autobiography, Collette’s letters, Madeleine L’Engle’s Crosswicks Journals, and countless other stories of women who wrote. I love fiction by Edith Wharton, J.R.R. Tolkein, Victor Hugo, and others; and for fun, I read mysteries and magazines.
After two decades of caregiving, a time when I wrote for bread on the table rather than hyacinths to feed the soul (Muslih-un-Din Saadi), I’m turning back to my first love, and sharpening the tools of my craft once more. Non-fiction will still be bread and butter, but it’s time to unleash the muse!
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