It seems that some of us are always trying to find our figurative home. Maybe for others, they always feel at home. I had written in my memoir, Under the Birch Tree, about making connections and discovering my self. I wondered if my discoveries would continue though my story had come to an end with the publication of my book. [...]
In my early years, I grew to know a particular birch tree, planted on the same plot as I was. Its delicate arms played in uncomplicated innocence, inviting me to circle around it. I am reminded of Robert Frost’s reflections of innocence, carefree spirits, and evolving years: I like to think some boy’s been swinging them . . . And they seem not to break; [...]
Smoke hung like humidity on a sultry summer afternoon. The cloudy air wasn’t from a barbecue, a nearby chimney, or landscaper stirring the dry earth. The puffs appeared to billow, grow larger then shrink, dance in circles, twirl in unison. It was as if they were full of breath giving life to a kaleidoscope of memories from long ago. The [...]
So why DID I write my memoir? Admittedly, I couldn’t answer the question over 10 years ago when I started writing my memoir. Now I’ve passed a manuscript hurdle, a professional developmental edit, and I’m polishing my book with a copy edit on my way to publishing. But who knew the life of a virginal indie author could be simple [...]
This day, 28 years ago, was one of the worst days of my then 25 year-old self. I wrote about it in my memoir-in-progress, Under the Birch Tree. The bus ride home from work at lunchtime north on Lake Shore drive was like something out of a Stephen King novel. I was having an out-of-body experience on that ominous gray [...]