A new year begins, full of promise, hope and expectation. Two thousand years and counting, and more before, in this life.
Recently, I compared my work to speeding along, in a canoe. Zephyr (?) used to blow gentle winds to help the vessel stay on course, and the Ancient Greeks weren’t foolish to disregard the eyes of the gods above, despite the posturing of Odysseus and most of the protagonists of the tragedies. So, here I am in my canoe, with lonely oar, traversing through a water of words, but aware there are many who guide me along. My family, who listened without severe criticism at my drafts, my niece who was clear and focussed in her wants of a good story, and my friends who suggested a deadline and are holding me to it.
The interweb distracts, the new teaching year calls, and then there’s my hair, falling like…
There’s the Grace Paley story, “A Conversation With My Father,” in which the father wants his daughter to write like Chekhov, which I would insert here, but it’s a good New Year’s quest for anyone up for it. I will print the link for a wonderful hilarious take on The Canterbury Tales my friend Andrew alerted me to:
(you click on directly in “blogroll”)
A Happy New Year To All