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Eleven Women

Sometimes my mind can't get wrapped around writing a blog. I see things I ranted about in past blogs and I think I must stop the ranting. Or at least put a lid on it for awhile. My mind is preoccupied by researching and plans for self-publishing "Father Father", the memoir I've been trying to peddle for the past year or more. I'm working on editing "Orange Sox and Pipe Dreams" which I drafted in November; I posted a chapter excerpt last month, and may do so again. When I get frustrated, I go downstairs to paint, and sometimes I make a big mess down there. Life is full of responsibilities, projects, deadlines, appointments, trying to ignore the political climate, and then there is Netflix. (Shout out to Jane the Virgin, by the way, my latest Netflix enjoyment). We all have the same issues, just wrapped in different wrapping paper. So, I didn't write a blog, just dug up this recollection of a writing workshop I took last year around this time. And I hope you all have a good month and get to spend quality time with friends and loved ones, because what else is really important?

Painting by Maxim Bugzester (1910-1978)








Eleven Women at a Writing Workshop At the long, scarred table they sit:

a velvet voice

an acerbic wit a woman with three mechanical body parts (by her admission)

a red nose with a box of tissues a gravelly voice who reads a naughty piece a young woman crouched on her chair like a monkey poised for flight


In the church basement they sit: a grave countenance a woman who’d achieved Irish citizenship based on a grandfather’s heritage a hesitant bulky sweater wearer

a soft spoken woman with bent fingers and special pen

a woman with three pairs of glasses


Cold fingers wrapped around pens Sweaters and jackets against the chill

emotions spilled upon the page.

Left to right, back again, Left to right, back again,

Left to right, back again.

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