Lenore H. Gay's Blog, page 4
March 28, 2016
Writer’s Block
I’ve been thinking about writer’s block. Grateful I don’t have it now, yet in the early writing days I was plagued by my harsh critic. My own expectations were sky high, the need to sound writerly came out sounding stilted. A too tight pair of designer jeans. When our clothes are too tight we don’t move well and nothing’s fun. Over time I saw what the block was telling me: my standards were unnatural and paralyzing. When I became more free-wheeling the writing loosened up.
A question for wri...
February 22, 2016
Intentional Orphans
Writers often create from childhood experience. Deep, vivid memories, often recalled again and again as we age. They serve as an underlay and comparison to our current lives.
My first post called “An Orphan Story” is a first grade memory. In third grade our teacher read the class The Boxcar Children and the fictional world of orphans opened. The compelling book revealed how kids could make do without adults, how they became a strong unit and took care of each other. They were free to take ris...
Orphans: Physical Survival
Writers often create from childhood experience. Deep, vivid memories, often recalled again and again as we age. They serve as an underlay and comparison to our current lives.
My first post called “Orphans” is a first grade memory. In third grade our teacher read the class The Boxcar Children and the fictional world of orphans opened. The compelling book revealed how kids could make do without adults, how they became a strong unit and took care of each other. They were free to take risks and e...
Orphans. Physical Survival
Orphans. Physical Survival
Writers often create from childhood experience. Deep, vivid memories, often recalled again and again as we age. They serve as an underlay and comparison to our current lives.
My first post called “Orphans” is a first grade memory. In third grade our teacher read the class The Boxcar Children and the fictional world of orphans opened. The compelling book revealed how kids could make do without adults, how they became a strong unit and took care of each other. They we...
February 1, 2016
How My Book Began
HowMy Book Began
My father painted watercolors, wrote poetry and carved large sculptures from logs. Often I watched him work in his studio. When I was five he started taking me to museums and art galleries. We discussed the work. His answer to my incessant questions often was: Use your imagination. When riding in the car I turned the people on the street into story characters. I’d pick out someone, build them a house, a family, a personality, and chose their problems. I’d write a chapter in m...
January 16, 2016
An Orphan Story
Halfway through scrambled eggs and grits, my quiet morning broke apart. Out front, kids spilled over the sidewalks into the street, yelling and punching each other. Drivers slammed on brakes and hit their horns. The kids ignored them.
“Who are they?” I couldn’t take my eyes off the front window.
“Orphans, from the Children’s Home on Main Street,” Mother said. “Children are orphaned when their parents die, or can’t care for them.” Mother stubbed out her cigarette. “Or don’t want them. Go brus...
SURVIVAL. Orphans
Survival. Orphans
Halfway through scrambled eggs and grits, my quiet morning broke apart. Out front, kids spilled over the sidewalks into the street, yelling and punching each other. Drivers slammed on brakes and hit their horns. The kids ignored them.
“Who are they?” I couldn’t take my eyes off the front window.
“Orphans, from the Children’s Home on Main Street,” Mother said. “Children are orphaned when their parents die, or can’t care for them.” Mother stubbed out her cigarette. “Or don’t w...
SURVIVAL, The Orphans
Survival – The Orphans
Halfway through scrambled eggs and grits, my quiet morning broke apart. Out front, kids spilled over the sidewalks into the street, yelling and punching each other. Drivers slammed on brakes and hit their horns. The kids ignored them.
“Who are they?” I couldn’t take my eyes off the front window.
“Orphans, from the Children’s Home on Main Street,” Mother said. “Children are orphaned when their parents die, or can’t care for them.” Mother stubbed out her cigarette. “Or do...
