What a wonderful month I’ve had since I last posted here! Annabelle graduated from 8th grade, Sam left for London to continue THE DIANA TAPES, the inaugural residency of the Newport MFA was a rollicking success, and my favorite people gathered joined Sam in London in a sprawling Soho flat with a roof deck and room for big dinners, late night games, so much laughter and love that I returned refreshed and happy just in time for Annabelle to drive to Truro for one of our favorite yearly trips—a week at Castle Hill where I teach, we watch movies and eat berries and read and visit with friends. Sadly we leave here tomorrow and I will spend most of the next week or so with my most wonderful husband in NYC for lots of art and theatre and good food, before Annabelle and I fly to Paris and then on to Dingle Ireland to meet Sam and enjoy one of our favorite places in the world. That’s a quick recap of summer so far here.
But what’s been on my mind these past few days is the wonderful female British and Irish writers I’ve been reading the past few months—Maggie O’Farrell, Anne Enright, Anita Brookner, Tessa Hadley, and Jane Gardham. I’ve just been devouring all of their books non-stop, and realized slowly how respected and appreciated they are for exploring the same topics US women writers are often ignored for writing—family dynamics, love, parenting, friendship, home, children, siblings. What is described with derision as “domestic” here. (Though these writers are well regarded here; it’s American female writers who aren’t typically). The plots are often more emotionally tense than plot oriented, though there is always a plot: should we sell the house? Should we stay together? Should I go home? This has been some of the happiest reading I’ve done in a long time, book after book of the human heart explored with intelligence and curiosity and gorgeous prose. I’m inspired as a reader, a writer, and a woman by their words and stories. Please read every book these women have written.
As for me, I’m on my new novel’s fourth revision and it’s a huge one. I think I’ve figured out so much in this go round. I’m excited to get to work every morning, and hope to have it finished before I leave for Paris. Of course, I’m always ready for still more critiques from my agent and then my editor but I think I’m very close, at last.
I’m immersed in knitting a Churchmouse Yarns tunic but it’s too bulky for traveling so I’m also knitting slouchy hats for Christmas gifts. Though the needles are small so perhaps I shouldn’t use the plural?
So sad that Donald Hall died last week. My husband and I are such fans of his and Jane Kenyon’s and their love story. This morning at Michael’s recommendation I listened to the Fresh Air podcast tribute to them. If you’ve the time, spend an hour in their good company.
I hope your summer is sunny and bright.
But what’s been on my mind these past few days is the wonderful female British and Irish writers I’ve been reading the past few months—Maggie O’Farrell, Anne Enright, Anita Brookner, Tessa Hadley, and Jane Gardham. I’ve just been devouring all of their books non-stop, and realized slowly how respected and appreciated they are for exploring the same topics US women writers are often ignored for writing—family dynamics, love, parenting, friendship, home, children, siblings. What is described with derision as “domestic” here. (Though these writers are well regarded here; it’s American female writers who aren’t typically). The plots are often more emotionally tense than plot oriented, though there is always a plot: should we sell the house? Should we stay together? Should I go home? This has been some of the happiest reading I’ve done in a long time, book after book of the human heart explored with intelligence and curiosity and gorgeous prose. I’m inspired as a reader, a writer, and a woman by their words and stories. Please read every book these women have written.
As for me, I’m on my new novel’s fourth revision and it’s a huge one. I think I’ve figured out so much in this go round. I’m excited to get to work every morning, and hope to have it finished before I leave for Paris. Of course, I’m always ready for still more critiques from my agent and then my editor but I think I’m very close, at last.
I’m immersed in knitting a Churchmouse Yarns tunic but it’s too bulky for traveling so I’m also knitting slouchy hats for Christmas gifts. Though the needles are small so perhaps I shouldn’t use the plural?
So sad that Donald Hall died last week. My husband and I are such fans of his and Jane Kenyon’s and their love story. This morning at Michael’s recommendation I listened to the Fresh Air podcast tribute to them. If you’ve the time, spend an hour in their good company.
I hope your summer is sunny and bright.
