Wild (from lost to found on the Pacific crest trail) by Cheryl Strayed

…This was once Mazama, I kept reminding myself.  This was once a mountain  that stood nearly 12,000 feet tall and then had its heart removed.  This was once a wasteland of lava and pumice and ash.  This was once an empty bowl that took hundreds of years to fill.  But hard as I tried, I couldn’t see them in my mind’s eye.  Not the mountain or the wasteland or the empty bowl.  They simply were not there anymore.  There was only the stillness and silence of that water:  what a mountain and a wasteland and an empty bowl turned into after the healing began.

This describing her experience of seeing Crater Lake, here in Cheryl Strayed’s book I simply needed to stop and let the words flow through me.  I love how it happens so often that the very book I need will be the one I have somehow come to be reading.  

Spinning straw into gold: thoughts on writing.

HANNAH BRENCHER

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For the last few days, I’ve sat in a dark room giving memories their proper burials.

I can imagine the way the funeral director wrings her hands beneath the hot water faucet as she preps to make settings of “goodbye” for so many. It feels a lot like that; writing a book is like finally saying goodbye to memories and finally having the courage to let go for good as you script just enough to tell your friend over a cup of coffee, “I’ve used up all the words. It’s over now.”

I didn’t imagine writing a book would feel this way. I’m one month into writing a book and I didn’t imagine it would be like this. I’m certain now that I will write a book about writing a book just so I can write the line, “It was the most hauntingly beautiful process I’ve ever experienced, to sit…

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