Posted on March 6th, 2014 by Ana Maria Jomolca
I don’t know anyone, outside of monks and Charles Manson who spends as much time alone as I do. I’m sure they exist but they’re not within [my] earshot or sightline. Even the homeless are out there meeting new people everyday.
I nearly always feel as though I am working and creating in a vacuum. This I’ve heard and read ad nauseum goes with the territory of writing and the initial tremors of any creative process. That moment between vacant and percolating. Between idea and form. How to be at peace in those moments when it is just you and your creating; whether sitting with a character who just barged into your kitchen catching you staring at a blank page, or the countless hours that elapse as you draw the same set of lips and fists over and over and once again because it is not quite right, yet. Because it has not captured precisely the anguish, rage, joy, defeat, triumph, helplessness, the all and all at onceness that has your protagonist heaving and punching at the air. Read the rest of this entry »
Posted on February 27th, 2014 by Amy Wheeler
In the Hero’s Journey mythic story structure, the hero hears the “call to adventure” and then makes a choice: she can refuse the call, or she can leap into the adventure.
VIDA sounded a call with The Count several years ago, and the impact of their message is still reverberating loud and clear: women are not being equally heard in the cultural conversation.
The implication of this fact is the real stunner. If you understand that storytellers shape our culture, then “Who gets to be our storytellers?” becomes a pivotal question. Read the rest of this entry »
Posted on February 20th, 2014 by Becca Lawton
It’s 5:30 p.m. and something’s missing. I’m standing at my kitchen island, certain I’ve forgotten an appointment. But what? Nothing’s on the calendar, everything seems in place. Still I have the niggling feeling I’m overlooking something important. My gaze wanders to the windowsill and a postcard propped up on it. The caption reads, Cedar Cottage, Hedgebrook Retreat for Women Writers, Langley, Washington.
There’s the answer. My body remembered what my mind did not: if I were at Hedgebrook right now, I’d be arriving in the farmhouse kitchen just in time for dinner. Read the rest of this entry »
Posted on February 13th, 2014 by Nancy Thurston
Illustration by Khara Scott-Bey
I know Nancy signed her name to this blog, but mind you she wouldn’t be speaking today if it wasn’t for me—Hectate. I’ve been at her side all her life, but she didn’t notice me. She was sweet, nice and very helpful.
A few years ago I took hold of her ovaries, woke her up and she’s been rising every since.
Let me introduce myself. Straight-laced as Nancy was, she always had her little flare so she messed with my real name. When she first noticed me, she thought I was Hestia, the goddess of the home and the sacred fires. Nope. I was Hecate, wild goddess of crossroads like birth and death—those big paradoxes that make most humans quake in their boots. As much as her Texas roots have embarrassed Nancy, she was clear that I was the sort of strong-willed woman she recognized, like Sue Tipps Mathys, her native Texan mother. And, good as she is with words, she’s a lousy speller. My Greek name is Hecate. Nancy called me “Hectate.” Read the rest of this entry »
Posted on January 29th, 2014 by Jennifer Munro
Twenty years ago I started writing seriously again after taking a long hiatus due to a pesky thing called adulthood, which involved gainful employment, getting married, moving across the Pacific Ocean and back, and struggling to stay married (glad I did). In 1993, approximately three seconds after I suggested that we take a motorcycle safety course together, the Man I Married bought a motorcycle. On our first road trip, on the back of that motorcycle, my imagination knocked around in that full-face helmet and demanded to be let out again. What else was I going to do on the back of a motorcycle other than daydream and admire MIM’s fine fanny?
Before MIM had unloaded the saddlebags (other than the ones on my thighs) when we returned home, I’d bounded inside, called my sister-in-law, and demanded the immediate return of the electric typewriter she’d borrowed. Within an hour, I was writing again, and I’ve never stopped since. Read the rest of this entry »