Feb. 17, 2014

I was thrilled when it snowed last week – until the second day. That’s when I discovered that I really didn’t know what to do with a snow day anymore.

Growing up in Radford, Va., snow days were frequent and fun. Among my favorite things – sledding on a really steep hill a few blocks from my house, and ice-skating on a big pond two miles away. The coed ice-skating especially was fun when we were flirty teenagers. I was pretty good at it (the ice-skating, not the flirting, alas.) Fast-forward 20 years to Houston, Texas, when a female friend asked me to ice-skate at the Galleria, a fancy mall with a large ice rink in the middle and lots of hoity-toity spectators. Somehow, I’d lost all of my skills – and my balance. I was mortifyingly bad and felt like my pratfalls served as free entertainment for the high-end crowd, even their children. I tried one more time at a place with fewer spectators – to no avail.

The first day it snowed last week I just enjoyed the rare beauty. By the second day, I became a bit anxious. I hate cold weather and didn’t want to go out in it. But I felt like I should do something. I no longer had a child to play in the snow with, and my husband seemed more interested in getting his taxes done. I had plenty of writing to do, but kept getting distracted by the blinding whiteness through the windows. In the end, I just looked at it a lot.

 

 

Feb. 11, 2014

I’ve always considered myself a reluctant writer. As a young reporter, I could always put off writing my story by having a cigarette – or two or three. But a few years later, when good sense prevailed and I stopped smoking, I lost that handy excuse. I always divided reporters into two groups – those who loved the reporting and those who tolerated the reporting to get to the writing. I loved the reporting and could stretch it out – just one more phone call, I’d tell myself, and I’ll get that piece of information that will lift this story to page one. But adhering to that philosophy often meant that I’d skimp on the time to elevate the writing of the story.

So in some ways, I’m surprised that thirty-some years later, I’m a writer of fiction. I still report, but I’m looking for research that will stretch my imagination and make my story more believable. When I started my novel, Saving Texas, in 2010, I wasn’t sure I would have the patience to finish it. But I had a tale that I wanted to tell and I knew that if I finished, I’d get that wonderful feeling I knew as a journalist – not the thrill of writing, but the satisfaction of having written.

I plan to blog every Monday, or more, if the spirit moves me – about writing, reading and other stuff that interests me. I may come to the table reluctantly, but I’ll leave with the satisfaction – even if it’s just a few paragraphs – of having written.