“Making words slant across the page was like making rain. Flowers grew in ink. Hurricanes and revolutions were stirred up by the sound of pen scratching paper.” —Erica Jong
Exaust the Little Moment / An essay by Anna Quindlen
On Our Minds / Excerpts from a teen’s term paper
A Heart’s Breath / An essay by Anne Lamott
Sienfeld: The Lost Episode / Creative writing by Patricia Petro
Why I Did It / from “Beauty Out Of Damage” by Matuschka
The Difference Between Men and Women / by Dave Berry
“The reason one writes isn’t the fact he wants to say something. He writes because he [or she] has something to say.”
—F. Scott Fitzgerald
My love affair with writing started early on. When we were children, my mom read stories to us from Grolier’s The Book of Knowledge. I remember
Lady of the Lake,
The Tale of Peter Rabbit,
Little Black Sambo,
Hansel and Gretel, and others. The stories fueled my imagination and ignited the first sparks. Lying in bed at night I formed characters in my head and played out scenes, creating stories of my own and telling them to my brother and sister in the darkness of the room we shared. While in high school, I had poems, concert reviews, essays, and articles—with at least one short story—published in various teen magazines. I was part of a loosely-knit group of young free-lance correspondents who worked for peanuts and the prestige of seeing our names in national print....
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When I Met My Muse
I glanced at her and took my glasses off—they were still singing. They buzzed like a locust on the coffee table and then ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch, and knew that nails up there took a new grip on whatever they touched. “I am your own way of looking at things,” she said. “When you allow me to live with you, every glance at the world around you will be a sort of salvation.” And I took her hand. —William Stafford
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