Memoirous

The Things We Never Say Elizabeth Strout Viking, 2026 Elizabeth Strout’s new book is out, The Things We Never Say , and I read it over one week. Am I an Elizabeth Strout fan? I don’t know, but I’ve read everything. Why? Because they hold my attention. The writing is such that I can easily enter the heads of the characters while at the same time nothing is spelled out. We are allowed to interpret: Was that conversation a bit off? Did she just dismiss him? Now what are they supposed to do? Basically, they are basic. The stuff we humans endure. Secrets, inner pain, frustration with relationships. Laundry. Jobs that do not satisfy. Unfulfilled dreams. Why? Because they are dreams, destined to stay that way. The order of things. I was struck while reading The Things We Never Say how similar this book is to the writing of Kent Haruf*, a novelist who wrote about a fictious town on the eastern plains of Colorado. An area called the Front Range. In the town of Holt where nothing much happ...

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I’ve started to be a little more intentional about booking seminars (I’m open!) and promoting my Substack and books. Sort of. I was asked recently to be on a podcast, Written in the Stars , put out by Lansing Community College. Thanks for reading Freeze Frame: How to Write Flash Memoir! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. I chatted with John Szilagyi and Robin Moore about books and writing and particularly flash. John asked an interesting question–about what got me into writing. Hmmmmm. It seems I’ve always been doing it. There were no outside motivators, such as an encouraging adult or teacher. If anything, my parents and classroom teacher tried to snuff out the creative spark. I remember my dad coming home from a parent/teacher conference with a sheaf of papers. Random writing from my desk at school. The teacher complained to Dad that I was fooling around when I should have been working/paying attention. Dad handed my writing to me and told me I could write a...

First it was the eyes, then the surgeries, then the heat, now the Canadian wildfires—there’s always a reason to put things off and lay around the house reading or doing a craft. Taking a walk or a short bike ride through the woods, watching the sunset orange and mauve or rise all yokey in the morning. I make excuses to visit the garden to meditate over the cucumbers, kale, the tomatoes that stubbornly refuse to bear fruit. Anything. Everything except settle in to write. I had a check in the other day with a writer friend. This person is head and shoulders above me with her abilities and talents, yet—she told me she’s not writing and has no pans to at the moment. I asked if it was for a season or what?? She answered, I don’t know. She hadn’t made a decision to quit, only to stop feeling bad about not writing. It freaked me out. I can let things slide. I can take a break, but I can never stop thinking I should be writing. The voice inside my head, the devil on my shoulder: they’ve ...