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 ...

I’m highlighting a few random memories this week. President Richard Nixon resigned on August 9, 1974. About that time I was a sophomore in high school sitting in a world history class. The teacher was somewhat tired, weary perhaps of the world, the weight of current events. Anyway, he said what we were living through would one day become subject matter, part of the curriculum for future students of history. I had no doubt about that. But what really struck me was how long it would take. I mean it would be part of my story, embedded in my psyche and how I approached government. Feed my mistrust of leaders.— To be clear: I was NEVER a Nixon fan. My parents voted for him and souped up all the bs put out about why Vietnam was important (the Domino Effect) and why so many had to go over and fight and die. We watched the draft lottery on television. My brother had a low number and went off to college. He would be safe. Now, fast forward to JD Vance and his insipid comments about rede...

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search my name: Jane Hertenstein or follow this link: https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=jane+hertenstein all ebooks 50% off

This blog is about memories, and one memory that’s been popping up repeatedly lately—not sure why, maybe prompted by a bit of music or the country’s birthday or ICE/immigration chaos—I’m remembering a bike trip, my first solo tour, in Florida beginning of February 2014. I was in south Florida, perhaps a day away from the Keys, and had a Couchsurfing host lined up for the evening at a kind of farm. Of course, I had an address, but I’m not sure I yet had a smartphone, only a flip, which can give GPS. I could use it in a pinch. Anyway, I was south of Homestead in a smallish town and though I’d ask directions—always fraught. Locals rarely know where they are and if they don’t bike have no idea of how to get somewhere without accessing major roads. But, I thought I’d take a chance. There was a mother and son walking down the sidewalk. She had her arm through his and he wore Western-style clothing: a cowboy hat, boots, jeans, white dress shirt. They looked respectable, in other words. What...

This week as I'm navigating cataract surgery, heat wave, going back to work--I appeared on a local podcast, Written in the Stars, put out by Lansing Community College. I think it went well, except for the coughing fit I succumbed to in the beginning and my phone dinging from notifications. (I'd turned off the ringer but forgot to silence.) All good. They'll fix it in the mix. As they say. I think we had a nice conversation. 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. 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 h...

Maybe a year ago while out running in the neighborhood, I saw a bus letting students off and a young boy juggling a back pack and instrument case. I kept running. But something stayed with me. I wrote a piece from the perspective of voice messages. I wasn’t sure if it worked and forgot about it, until . . . I was running again in that same neighborhood and remembered the bus and kid and that short piece. I revisited it and made a few changes—none of which my critique group liked. Without reading the first draft they nixed the stuff I added (I thought for clarity). I sent it off in April and right away ArLiJo, Arlington Literary Journal took the piece. Out now! https://www.arlijo.com/post/issue-223#viewer-onb7d1146 Located in Arlington, Virginia, the intent of  ArLiJo  is to feature a variety of authors/poets/artists from around the globe whose work provokes readers to contemplate issues, etc. Having said that,  ArLiJo  like Gival Press looks for work th...

First eye done. I can see. The hard part: waiting to be able to resume my “normal” activities. Till then, no lifting more than 10 lbs, no bike riding, no sweeping, no swimming or water in eye. It’s hard to just sit around. I want to ride my bike through the woods, take my grandson to Lake Lansing and get into the water. Start up running again. Lift my youngest grandson and lay him down for a nap. I did rebelliously sweep my kitchen floor and mop it. I felt like a deviant. Things I might want to put off, now sound enticing. Cleaning out the shed, for instance. Soon, though, this episode will be behind me. There will come a time when I’d do anything to waste time on a summer day, so I may as well enjoy it now.

I’ve learned that birthdays don’t mean a lot. In fact, they can be somewhat disappointing, a let down. Birthdays come and go. Since this blog is about memories, I’d like to share how I celebrated the 200 th birthday of the USA. 1976 found me at a Young Life camp outside of Pittsburgh, PA. I was a volunteer at an inner-city youth camp put on by an organization for high schoolers called Young Life. It was considered cool Christian. My high school allowed the club to post info in meetings on campus. I met through Young Life a life-long friend, Jane McSweeney nee Jarrell, from Dayton, Ohio. She was city mouse and I was if not country mouse at least Centerville-suburban mouse. She and I were recruited for the camp, where we met Mark Bruce and a few other Young Lifers. I didn’t work directly with the kids; I did laundry. It was a regular machine and took forever to do many, many loads. On the morning of the 4 th , I was aware it was supposed to be a monumental day—for the nation, not ...