Sunday, January 19, 2020

Talking to Myself Five

Judy, photo by Emma Tobin

Talking to Myself Five   January 19, 2020

I’ve had very few successes in
my book publishing life. So far,
twenty-four books, twelve mysteries, 
seven of poetry, four non-fiction,
and one, my grandmother’s diary,
which I annotated. I wanted to
understand her better. She was
bi-polar and spent too much time
in mental hospitals. I used to say,
“If I didn’t write, I’d go crazy.”
Lately I’ve begun writing more 
and more often, and I’m publishing
two or three books a year. But one,
the eleventh, won me praise I had
come not to expect. My writing
skill is called deft; with more plot
twists and turns than a bakery
box of pretzels. I’ve never seen
such pretzels, but they must be 
impressive. I was stunned by the
praise of the Midwest Book Review.
It lifted me up out of my quiet
life, reading, writing, cooking, 
learning how to strengthen my legs 
and body core. Then, in the same
day, Friday, January 17th, a newspaper
friend came to interview me. His
questions set off the story of my life.
I am as amazed as he is.  By all
the things I’ve done. I worked behind
the scenes most of the time. At that
women’s gathering which we called
“Tell Me a Story That’s True,” I stood
before six hundred women and said,
“Your stories are important. Women
need to write down the stories they’ve
told no one.” I took my own advice 
and I’ve been doing it, too. After
my friend left, I felt the familiar urge
to write. I’ve written so many books,
so many poems, so many pages in my
diaries. My words are there and will
be kept in a major women’s collection
at a major university, and I’m still 
writing, still putting on paper 
the truth I experience: my very own
truth. In one day I learned that 
my life mattered. I crossed some 
boundary, and my story began to be
known by s world of new people,
strangers, those unknown to me,
who will laugh and cry with

 my words ringing in their ears.

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