Posts by Vanya Erickson
Hit the Trail
John Muir said, “The mountains are calling and I must go.” Amen, brother. It’s high time I hit the trail. For me, that means returning to the Sierra Nevada Mountains. We have a long history together, the mountains and I, as gnarled and magnificent as a Bristlecone Pine. The Sierra’s pull is so strong that sometimes as I sit down to write, memories flood through me and I have to sit down.
Read MorePower of Music
Unlike corporate coffee houses with their gleaming stainless and fishbowl walls of glass, my preferred writing place is dark and womb-like, a funky artistic hangout with arteries of extension cords snaking across the wood floors – lifelines for writers. I always bring my headphones when I go there because music makes all the difference.
Read MoreWords Saved Me
It’s like so much magic, really, when the perfect article appears just when you need it and saves you from yourself. It was 4 a.m., and I had just clicked on my daily email from Brevity.com, a wonderful source of inspiration for authors. The featured article vibrated like neon on the page. “Why I’m Giving Up on Being Published,” by Woz Flint. I was hooked.
Read MoreBelonging
I inherited Mom’s poker face – that calm-in-the-storm mask that has served me well throughout my life. It’s foolproof except for the tiny twitch in the corner of my left cheek, evidence that inside my head, I’m a screaming jungle of emotions, a dark mass of self doubt entwined with the past.
Read MoreWhen it Gets Difficult
Outside it’s a Portland drizzle, the perfect excuse for staying in my pajamas and working on a scene in my book. Today I’m working on the one in which Dad is gesticulating in the kitchen, informing my sister and me that a thief broke into our home while we were at school, leaving us “something very interesting, indeed.”
Read MoreRejection Response
Last week I received a rejection slip that spiraled me into the fetal position, stealing my breath away. It had been such a great day with my students, and months since I had sent off that essay in question, the one about the death of my daughter – that I was caught in a gut response by the quick change of my mood. It made me nauseous. And then I remembered:
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