By Ann Conway
Here in central Maine, the world has come down to bone. The songbirds are gone and crows, which poet Mary Oliver terms “the deep muscle of the world,” have taken over my street. The landscape seems empty; the ground, a carpet of desiccated leaves. One longs for the blanketing stillness of snow. Continue Reading …
By Ann Conway
I find creative writing difficult. This is in contrast to my professional writing as a consultant, which I find, after twenty five years, relatively straightforward: if you’ve written one foundation report or federal grant, you’ve pretty much written them all. But real writing, as I think of it—including this blog—is another story. Continue Reading …
By Ann Conway
When I say I’m writing a book about my Irish American family (the reason I’ve transitioned to occasional guest posts for Good Letters), I receive reading suggestions. First on the list is usually Frank McCourt’s Angeles Ashes, which, alas, I found unreadable. “Why?” people cry, appalled. Continue Reading …
By Ann Conway
For most of my adult life, I’ve been resistant to allegiance—to people, to places. The latter may seem strange, since I’ve lived in northern New England on and off since 1972. In many ways, Maine’s iron earth seems my native country. But then, on other days, I think—not. It’s an old impulse: I have to be somewhere else. Continue Reading …
By Ann Conway
Edwin Arlington Robinson grew up in Gardiner, Maine; I live a couple of blocks from his house, which still stands. Nothing much changes here. The brook that ran beside Robinson’s childhood bedroom now runs by mine. Until recently, I never knew much about Robinson, who is much lionized in Gardiner; there is a monument to him on the Common, a festival, a web site. Continue Reading …
©2010 Seattle Pacific University. All rights reserved.
