Today I finished an essay to win a spot at a women's writing workshop. I was turned onto it in April by an author I met in NYC while I attended an Empowerment Seminar. I was unsure whether to sign up, but decided I have nothing to lose. My first draft was 671 words long. The limit was 250, so even if I don't win it has been an excellent lesson in editing, succinct writing, and using verbs effectively. I am pleased with the result.
Here is where you, dear readers come in. I have attached a link at the bottom of this post. Please tap on it and go to Jennifer Louden's website. Every click betters my chances of winning.
Here is the essay. wish me luck. Please leave your comments.
This is also posted on my facebook. If you could click on the link there too, Iwould be doubly grateful!! Thanks!!
“We’ll take the house...It’s been pre-disastered.”
I will be divorced soon. My life is like this house in “The World According to Garp”--pre-disastered. I am ready for reprieve, reinvention and rediscovery of forgotten dreams.
Four lines have formed on my forehead and will forever bear witness to my past, my story, and to life’s ups and downs. I could explain them, lament each one, or fill them with botox. Instead, I embrace them. They are my badges; they are why I write this plea.
I am a chef by trade, a mother by choice, and a writer from the moment I could hold a pencil. I love food, I adore my children, and writing brings me peace. My vision is to unite these three in a place I call Cookbook. A virtual, multi-cultural table where people worldwide can come to read, write about, and share food--a universal need. Food is life. Food is me. It is what I savor, and what I will serve.
I long for a place at this table of writers.
I see food. I hear laughter. I taste salt of shed tears.
I feel her embrace, I release all my fears.
Taos, she calls me, a soft voice in my ear.
I am whole, she has freed me, with vision so clear.
Whew! Finito! Muy bien, gracias and bon appetit!
Jennifer Louden's Writer's retreat in Taos NM
You might remember this 2015 Atlantic piece about what happened when Melbourne gave each of the city’s trees its own email address for reporting arboreal...