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Dear Readers,
My cold and windy Provincetown retreat, as it turns out, was productive. I made discoveries about my writing. I have 23 chapters of a new and improved novel; and on the cutting room floor, I have stories worth keeping.
Sometimes, as I preach to my students, learning only happens through struggle; and while I try to make learning fun for my students, I know that sometimes, it just cannot be.
Today, my students are supposed to have read Garrison Keillor’s essay “How to Write a Personal Letter.” At first, I thought—I can’t assign that. Letters of the sort Keillor discusses—“such a sweet gift—a piece of handmade writing, in an envelope that is not a bill, sitting in our friend’s path when she trudges home from a long day…”—does anybody write those letters anymore?
But then I thought—if we don’t, we should. And if that makes me completely old-fashioned, okay. But then I thought further: here I am writing a letter to anyone who might care. And why?
“Same thing that moves a giant rock star to sing his heart out in front of 123,000 people moves us to take ballpoint in hand and write a few lines to our dear Aunt Eleanor. We want to be known.“
We want to be known.
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