Sunday, March 13, 2011


DeAnn Louise Daigle AWW 3/6/2011

You don't write what you know, you
write because you know. At least, I
think the best stories are told from what
we've learned through the experiences
we've had. It's hard to pinpoint what I
know, but it's easy to write when I have
no expectations at all, no deadline for
which I get paid, no outline to follow,
no strict assignment fraught with
demands into which I must fit; a pattern
that's cut out for something like
building a ship or making a dress.

Perhaps I'm being totally false here
because having a deadline actually
motivates me to get off the
procrastinating seat. I've been paid for
writing, and it was awful; I've also
volunteered my writing services and
that was a learning experience, and in
both cases something specific was
required and I basically stunk at it.

But, I think some great writers of fiction
have spoken truth because they've
allowed the places they've seen to
speak to the imagination in such a way
that the boundaries between fact and
fiction melted. But they called it fiction
when it was really derived from a whole
lot of fact. I'm only speaking about
good fiction here, like Hemingway's The
Old Man and The Sea and Harper Lee's
To Kill A Mockingbird.

There's a true story aching to be told,
and these writers bring together pieces
of actual experience to tell the story.
We are blown open like we are with a
great opera or a symphony or a ballet or
a poem or a truth of any kind that hits
the nerve of consciousness.

I know myself best when I am blown
wide open by the sound of a bird or a
piece of music or a delicious chocolate
mousse or a kiss unexpectedly

Whatever it is that makes an experience
realer in the one moment; that for me is
a touch of the ineffable, an awakening,
an epiphany, a moment of awe, and it
cannot be planned.

But, I can practice for it by showing up
for whatever way works for me; and
writing my story works for me.

Sunday, January 9, 2011


The trajectory of life
takes on various characters
along the serpentine way
of its propulsion.

Who can know whom, how
and, when or even venture
guessing what may be revealed
at the next unfolding?

The best plans can only make
a slight dent in time or, with
an openness to variance in detail,
the full catastrophe may be realized.

What is call? What is destiny?
What is plan? What is dream?
What is mystery? What is desire?
What is hope? What is fate?

Mine initially was set by a poem's
last stanza *; but maybe not. Maybe
the call had been carried in my
mother's heart womb?

*Yield who will to their separation
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes make one in sight.
Only where love and need are one
And the work is play for mortal stakes
Is the deed ever really done for
Heaven and the future's sakes.
-Robert Frost

I don't know anyone who writes like this, nor do I have to. I write like this and that's enough. I sometimes think that it's all junk, but what of it. It's a great joy for me to write and maybe that is enough. The sled down the slippery slope of wanting recognition and fame rides in the back of my mind and sometimes even propels me forward. I'm secretly wishing someone will discover me and find me out for the genius I truly am. It may be laughable, but it is part of my ego's journey into oblivion, which is undeniably where I'm headed.
AWW 1/4/2011