Five Star Blog Roundup 443: Five Great Posts and a Liane Moriarty Quote
This week's roundup of great blog posts is brought to you by keeping up the work, seeking a new home, connection, community, expelling a ghost, and a Liane Moriarty quote:
Asking myself, 'Is this any good?' is pointless. It just slows down my writing, and I can't tell anyway. It's always the paragraphs I loved most, the ones I tenderly polished and re-read with pride, that my editor will suggest cutting.
— Liane Moriarty —
“But Neither Are You Free to Desist From It” by Rowan at CrossKnit:
It is November here and not yet sledding season, but let’s picture a sled. The sled is on a hill; a child is in the sled. At the bottom of the hill is a cliff.
If the hill is civil rights, if the hill is justice, if the hill is moral goodness or righteousness or whatever you personally call that, then the child that is the United States started pulling the sled up the hill in the late eighteenth century.
“Find My Ocean” by Susan Popper at Just Susan:
Slowly I felt the place touching me in the same spots that my ocean had occupied. I felt the cadence and I felt the rhythm. The woods and the mountains and high clouds started working their magic on me.
“Speak Love Into the Universe” by Bumble Ward at misswhistle:
So, it's Sunday night, and I'm sitting by the fire, trying to do some work, and the dogs are here, and there is some tea, and I shall pick Charlie up from the station soon, but I'm thinking of those I love, my magnificent children, my brilliant girlfriends, the family and friends left behind, and the family here that I'm beginning to know and I feel both incredibly rich and incredibly humbled, embarrassed at how much I have squandered and how many hours and days and years have been wasted with stuff that doesn't matter.
“The Sanctuary” by Brenda Keesal at Burns the Fire:
Although I identify culturally as a Jew, despite my traditional, Jewish background and education, I have no relationship with any god or religion, outside of love, that is.
I think there are a lot of people here like me.
It is the spiralling music that unleashes the sorrow. The mournful melodies like the voices of the dead that haunt and manifest the Jewish soul.
In Aberdeen, a week and a half of dizziness finally subsides as I find a kindhearted doctor in Scotland who takes one look at me and diagnoses all of my neuroses, traumas, and fears. She extends a soft hand to mine and says, with a soft lilting Scottish accent:
“It’s hard, isn’t it?”
I burst into tears.
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