Herman Hesse

In 2007-08, my husband and I lived in

Switzerland, and it was in the village of Montagnola that I wrote The Unfinished Angel. A photo of the stunning view from that village is at the bottom right panel of this blog.

Each day, as I walked through the village and down the hill, I'd pass Casa Camuzzi, part of which has been turned into the Herman Hesse Museum. Hesse spent much of the latter part of his life living in Casa Camuzzi and, in addition to writing, his interests were gardening, drawing and painting. Often he incorporated his drawings and paintings in letters to friends and family.

Although Hesse is better known for his writing, I especially enjoy his watercolors and in seeing that he captured so many of the scenes that I took pleasure in on daily walks.  Below are photos of his typewriter and his art materials.  If you're ever in southern Switzerland, you might consider a stop at this museum and a walk through the area.

Writers Need to Learn New Skills Sometimes . . .

Oh. My. I'm not sure this will work, but . . .

Encouragement

We all need encouragement from time to time, mm? The above note, which now rests on my office window ledge, was written on an interior envelope which contained a letter from a fan/reader. Several things I like about this note: that it says 'keep on' instead of 'keep up'; that it was first written in pencil and then retraced in marker; that this second envelope was used to hold the special letter (the outer, addressed envelope not being secure enough perhaps); that the reader recognized that writing might be 'hard work'; and that the reader was thoughtful enough to send encouragement. All of these things tell me I would probably like the writer of this note very much.

I wonder what bits of encouragement other writers keep on or near their desks . . .

Flowers and Words 

The hydrangeas love this rain-sun-rain-sun-rainy weather; they're so lush and vigorous this year, astounding in their enormous blue clusters, with 'heads' about seven inches across and composed of scores of individual blossoms.  Stunning.

When I'm writing, layering word upon word, sentence upon sentence, I hope that I'm telling an interesting tale and being faithful to the characters and that the end result will be something of beauty, but I don't think the end result could ever be as stunning and intricate as the flowers above, which come into being with so much grace and so little effort.

What I prefer in hydrangeas--that they appear so pure and simple in their beauty, but on close examination offer up such intricacy--is what I also prefer in writing: prose or poetry that is pure and simple, eschewing flash, with an intricate, sound foundation.

National Book Festival

September 26, 2009: I hope to see you at the National Book Festival in Washington, D. C.!

Squirrel Guard

A few feet from my office window is this tree.  An older, fatter squirrel used to pause here each morning and watch me work.  This squirrel may well be the offspring of that fatter one.  All the squirrels in the yard seem busier than usual today, gathering the hickory nuts that fell in last night's storm. Up and down the trees they go, up and down.  Only this one pauses to watch me.

Once I was young . . .

This is me, at age twelve. That white mark near my eye is not a scar; it's a tear in the photograph. This is probably the only year when I was young that I had short hair, and what a hairdo it is, mm?  That boyish cut. That curl!