Blog

Writers in touch with the sources of their inspiration are the ones who will keep writing. Stacia Fleegal offers tips for actively pursuing them, rather than waiting for them to strike, by cultivating self-awareness.

Shawna Ayoub Ainslie reflects on how writing can be a friend in difficult times.

With writing, as with all people and practices that matter to us, we have to devote time and energy to maintaining their presence in our lives. Stacia Fleegal writes on how to be aware of the challenges and have a plan for balancing them.

The coronavirus pandemic has the world in upheaval. We are distancing ourselves from others, isolating with our families, and working and learning from home. Our days probably look and feel radically different than they did even a few days or weeks ago, which might produce a great deal of anxiety, fear, and frustration. But we will be ok.

I saw a red-tailed hawk last week, camouflaged in winter white, no red tail flashing—playing on the wind! I stopped my car on that country road where I rarely meet another traveler. The hawk tumbled like a crow. I’ve seen crows play on the wind. This hawk wasn’t hunting. It was having a wonderful time!...

A beautiful snow is falling, coating everything. Here in this woods, once snow falls, in December or January, it doesn’t melt until the end of April. But this morning’s covering is fresh, fine. It may be what my farmer neighbors call a sugar snow, for the maple sap that will soon run. But I don’t know these secrets, coming from the concrete streets of Brooklyn...

Ever take a chance, a leap of faith? Ever stretch yourself beyond what you thought was possible? What happened when you did? Did you stick your landing, or did you stumble or even fall? Or maybe you can’t stop wondering about this gal, what she might be running from or toward. And do animals get scared to jump? What do you think about when you look at this image? Write about it, then enter February's photo writing prompt contest.

I think the eyes open when one writes, just as they do when one paints, to a more subtle, finely-tuned world. I’ve just looked up from my notebook. The snow on the hemlock trees past my window makes a fine, latticework pattern. I didn’t see that before I started this writing. It’s a glimpse, a vision of bright order. Outer to inner eyes. I think I’ve gasped...

The snow has at last melted here. Three solid days of rain, and the daffodils are bursting! In the days before I painted flowers from my garden, and also in the days before my investigation of the use of yellow grew deep enough to dazzle me, I’d take note of the daffodils I’d brought up here, from my garden on Long Island, and how they poked through the leaves first, the garden still bedraggled and delinquent...

Outside my studio window… I begin so many things I write with those words—letters to friends and family, these blog writings. And there, today, my woods are in the infancy of spring. Fine, crescent-shaped young leaves, yellow, on the witch hazel bushes, the scene looking lacy...