Is Confidence Necessary?

I am at an age where I look back on my younger self with great tenderness. I wonder what happened so early in my childhood that my confidence was completely wiped out. There are of course institutions and people to blame: parents, adults, church, school, advertising, TV, other children, teachers – I could go on.

What happened though was no one person’s fault. It was a system, a tsunami of cultural messaging that I couldn’t untangle from, that wrapped its tendrils around my feet with every step I took, that pulled me backwards, or down, or away from my own heart. I knew my heart then, but I could not speak what was in it without ridicule, or arguments, or someone denying its truth. I became an extremely silent child, a child afraid of being wrong, a child afraid she was wrong. A child who felt stupid, and bored, and who retreated into herself more and more as time went on.

But time did go on, and the demands of childhood went on too. There were things I wanted: Attention, no attention. To shine, to not be seen. To be pretty, to fade away. To be loved, to not be noticed. For someone to be proud of me, to disappear. To be popular, to be totally alone.

I loved the woods. In the woods no one asked me to point out Taiwan on a world map, and no one asked me to recite multiplication tables, and no one asked me to give my life to Jesus. In the woods I could trust something. I could trust the woods.

I used to fantasize about living in a cave – a furnished cave with a bed, and rugs, and a cat, and books. But what would I eat? Cereal would be good, I thought. I could sneak back home and steal boxes of cereal. But I’d need milk. How would I keep the milk from spoiling? It was the lack of refrigeration, not the lack of a good cave, that tripped me up every time. So I stayed where I was.

I stayed with my family and I stayed in school and I became a teenager with the usual teenage concerns. One day a boy said to me, “You don’t talk much, do you?”

“I guess not,” I answered, taking in what I perceived as criticism. The only thing that allowed me to be there at all, in his presence, the only thing that gave me any sort of social life was that I smoked pot. I was a hippie and I smoked pot, and hippie pot smokers hung together so I’d been let into a club. But I didn’t talk much.

“It kind of pisses me off,” the boy said.

So it was criticism.

I talk now. I’m 62 years old and I’m a novelist and I have a public life. Some days I wake up a little panicked over this. I always wanted to be a writer. When I was a child I knew that books were written by writers, but I noticed that I didn’t know anything about the writers themselves. If I ever saw a picture of a writer it was on the book jacket. So becoming a writer seemed perfect for me. I could present a book, but not be seen. Well, things changed, and here I am, a writer with a public life. It’s not bad though. It’s helped me gain some confidence, but I sure didn’t start out with it.

So these days, I look back on that child, the child I was, the child with her confidence-slate wiped clean and I look at who I am now, and I see that tender skinny child with the long, gangly legs and the soft hair on my young arms, the arms that I never raised in school when a teacher asked a question, and with which I hugged myself down in the woods, and I see myself trying to please everyone by not existing, and I feel sympathy and also a smidge of pride, because I think, damn girl, you did a lot with a little.

I wonder though, if I’d had confidence, if I’d been allowed to think even one good thought about myself, what would I be? Would I be Norman Fucking Mailer, or Nancy Peacock tenfold, or twenty-fold, or infinite-fold? Or was it the lack of confidence that helped make me who I am?

Posted in comfort, Comparison, creativity, critique, emotion, failure, fantasy, privacy, Self-worth, silence, Society, survival, Telling our stories, Uncategorized, Visibilty, Wounds | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Conversation

This is a conversation I have had quite often:

“How do I get to do what you do?” I am asked.

“What exactly do you mean?”

How do I get a book published? How do I get paid to teach writing? How do I get likes on Facebook? How? How? How?

Where do I begin? What do I say?

I started this journey way back. Way, way back when I first started writing in fourth grade. Like most people, I had a mild flirtation with it at first. And then I got serious. And then I had an on-again-off-again relationship with it for years. And during that time there were some failures and a few successes. Oh, and during all that, I cleaned a lot of houses that did not belong to me.

“How do I get to do what you do?”

You don’t. You get to do what you do. Maybe they’ll look similar. Maybe not. I never thought I’d be teaching writing. It wasn’t part of the plan. The plan was to be a writer, not a teacher. Now I’m both. And I’m glad. I can’t imagine one without the other.

My point is that everything in my life has helped me get to where I am now, and where I am now is not at all what I imagined. I imagined I’d be a best selling author by now, that I’d own a house by now, that I’d have more books written and published by now, that I’d be a name everyone recognizes, and so on. You know the dream. Chances are you’ve had it too. You might even be looking at what you see of my life and saying to yourself, “That’s where I want to be. I want what Nancy has.”

But it’s fairly useless to look at any writer or artist with a tinge of jealousy, just as it’s useless to ask, “How do I get to where you are now?” Because you can’t. Your life might acquire some similarities. You might have some books published, you might get some of the same sort of attention that I have received. You might even receive more. But similarities are not the same as path. You have your own path. We might each have spouses, and marriages, but they are different spouses and different marriages. Having them has everything to do with the path we were on, how we met our spouses and courted them. This is true for your writing life too. My path included cleaning other people’s houses. Sometimes when I am asked, “How do I get to do what you do?” I want to put a feather duster in that person’s hand.

There is no map. You can’t get a checklist of what to do to propel yourself onto another person’s path. You have your own path, and the fact is, if you’re writing, you’re on it. You’re just not where you think you ought to be. I understand. I didn’t think I was where I ought to be either when I was chasing other people’s pubic hairs down drains. The thing is I was wrong. I was exactly where I ought to have been. I wrote a book about it.

Set your feet firmly on your path, not mine.



Posted in creativity, Day by day, Decisions, Elitism, History, Maintenance, Publishing, Self-worth, The Writer's Life, Uncategorized, Writing career | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Bridge – short fiction

As if I did not have enough problems, as if my tooth were not aching a dull, constant throb, as if my jaw were not swollen, as if fever from the infection did not have me teetering on the brink of this room with its pastel furniture and beige carpet and long white buzzing suns, there is a painting hanging above the couch that seems to be only headlights in the dark. I stare at it. I cannot make sense of the colors. It’s a painting, just a painting, I tell myself, although it is blinding and I find myself squinting at it while holding the palm of my hand against my too-hot cheek.

The woman sitting on the couch beneath the painting is looking at her phone, tapping the screen, sliding her finger along it, head bent down. She texts, “I am here to get my teeth bleached.” I swear I can see this, that I know it, that the letters tap in neon across the wall, across that painting. Or maybe I can just interpret it, the Morse Code of her flying thumbs. Or perhaps I am just guessing, speculating, judging. I have been known to judge.

She does not seem to have an abscess or pain or swelling anywhere, except in her breasts. Bought and paid for, I think. This is me being judgemental again. Snarky. Old. I hate her smooth, flawless skin. I hate her flying thumbs. I hate the way she keeps glancing at me as though being in pain is some sort of personal failing. I imagine she thinks of homelessness this way too. I’m not homeless. Not anymore. I have an apartment now, but no furniture. I sleep on the floor, on the carpet. It’s blue, the color claimed by the town’s university sports team. Carolina Blue. I sleep in the southern part of heaven and have a tooth that must be pulled. Already I have missed a day of work coming here.

My jaw is hot, hot, hot. The painting. The lights move. The woman below taps her phone. The painting hurts my eyes. It is too much like the underpass on a rainy night. The reflection of headlights on dark, wet pavement. Watching the headlights slide by as the rain pattered down and the tires of the passing cars whooshed through the puddles that sprayed into the lights. “It’s pretty,” I told Rita. “If you forget you’re homeless.”

I’d taken her hand. She was five years old. She had a toothache. It hurt. We’ll take care of it tomorrow, I told her. I didn’t know how. And it didn’t happen. And she got taken away from me because I couldn’t care for her.

“I’m here to get my teeth bleached,” the woman texts again.

I swear I see it. The neon letters across the painting. I hear sirens. My skin is hot.

“I’m here to get my teeth bleached.”

This short piece of fiction was written from a prompt in my free second-Saturday class, in which I passed out pictures of paintings taken from an art book, and gave the writers the setting of a waiting room. “This art is hanging in a waiting room.”

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Dear Sir

Dear Sir, I love you, and now you are gone, and I didn’t tell you I love you before you disappeared. That’s because when you were here, I did not love you. In fact, you were always annoying to me, but I miss you now, and I think I love you, and I wonder what happened, where you went and can only imagine that you have died.

The way it happened is that one day I noticed you were gone, and realized that I had not seen you for a long time. I don’t know your name, but you, sir, were  a damn good character, and Carrboro, the town we shared, has become so gentrified. There are no good characters here anymore. They can’t afford it. And so I miss you and feel love for who you were.

I miss seeing you in Harris Teeter blowing that one note on your harmonica. It was always one note. Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm, hmmm. It never varied. You never played two notes or a different note. It was like your lips were glued to the one place on the harmonica you always carried and always blew into. You never breathed in, only out, and you walked around Harris Teeter playing your one note. It used to annoy me so badly, but today… today I miss you. Perhaps I’ve grown a little.

I miss your harmonica, but even more than that, I miss your car. It was a big green car, long with a big hood and on the hood you’d glued a huge rag doll in a crucified position, and there was a bumper sticker on the back that said, “Be Patient. God Isn’t Finished With Me Yet,” and on the top, just above the driver’s door was a bunch of bananas. The bananas were always there. They were real bananas too, and they were always fresh and yellow and they weren’t glued down. People would drive up beside you and roll down their windows and point and say, “You have bananas on your car.” And you’d nod and smile and say, “I know.”

You used to run a junk shop out at the county line. It was in an old white house. I stopped in a few times. I even sold you some things. I never bought anything. There was a lot of stuff, inside and outside, and after a time the neighbors complained about your place. They said it was an eyesore, so you lined up barrels along the roadway so they wouldn’t have to see it. They complained about that too, and finally you were forced out and they tore down your house. There’s a Walmart there now, but that’s long after a series of other businesses in a series of other brick buildings. They just couldn’t get that corner right. I wonder if you cursed them.

I think now you knew more that I ever gave you credit for and I’m sorry. If I knew where your grave is, I’d go there, clear the weeds of it, maybe put a jar of wildflowers on it, maybe a harmonica.

I want you to know that I think you wouldn’t annoy me now. I think I’d be happy to see you. I’d love to hear your one-note harmonica in the aisles of Harris Teeter. I’d be happy to see your big green car gliding through the traffic of Carrboro, people staring at the crucified rag doll. I’d love to pull up behind you at a stop light and watch the person in the car next to yours roll his window down, point, and say, “You have bananas on your car.” I’d love to watch you nod and smile and say, “I know.”

Sincerely, Nancy

Written from the prompt – Write a Letter to a Stranger

Posted in Community; Genorosity, Comparison, creativity, Day by day, economics, Gratitude, Grief, positivity; grace; light, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | 3 Comments


My life, my mood, my days, my sleep – everything goes better when I have an obsession. Not the unhealthy kind. Not the does-he-love-me-why-doesn’t-he-call kind of obsession. Not the I-need-a-new-pocketbook-and-complete-wardrobe-overhaul kind of obsession. Not the I- need-to-pull-my-life-up-by-the-roots-and-start-all-over kind of obsession. The obsession I need, the one that trumps all the crazy shit in my head, the one that makes my days flow and my nights restful is the obsession of story. Especially the obsession of writing a novel.

Not just any novel. Writing a novel I am not really into makes things worse, not better. But writing a novel that is holds my interest, that send me to the discovery of facts and history through research, a novel that feels valuable to me – nothing can replace this feeling. Nothing can lift me higher or soothe me more. Plus there is the fact that a novel takes a really long time write and so, I can count on this obsession to work its magic for years.

Yes, there are bumps in the road. Yes, there are days the writing feels awkward. Yes, there are days the words seem to crash into each other and trip over each other and talk over each other, like an over-crowded party. But if I feel engaged in the story, in the characters, if I feel I’ve made a holy pact with them to get this done (and the energy of this pact must flow both ways) then I move through these days knowing that work will make it better. That the next day will probably unveil something. That whatever mistakes I have made today can be unmade tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day I see the solutions. It’s called faith, and I don’t have it in every novel I’ve tried to write. I have had it in the ones I’ve brought to fruition though, and nothing can replace the feeling of having something that powerful in your hands.

Ten pages. Fifteen pages. Thirty-five pages is quite a milestone. One hundred pages is an amazing milestone. End of first draft. End of second draft. End of third. Fourth. Fifth. With each draft the character and story come more and more alive, and I, the author disappear. When I am finished the greatest sadness comes over me, not because I have disappeared from the pages, but because the journey is over. My friends, the characters, are done with me. I’ve served my purpose.

The next story obsession does not come so easily. I am bereft. I need to grieve. I want to write but I am cleaned out. I have nothing in me to write. There is a huge void inside me which the previous characters once occupied, and which future characters recognize as raw and bloody and not ready for them yet. That void belongs to someone gone. I have not figured out how to speed the process along. I berate myself at the end of every novel for not being “professional” enough to get back on the horse and write another book. I’ve even tried. In fact, I’ve tried many times. I suppose I could do it if doing it means putting words on a page. If sex means intercourse and not love. But I like love. And I wait for it again. And the worst part of this is that I haven’t figured out how to comfort myself while I wait. How to fill my time. The void of the missing characters is too great. A raw, gaping hole that weeps until its finished. Meanwhile I walk around and pretend to be a writer.

Written from the prompt Write About an Obsession

Posted in Completing a novel, creativity, Day by day, depression, Drafts, Energy, Exploration, failure, fiction, fun with what we do, Grief, Magic, Passion, Play, Process, Prompts, research, Starting a new work, Uncategorized, work | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Chasing Poetry

Every day the poems slip away, as indifferent as cats. They slink behind trees and clouds. The burble beneath the swamp. I glimpse them floating downstream as I am walking up. But they are not just in the woods.

They also taunt me from the hoods of passing cars. The driver, oblivious to their presence, guns the motor and they go tumbling into traffic. I want to save them, but they’re not hurt. They dash across the lanes, and run into a bar, laughing at my earnestness.

The poems are in the white space between the letters than coil from my pen. They are between the clicks on the keyboard. Their links no longer work. Their URLs are expired. Someone tries to sell the URLs back to them. They don’t care.

I go to the mall, and there I find them gleefully riding the wave of an indoor fountain, and sliding, cool and moist, out of the soft serve ice cream machine. There goes one riding in a Gucci bag. A pocketbook poem. It gives me the finger. The woman doesn’t even know its there. “You want me too badly,” the poem calls out. “I can never be yours.”

I set traps and check them in the middle of the night. I open my notebook, hoping one has been captured. It’s empty, the sprung teeth of a beaver trap. A bit of fur is all.

I am beginning to think that poetry is not like prose. It does not care so much if it is written. It does not need a poet the way that fiction needs a novelist. I am beginning to think poetry is very ambivalent about this business of becoming marks on a page, black lines, white paper, hands on a book, discussion of meaning. Deconstruction hurts too much. Better to be wild and illusive. The bob cats of the literary world, poems might leave a little scat behind, but the best ones will never be captured by me.

This was written from the prompt, Capturing Something.

Posted in creativity, Elitism, Energy, intuition, Play, Poetry, Prompts, soul, spirit, Story, The Muse, Uncategorized, Wildness | Tagged , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Resisting the Bullshit

When they say upgrade, go outside and chop some wood.

When they say new and improved, tell them you like the old ways better.

When they say get fit and fabulous, tell them you’re misfit and fabulous.

When they say there’s an app for that, tell them there’s a nap for that.

When they say buy this, ask why?

When they say buy this, ask again?

When they say buy this, make art.

When they say be more of a woman, tell them that’s funny.

When they say you don’t have to be grey, ask if they would dye the heron.

When they say here’s a free sample, tell them you’ve sampled enough.

When they say heart healthy, ask them to define heart.

When they say identity theft, ask whose.

When they say season premier, say, yes, four times a year.

When they say fast food, soak some beans.

When they say consumer confidence, ask in what.

When they say more value, tell them the world needs that.

When they say instant, tell them about cicadas.

When they say but wait there’s more, tell them to be quiet so you can hear it.


Written from the prompt, resistance.


Posted in Comparison, Competition, Consumerism, Decisions, economics, failure, Society, the world, Uncategorized, Wildness | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

Taking it Off


Sometimes I want to take it all off, give it all back.

The skin, the hair, the eyes, the fingernails.

I want to return it. The bones, the liver, the lungs, the vagina, the clitoris.

Has it really been worth it? The sex was good. The books were interesting to write. My friends have been wonderful. Love is good – finally.

But sometimes I think I am no longer up for being human. I think I chose the wrong body, the wrong species. I should have been a songbird with a very short lifespan. Or a beaver with work to do. Or a vulture. Damn the good food and the subtle aroma of spices and herbs. We’re all going to end up feasting on death anyway.

Maybe I shouldn’t have chosen the world at all. Maybe I should have just stayed a soul without form or flesh. I have heard spiritual teachings that claim we chose our lives, and even our own deaths. I have trouble with that. Sometimes I think we must have been drafted without any better place to run off to.

When I think of the afterlife, I imagine floating around like a ghost, experiencing nature – the river, the ocean, the trees, the sky. I can time travel anywhere and witness anything without the pain.

“That’s not the way it works,” my spiritual friend told me. We were swimming in a pond. It was morning. There was a fog. Vapors surrounded her. The shore was muted and vague.

“Well, fuck ’em,” I said.

But she persisted.

“They don’t know,” I said. “No one knows what happens to your soul after you die. We may not even have souls.”

“We have souls,” she said.

On that we agree.

But why do they choose human form? Are orgasms really that great? Is the chocolate eclair really so creamy and sweet? Is the garden that pleasurable? Love? Creating something? The vapors on the lake?

The world is getting edgy. And I don’t know how, or if, we will pull back from the brink of destruction we are balancing on.

And sometimes.

Sometimes I want to take it all off. Peel the body away to the soul. Give the unique fingerprints back. The curve of my ankle once licked by a lover. The tongue that knows how to play. The feet that know how to dance. The ears that hear music. The eyes that see colors. The mouth that tastes.

It’s not that I’m not grateful. I’m extremely grateful. It’s just that sometimes I wonder if I’ve made a mistake by coming here. I wonder if this planet isn’t an avatar for another one. I wonder if I didn’t mean to get born some place else. Whoops. Wrong turn. Wrong galaxy. Wrong stardust.

I did not mean to fall into this black hole. It was a blue hole I was looking for. Blue. Sparkly blue. The sun shining on the ripples in the water. Maybe that’s my soul’s home. Maybe I should swim out to it. To that light. Out there. Way out there. Do you see it?


This essay was written from a prompt in one of my classes. The prompt was Taking It Off.


Posted in Grief, home, Prompts, soul, spirit, survival, the world, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments


It is hard not to lead with our wounds. We all have them. Some are personal. Some are from childhood. Many are cultural. Every day we step out into the world and the wounds are bumped and beaten and reinforced. We open them ourselves because we become fond of them and we don’t want to be silent about them, so we show them off and use them to form our identities.

It isn’t healthy to remain silent about the things that hurt us. But it also isn’t healthy to become these things. How do we avoid it? How do we lead with what is right about us? How do we reclaim gentleness and softness and love in the face of so much disaster? How do we reclaim gentleness and softness and love in a world that is so wounded?

I don’t know the answers. I only know the questions. And I know I must make a choice many times a day. Do I lead with my wounds or do I lead with what’s healed and sweet about me? If I feel shaky over speaking up about something, is it because I shouldn’t have spoken up, or because I’ve been trained, as a female, not to speak up? And when someone lashes out at me because they disagree with what I am saying, is that because of a wound they carry and nurse, or is it something I need to look at? And when is speaking up smart, and when is it dumb? Am I seeing injustice where there is none and not seeing it where it exists?

I feel unmoored. I feel hurt because I’ve been hurt. I’ve been hurt on social media. I’ve been hurt privately. I’ve been hurt as a child. I’ve been hurt as an adult. Usually these wounds stay closed, not because I am closed, but because I am well. But I feel less well these days. I feel that we are all clawing at each other, that we’ve reached a level of anger that we cannot sustain. I don’t want to be a part of this, but I don’t want to stick my head in the sand and pretend everything’s groovy either. Everything is not groovy. Things are broken. Things are so broken that I cannot write this without crying.

I have no wrap-up to this blog post. I have no snappy ending. I have no wisdom. I have no conclusions of what all this means to an artist, to a writer, to anyone. I don’t like leading with my wounds. I don’t like adding my little noise to the cacophony. If I were an animal I would crawl into the woods to be alone. I would lick my wounds. If I were an animal I would shy away from the things that hurt me. If I were an animal I would also snarl and snap, but only for survival. How much of what we are doing is about survival? And how much is about loving our wounds more than we love each other?

Posted in Day by day, Decisions, emotion, Pain, silence, Uncategorized, Wounds | Tagged , , , , , | 10 Comments


What I remember:

Mother’s Day in Alabama. I am three. A blue dress in a box with tissue. The dress has bosoms, like my mother. My father picked it out for her, but it’s from all of us: the two boys, the two girls and my father. I am the youngest. I’m excited about the dress. I ask to see it again and my father opens the box and shows it to me. I smile up at him and he smiles down at me. I am so enchanted about giving my mother a gift, about the box and the tissue that surrounds the dress. The box is huge. The dress bosoms are huge. My mother’s bosoms are huge.

That same year:

My siblings are in school and my mother and her friends are sitting in lawn chairs in a circle in someone’s back yard. They’re drinking iced tea. It’s hot. I’m running around naked. The women decide to take their shirts and bras off. It’s so hot. I am amazed by all the bosoms blooming around me. They are like peonies. I don’t touch. I just look.

Late summer:

I step on a snake out in the driveway. I see it stretched out straight and I mistake it for a stick, and I decide to step on that stick, right there in the middle. When I do both ends of the snake come up in the air and I scream and my mother comes out wearing only her girdle and bra. She’s carrying my brother’s BB gun and she shoots the snake and kicks its body away with her bare feet and comforts me as I lean in to her.

In subsequent memories my mother stands at the stove and sighs. A lot. She stomps into the house carrying bags of groceries. She sighs during dinner. She asks us to clear the table. She asks again. And again. She rails against my brother and me when we break a jar down in the basement. She says, “I had a few minutes to sit down and read a magazine.”

My brother and I repeat this for years. We repeat it so much that even now I can remember her exact cadence. If we’d been better children, she might have only said it once. If she’d only said it once, we might not have repeated it. If we’d not repeated it, I might not remember it so well.

But I do remember it, as I also remember the blue dress in the huge box for Mother’s Day, and the bosoms blooming all around me in the circle of women, and the day my mother shot the snake.

I once mentioned these things to her.

The blue dress. She smiled.

The half-naked women. “Certainly not,” she said.

Shooting the snake in her bra and girdle. She denied it.

But I want to believe these things about my mother. I need to believe them. And for her sake, and mine, I do.


This essay was written from a prompt in one of my classes. The prompt was “The Dress.”

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