So Much Writing (and Non-Writing) News!
It's been a while since I last updated you...and here's why.
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Hello, and a VERY warm welcome to all my new subscribers! I can’t believe how many new people have signed up for this newsletter recently, and I’m so grateful to ALL of you for being here. And, for everyone who’s been subscribed for some time, thank you for your patience. I know it’s been a bit since I last wrote to you…and this post is my attempt to catch you up on why it’s been so busy.
For the past few months, I’ve been going-going-going on multiple projects, but I’m finally sitting down to catch my breath and — just as importantly — catch up with all of you.
By the way: How the heck are you? Please let me know in the comments, because I’m sincerely eager to hear. :)
Okay, so here’s my recap of the past two months, broken down by subject (lol):
April 2023
Age
On April 8th, when I turned (gasp!) 55, I clicked out of the 18-54 demographic. At first, I thought, Well heckity heck, I’m gettin’ old. And then, it occurred to me that hitting 55 really isn’t a bad thing.
According to ChaptGPT on Quora,
“Advertisers target the 18 to 54-year-old age group because this demographic is typically considered to be in the prime of their earning and spending years. This age group is also more likely to be making purchasing decisions for themselves and their families, and may be more likely to try new products or services. Additionally, this age group is also more likely to be exposed to a wider variety of media and advertising channels, making them a desirable target for marketers.”
I’m finally seen as less desirable to marketers! Maybe they’ll leave me alone!
To be sure, there are still times when I feel like that insecure, 18-year-old high schooler hoping to make it in this big, complicated world. Other times, I’m awed by all the challenges I’ve managed to face and survive. Still other times, I remind myself how lucky I am to be the parent of three amazing humans…and drive a car that I own… and eat what I want… and meet new people every day… and write for a living. Honestly, I experience bits of ALL of those feelings every single day. Can anyone relate?
Exercise & Fundraising
The same week I turned 55, I formally kicked off my training for the 2023 Chicago Marathon. This’ll be my 6th effort to cross the marathon finish line (walking, not running, of course, because I’m very realistic about what my body can and cannot do!). I’ve managed to cross the finish line in 3 of my last 5 attempts, and I’m fundraising this year for Open Heart Magic, an organization that trains volunteers to do up-close magic for kids in hospital settings. Here’s a link to my fundraising page so you can see what I’ve been up to (for instance, last weekend I walked 11 miles — which felt HUGE after a mostly sedentary year recovering from Covid). Every donation to this special organization means the world to me, so if you’re looking for a worthwhile spot to send some money (even a few bucks), I’d appreciate your consideration for this one.
Family Stuff
On Easter Sunday, I made homemade pierogi from scratch for the very first time, just like my great-grandmother used to. I think she’d be proud!
I also found some new-to-me photos from my childhood. I’ll share them — and describe why they’re so important to me — at the end of this long-ass post.
Travel: Boston, MA
In April, I also spent a few days in Boston visiting dear friends and exploring some new-to-me spots, including the MFA Boston (Museum of Fine Arts), the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum (which I only learned about through a client who’s a Boston native), and the Boston Public Libary. I even managed to squeak in a last-minute trip to Fenway Park to see the Boston Red Sox play.
Health
As I’ve mentioned in a previous post, on April 29th I experienced a medical event that I’m still trying to understand. I collapsed in a crowded restaurant near my home without warning, and the experience shook me terribly. Nothing like this had ever happened before.
I was diagnosed that night with something called vasovagal (or neurocardiogenic) syncope, in which fainting occurs due to an atypical response to stimuli. The interesting thing is, I wasn’t feeling anything but relaxed when I collapsed. In fact, I was feeling happy and calm and decidedly UNstimulated. It turns out my already low blood pressure dropped so low that I lost consciousness. But why? Did this have anything to do with my having Long Covid?
About a month later, I was attending an indoor music concert at Thalia Hall in Chicago when, out of the corner of my eye, I sensed a commotion. Turning, I saw a woman on her back on the floor, surrounded by a small group. Immediately, I hustled over and knelt down on the floor, talking to the woman and the concerned crowd. Just like me, she’d been standing one minute, talking to her friend; the next, she felt ill and suddenly collapsed, only to wake up flat on her back, embarrassed and profusely apologetic. I couldn’t help but feel for her.
On the outside, it seemed we’d gone through similar experiences, but as the EMTs arrived and hooked her up to monitoring devices, I overheard comments that the woman was on high blood pressure medication.
Hang on. Were our situations anything alike after all?
It’s unclear. Was my situation was related to a cardiac issue? An autonomic nervous system response? A delayed response to prior stress? These are just some of the questions doctors are trying to answer.
I’m in the process of working with a neurologist and a cardiologist to get to the (ahem) heart of the matter, and in the next few weeks, I’ll have a lot of testing done, including — among other things — a tilt-table test, nerve testing, and sweat testing. For those interested in following this stuff, stay tuned. I’ll definitely share what I learn.
Writing Retreat Host
At the end of April, I finalized the details for my first Write to Heal Retreat with much excitement and anticipation, meeting each of my upcoming retreat’s attendees via Zoom, trying to cross all the “t’s” and dot every “i” I could think of — though as we all know, life sometimes unfolds in ways we can never predict (in other words, keep reading, because the writing retreat story gets a bit interesting)…
May 2023
Workshop Facilitator: Tucson, AZ
It was my honor to facilitate a Write to Heal workshop at the first DNA Surprise Retreat in Tucson Arizona, held May 4-7, 2023. The retreat was created specifically for adoptees, donor-conceived people, NPEs (the acronym stands for “non-paternal event” or “not parent expected”), and people like me who discover, later in life, the existence of genetic family members.
One year ago, I discovered (through a 23andme test) the older half-sister I never knew existed. We share a biological father. I wrote about that discovery here, and I shared news of my award-winning Moth Story about the discovery here.
The DNA Surprise Retreat helped me — and so many others — process the (increasingly common) experience of discovering previously unknown (and/or missing branches of our family trees, something which can completely upend the human experience (believe me, I know).
The 4-day DNA Surprise retreat was led by two incredible women, Alexis Hourselt (host of the DNA Surprises podcast) and Debbie Olson (owner of DNA Surprise Network). As an attendee, I was honored to learn how to navigate and process this experience myself. And, as a facilitator, I shared my workshop, The Science of Expressive Writing, as a way to encourage my fellow attendees to use writing as a tool to help process their own experiences.
Hosting a Writing Retreat: Carefree, AZ
Immediately following the DNA Surprise Retreat, I left Tucson and drove to Carefree, Arizona to host my first Write to Heal Retreat. I’d been planning this experience for the better part of a year, and I’m thrilled to say it turned out better than I could have imagined.
We held the 5-Day retreat at Civana Wellness Resort & Spa, and I can’t begin to describe how meaningful the experience was. Based on the testimonials I’ve already received from most attendees and team members, it was as transformative and life-changing for them as it was for me.
While I’ve led several writing retreats in the past, this one was unlike anything I’d ever hosted. Was I nervous? Hell, yes! I fretted over details and navigated all sorts of new things, like writing new contracts, building a new support team, and generally promoting an untested event. I lost quite a bit of sleep, gained not a little bit of weight, and frequently wondered, Can I actually pull this thing off? More often than not, I worried about all the unexpected things that might arise (which makes me wonder…did some of that stress contribute to my collapse in that crowded restaurant near my home?).
Months before the retreat, a dear friend who’s a life coach encouraged me to write out exactly how I hoped the retreat would go — down to the expressions on attendees’ faces and the feelings I wanted to have after presentations and conversations with my guests and team. I did this, and yet, something kept bubbling up for me…something that didn’t feel quite right…something that felt almost…ominous.
Was I looking for drama? Was I worrying unnecessarily? Was I manifesting negativity? I swear, I wasn’t in control of this gut feeling that kept nagging at me, as if asking, "Are you SURE you’ve prepared yourself for every possible scenario?” What did this nagging feeling even MEAN?
During our welcome reception on the first night of the retreat, attendees meet and mingle with the leadership team, then gather for dinner on a terrace overlooking the Carefree, Arizona, sunset. As we contemplate the menu, I take some deep, cleansing breaths.
Finally, I think, it’s happening! We’re all here!
I look around the table at the group of women who’ve traveled from all over the United States for this event. I feel waves of gratitude for their trust in me and in this effort.
I’m particularly excited for the 67-year-old woman seated directly next to me at dinner. Weeks earlier, during our pre-retreat phone call, she’d mentioned that this trip would mark many firsts for her, including her first trip to a spa, her first writing retreat, and her first “girls’” trip. And now, on this first night of the retreat, she is so excited about trying new things that, instead of ordering an entree for dinner, she gleefully orders two side dishes, instead.
“You GO, Maureen!” I say, smiling. “Atta girl!”
The next morning, I’m up early, setting up the casita that will serve as our group’s conference room. As I test the AV equipment in an effort to ensure our kickoff presentations go smoothly, I’m in the midst of digging through my backpack for a cable when I hear my phone ringing from somewhere under a pile of handouts.
I almost don’t reach to answer it. Thank goodness I do. The caller ID tells me it’s the resort’s general manager.
“Christine?”
“Oh hi, Sarah,” I say, not surprised at all to hear from her. We’ve texted frequently over the last few days about retreat details.
“I’m so sorry to call,” she says. “Everything’s okay…
I put down my bag and put my hand on my chest and just listen.
“…but I wanted to let you know that…”
It’s phrases like this that make time stop, that make us switch to autopilot, that pull the oxygen molecules from our lungs and freeze our limbs into place.
What happened? I ask, though I’m pretty sure now that I only said this to myself.
“Apparently, one of your guests, Maureen, took a fall. An ambulance has just been called. She’s alert and talking, but I wanted to make you aware…”
“Where is she?” I ask, putting my hand in the air, siliently signaling to my team that something major is happening.
“She’s on the pickleball court,” Sarah says.
“I’ll be right there,” I say, hanging up and turning to the members of my team. “I have to leave,” I say. “There’s been an accident with Maureen. You’re all in charge.”
I take off running through the resort toward the pickleball courts, already out of breath as I cross the parking lot and the quiet, residential street beyond it. With every step, I try to prepare myself for every possible scenario:
• Did Maureen hit her head and is she REALLY okay?
• What even happened?
• How bad must it be that an ambulance was called?
• Will my team be able to run things while I’m taking care of this?
And then I think, “Is it me — or is it actually raining?
Yep, it’s now raining here in the desert — ever so softly. A scared, little part of my heart is grateful to feel this delicate spray on my face, a stand-in, of sorts for the tears I feel welling in my eyes as I arrive at the tennis and pickleball courts and immediately see the gathered crowd.
There on the ground on her back is Maureen — who’s not only just played pickleball for the first time in her life, but has also (as we’d soon come to learn) shattered her wrist so badly that immediate surgery is required.
How in the world do you cross a “t” or dot an “i” in anticipation of something like this? When a crisis happens, all we can do is stop… and stay present… and deal with it.
“Oh my gosh, Maureen!” I say, forcing a smile and a cheery tone as I make my way through the crowd. Kneeling near her face, I ask, “So, uh, what the heck’s going on?” I also add a few words of extreme profanity when I see her hand and arm. I can’t help it. The body is not supposed to look like this.
“I think I did something not so good to my wrist…” Maureen says, squinting up at me as raindrops plink into her eyes.
Maureen trembles under a blanket, clearly in tremendous pain. A siren wails in the distance, and I look to the faces of the women kneeling around her. At least one, I will later learn, is a doctor. Still, we all wear the same forced smiles above our wide-open eyes — that universal human expression that forms when witnessing something tragic unfolding.
“Well, THAT’s not good,” I say, trying to keep it light, putting my hand on Maureen’s shoulder. “I can hear the ambulance. Can you? Sounds like help is on the way…”
As she’s loaded into the ambulance, someone hands me Maureen’s glasses and her purse, and I nod. It seems I’m her person now. Looking at her glasses, I realize I will need to be her eyes. Looking at her purse, I think, “I’m sort of losing my mind a little here, but whatever happens, I CANNOT lose this purse…”
Gripping Maureen’s personal items tightly, I dash back across the street toward the parking lot toward my rental car, using voice-to-text to update my team. I ask them to meet me in the lot with my car keys, my purse, my sweater, and my list of emergency contact numbers. I’d have at least one difficult phone call to make.
On the way to the hospital, I call Maureen’s son and deliver the news, which starts very much like the one I’d just received.
“I’m so sorry to call…” I begin, “and everything’s okay…but I wanted to let you know that…”
At the hospital, I sit with Maureen in the emergency department.
There’s something about being with a complete stranger when they’re incapacitated. When she’s asked for her insurance card, she can’t get it out of her purse. Her injured left arm is completely immobilized and her right arm is hooked up to an IV delivering pain medication. She instructs me to fish out the card from her wallet. I sift past her Driver’s License, her credit cards, and a Mass card from a loved one’s funeral.
We spend the entire day in that Emergency Room.
At several points, Maureen insists that I should get back to the resort and run my retreat, but there’s no way I’m leaving her. I’ve been in her shoes. I’ve known what it’s like to be alone and scared and uncertain of what’s happening.
When the X-ray team arrives, I leave Maureen’s room and call my own team to check in.
“We’ve got everything under control,” I’m told. “Don’t worry about anything… Just give Maureen our best.”
“I will,” I say. “How did the morning workshops go?”
“Wonderful,” they say.
Just then, a flood of photos pops up on my phone.
“Tell Maureen we all made these nature mandalas in honor of her healing…”
The ER nurse comes in and informs us that Maureen’s wrist is literally “shredded” — in other words, her hand is essentially detatched from her arm on the inside. Surgery is scheduled for 5:40pm.
I face Maureen. I hold her gaze. We both nod in silence, as if to say, “Well, okay. This is really happening.”
This. Is. Huge.
Without a word, we acknowledge that what’s happening is traumatic and will require an enormous amount of healing.
This is also NOTHING like what I expected to manage during a Write to Heal Retreat — and yet I know I know I can’t change or fix what’s happening. I can only let Maureen know that I see exactly what’s happening, and that I’m here.
Soon, the respiratory specialist comes in to (using his words) “knock her out and reset her bones prior to surgery.”
As he prepares Maureen for temporary anesthesia, he asks, “So. Do you want to tell me what happened?"
Maureen looks to me, and I just smile and shake my head. She then explains how she’d been playing pickleball for the very first time while on vacation at, of all things, a Write to Heal Retreat.
Chuckling at the irony, the doctor now shakes his head.
“Ah, pickleball…” he trails off. He explains that, on average, he “knocks out” three patients every day who’ve suffered some form of pickleball injury.
Think about that. He knocks out three patients a day so their bones can be rearranged due to the falls they’ve taken while playing pickleball.
The medical staff, Maureen, and I exchange quite a few laughs throughout the day about the fact that this was her first AND LAST time on a pickleball court.
And, mark my words: After what I saw Maureen go through, I will NOT be playing pickleball anytime soon.
At the last minute, Maureen’s surgery is canceled and rescheduled for the following day. I don’t want to leave her side, but she insists.
“I’m FINE!” she chides, laughing.
When I feel certain she’s in good (ahem) hands, I agree to head back to the resort to join our group for dinner. As I’m getting ready to leave, Maureen’s nurse — who knows that I’m a retreat leader trying to support my injured guest — offers one lovely bit of advice.
“If you want to call later and check on the patient, you’ll get through faster if you tell the nurse’s station that you’re sisters.”
I nod, pulling my sweater a little tighter around my waist before leaning down to give Maureen a gentle hug.
“Well, we definitely are now!” I say. “Wouldn’t you agree?” I’ve come to know all the names of the members of her family, handled her personal belongings, stood in the room as her shirt was cut off from her body. I’ve held the phone to her ear while she spoke to her loved ones. I’ve shared jokes and stories of my own life to distract her from her pain. In the span of 8 hours — an “average” workday — we’ve discussed our personal joys and sorrows, building a relationship that will surely bond us for life. I barely knew Maureen this morning, but now, she feels like family.
When I return to the resort, I’m welcomed by my team and my retreat attendees with open arms. They all want to know how Maureen is and how the day went. As I explain everything, someone points out that I’m talking very fast. Only then does it occur to me that, when I left the resort’s tranquil “bubble” and stepped into an emergency setting, my nervous system must have cranked into overdrive.
“You all seem so calm,” I observe, amazed by the ease with which they ask questions or move from the buffet line to their seats or talk with one another in a leisurely manner. I, on the other hand, feel like I’ve had four cups of coffee.
It’s only DAY ONE of the Write to Heal Retreat. Can relaxation truly kick in this quickly? If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I never would have believed it.
The next afternoon, while Maureen preps and undergoes surgery, I work with her loved ones to coordinate travel to the resort, since she’ll clearly need help getting back home. Maureen ends up spending a total of two nights in the hospital, then is discharged just in time for our group’s farewell dinner. We were all SO delighted to see her.
I’ll share more about the retreat itself in a separate, dedicated post, because there are just so many wonderful things to say. Plus, I’m honestly still processing all the amazing comments and moments and memories. The sisterhood we formed in the span of 5 days was nearly indescribable. Our inaugural Write to Heal Retreat was, without a doubt, a life-changing experience filled with personal growth, healing, bonding, and joy. Once again, stay tuned.
June 2023
Family Photos
When I was a little girl, my biological father loved taking photos. He didn’t take either one of the pics above. They were most likely taken in a Sears Department Store (age 1) and a school gymnasium (age 9).
I have so many memories of my father insisting that we “hold still,” “hold on,” or “hold tight” as he adjusted the lenses or aperture settings on one of his many cameras. There was always something to be tinkered with — a tripod, a timer, a slide carousel, a projector, or a screen — something that stressed him out or gave him trouble.
“Well, that’s not right…” he’d say, or “How in the hell…” or “Give me just a second here…” or “Jesus Christ, can you even believe…” or “God DAMMIT! This camera’s a total piece of…”
I don’t know when I learned NOT to question these protracted photo ops, but I’m deeply familiar (to this day) of the feelings I’d have to hold in — feelings of confusion, annoyance, irritability, frustration, impatience, and even embarrassment.
So often, I’d want to shout, “Dad! ENOUGH!”
All I know is that, if my father wanted to take a picture, I’d better stand still, look at the camera, and keep my mouth shut.
I don’t recall how old I was when, in a fit of rage, Dad set fire to a garage (or a storage space?) that held, among other things, most of my childhood photos. Was I in grade school? Middle school? High school? The details of that time are now fuzzy, but I do remember the whispers and dismissals of my questions.
I’ve mentioned that my father was a troubled man, and recently, I discovered a police report that references felony charges brought against him for the use of an accelerant on a building. Was this the same event? I have yet to explore the details. Like many things regarding my father, I’ve learned to set boundaries, to pace myself, and to process things when I’m good and ready — and though I’m not quite ready to dive into the specifics yet, I guess I’m letting my mind play with memories and share a bit of “toe dipping” here.
Some things I know for sure: My parents split up when I was seven; the fire happened sometime after that; and my father died of throat cancer in 2010.
When my mother recently handed me the two photos above, I was shocked.
“Where did you get these?” I asked, amazed. I hadn’t recalled seeing those photos in years, and whenever I see a picture from my childhood, I’m in awe.
She’d apparently found them in a drawer.
As my real eyes scanned my childhood eyes, I tried not to imagine how many other photos were lost to the fire.
Looking up from the pictures, I asked Mom the question I can’t believe I’d never asked before.
“Why did Dad even get all our childhood photos?”
Almost indiscernibly, Mom straightened her back before replying.
“Because,” she said, looking directly into my eyes, “I got you.”
Her words keep echoing in my mind, and I know I’ll need to let them sit for a while. Though I’m 55 years old, I’m astounded by how quickly that scared, childlike self in me can show up, worried that I’ve asked for too much.
For so many years, I didn’t have a sense of self, but these days, more and more, I find compassion and love for my younger self — especially when I catch a fleeting glimpse of her in the images that remain.
Literary Citizenship
On May 30, Writers’ Haven Evanston was honored to host author, writing coach, and all-around literary phenom Nadine Kenney Johnstone (and her incredible fans!) for a stop on her Come Home to Your Heart book tour. Here’s the wonderful book’s description:
”Come Home to Your Heart is an essay collection and guided journal that invites you to tune into your inner sage so that you can be reunited with who you truly are. There is an internal voice that says profound things when you sit still enough to listen, and these 28 writing invitations teach you how to harness your heart's wisdom.
In this nurturing guide, Nadine Kenney Johnstone shares the little life moments and healing practices that restored her spirit. She draws upon her vast experience as a writing coach, professor, retreat leader, and meditation instructor to pass along the secrets of soul-centered journaling to you. Each chapter is a mini retreat reminding you that no matter how disconnected from yourself you might feel, you can never drift too far away because, ultimately, home is in your soul.”
My First Ragdale Writers’ Residency: Lake Forest, IL
Again, this is something that deserves its own post. As the week unfolded, I knew it was part of a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I’m grateful for every moment. Organized by the amazing writer Nicole Schnitzler, we were joined by a writer you need to know, Jacquelyn Thomas, and the first Poet Laureate from Highland Park, Illinois, Laura Joyce-Hubbard.
At Ragdale, I spent time IN EARNEST working on my memoir, sharing my perplexities and pages with these generous, compassionate, wise writers.
We ate delicious meals, ran into a few ghosts, and filled up our literary wells. My time at Ragdale was a dream come true.
Carving Out Space for Women Writers @Writers’ Haven in Evanston, IL
When I created Writers’ Haven in 2014, I knew it had to be a safe and special place for women writers. A space to reflect and connect. A place to open up and write it all down. A place where truths can be accessed and documented. A place where beauty and creativity thrives. In the 9 years since I launched Writers’ Haven, I’ve changed its location (from South Haven, Michigan to Evanston, Illinois) and expanded my services to online coaching, developmental editing, and destination retreats. Next up will be an online course, designed by Heather Fry, and one-day in-person and online Write-to-Heal workshops. Stay tuned, and subscribe for updates!
Even More Travel: San Francisco, CA
Spending time with family, cherished clients, and lifelong friends, I spent a few days in this storied city by the sea. When I wasn’t talking all things literary, I itched to write about all that I did and saw.
JULY 2023
Writing & Memoir Coach
Amidst all this recent activity, I’ve been reading and editing manuscripts, helping authors craft their stories and shape their proposals in preparation for submission to literary agents and editors. It’s, by far, the most rewarding work I’ve ever done in my life. I get to read my client’s stories of strength, heartache, personal growth, and self-improvement. I get to read about their careers, adventures, loneliness, fears, accomplishments, and constantly changing seasons of life. I consider my clients family, and it’s my honor to witness their growth as writers. They teach me new things every day and inspire me to keep my eyes wide open to this fascinating world.
When I travel, I always read clients’ manuscripts. I often pretend I’m a “regular reader,” flipping through the pages of these future books but also stopping to ask a ton of questions. What’s the main point? What are the themes? What can I, as the reader, take away from this story? What are the stakes? What have you, as the author, learned? Are you digging deep enough into reflection or just telling me what happened in your lifetime? I share my questions (plus lots of feedback) with my clients, who then decide what, if any changes to make to their work. The goal is to help my clients write in their authentic voices and share the most polished versions of their remarkable stories. My process is very intentional (and deeply rewarding for me personally). And, based on the feedback I hear from clients, the process has also been very effective. Win win!
Long Live Live Storytelling!
I’m excited to return to the Oil Lamp Theater’s Speakeasy Series in Glenview, IL, on Friday, July 7th. The theme of the night is FIRSTS, and I’ll be sharing a brand new story, live! I first performed at Oil Lamp Theater on March 3, 2023, and fell in love with the cozy little spot. C’mon out and have a cocktail and listen to some stories! Buy your tickets here.
And finally, some THRILLING NEWS about my OWN book launch:
You Can Finally Pre-Order My FIRST Book!
You’re among the very first to learn that my forthcoming biography, co-written with Jay Pridmore, comes out September 13, 2023 — just 3 months from now!
To be clear, this is NOT my memoir-in-progress!
Politics, Partnerships, & Power: The Lives of Ralph E. and Marguerite Stitt Church, is the first biography exploring a fascinating couple from my hometown, Evanston, Illinois, who, together, changed the landscape of national and international politics.
[As you’ll see from the pre-order link, the book’s cover design is still in process]
Stay tuned for more book news, including how I learned (and how it felt) to research and co-write a biography about two former members of the United States Congress. Believe me — I’ve got some incredible stories!
WHEW! Thank you SO much for reading (or at least skimming)!
My posts are rarely this long, but I really wanted to catch you up.
Now it’s your turn!
Please fill me in on what you’ve been up to. Gimme the good news, and the not-so-great news, too. What’s happened lately that really surprised you? What are you writing? What are you avoiding writing? What are you unsure about? What are your publishing goals?
P.S. Consider a Paid Subscription to Writers’ Haven by Christine Wolf. Why? Let me explain…
In addition to all the benefits of a FREE subscription (which includes semi-regular posts about the writing life, links to my Monthly Ask Me Anything Q&A about Writing, and access to my invitation-only Writers’ Haven Salons where we gather online in a burgeoning writing community), here are just some of the many benefits of a PAID subscription:
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Disclaimer: My newsletters occasionally contain affiliate links, which means if you purchase something using a link I share, I receive a very small commission — and I THANK YOU for your purchase. I apply any funds earned from affiliate links toward running this newsletter and my Write to Heal Retreats.
Glad you’re back. Fascinating and not a coincidence that you had a feeling about the retreat. You were meant to be Maureen’s guide, helper and sister. She was blessed to have you. What a relief she’s ok and healing. It must be wrist month. My 62 yo sister broke her wrist last week. I’ll be 60 this year-- need to make more time for strengthening exercises. Our lovely bones (not the book but literally) need tending.
We were in Boston in April too!
Congrats on everything.
You’ve accomplished so much!! Amazing. 😍