Marion Agnew

Recently, I went to a writing retreat.   In the past, I always thought I wouldn't benefit from a writing retreat. My husband is a writer, and the two of us live in a relatively spacious house with great views. Also, we don't have live-in dependents, day jobs, or many other commitments.  For those reasons, the benefits other people say they get from a retreat—isolation from noise and the chaos of daily living, the ability to focus on one project, congenial company of folks who understand the allure of writing and creativity—are part of my regular life.   Three years ago, I was in a transitional space—though if you recall February of 2020, you can see how I had no idea how much the world could change, and how quickly. Still. Back then, my essay collection had been out for a few months, I’d done a few events to support it and connect with readers (so much fun!), and I was itching to get back to writing and revising.    Three years ago, the project I was...

I meant to post this a week ago, which was still later than usual but less late, however, best-laid plans and all that. So last week, I was just home from a writing retreat (more about it later), and while preparing for it, I put together some thoughts about the gifts of January. The new year, especially February, has brought us more sunlight. First: a renewed sense of accomplishment, professionally speaking. For a few months, I'm mentoring an accomplished writers who's putting together a creative nonfiction manuscript. Also, for the retreat, I provided feedback on a couple of essays.  It's a lot of fun to exercise muscles I haven't had the chance to use for a while. These projects have sparked conversations about reflection, narration, scenes, the situation/story theory, and the benefits and dangers of allowing readers to do a lot of work. It's fulfilling and rewarding for me--and I hope is as helpful to those whose work I'm privileged to read.  Second: I...

For several years, I've been posting on social media about books I read. On Twitter, I often share a sentence for #SundaySentence. On Instagram, I share more quotes and a few thoughts.  But social media is ephemeral, and platforms can disappear at a moment's notice, taking my thoughts with it. So I'm posting here periodically, too. The Art of Map Illustration, by James Gulliver Hancock, Hennie Haworth, Stuart Hill, Sarah King The Art of Map Illustration,  James Gulliver Hancock, Hennie Haworth, Stuart Hill, Sarah King “[A] map tells a story—and everyone loves a good story.” This book is accurately subtitled, “A step-by-step artistic exploration of contemporary cartography and mapmaking.” The four artists who wrote the book and whose work is featured have different, yet similar approaches to making maps. The maps they’re making are highly personal perspectives on specific places, sometimes at a specific (long ago) time. The artists use different techniques, both digital and ...

So, "feelings" have been on my mind lately. (Not the song, but you're welcome for the earworm.)* Since the first of the year, I've been doing a writing exercise to help ground my work in observations using the five senses, as opposed to writing from the thoughts that circle in my head ALL THE TIME, morphing into metaphors and trying to get out.  So senses: We all use sight in writing a lot, and I've enjoyed exploring sound for several years (as in my essay collection). Smell is purportedly quite evocative, a leftover from our reptilian brain, but the winter, with dust and allergies and stuffy noses, isn't conducive to detecting smell, unless I'm baking, which I haven't done much lately. (Hey. I should remedy that.) By the way, I found these exercises in Jeannine Ouellette's substack newsletter, Writing in the Dark. They landed in my inbox at exactly the right time, and they've challenged me all month. Back to senses. Jeannine points out that f...

It’s probably a little late to be posting “new year” thoughts, but I was late to church almost every Sunday morning for most of my childhood (NOT MY FAULT) (although something I've had to work on since), and my father liked to sit up front, where everyone could watch us shamefacedly slink in and take seats, so let’s call it tradition. Here are a few things I’m taking into 2023, some of which I learned in 2022, and some of which I re-learned. Words, part 1.  Naming things is important. Having a name for something can make it real in a way it wasn’t before, which can be scary if you’re as into denial as I am. But it’s also a relief. To have a name for something is to put a limit on it, to say “I know you,” even though you can’t predict the future exactly.  And I know all that’s vague, and that’s how it is for now. Just, words are good. Words, part 2.  I’ve put 80-thousand-plus words into a novel that will be published in 2023 by Latitude 46, a publisher in Sudbury. Mak...

‘tis the season For bigger jeans. For fuzzy socks and chunky sweaters. For grandparents’ recipes, softened butter and sugar sprinkles. For vanilla and almond, cinnamon and nutmeg, fir and cedar. For darkness, gathering and dissipating. For candles lit and ancient words spoken. For snowflakes. The world in a drop at the end of an icicle. Frost-whiskers on evergreen needles. For friends. Sharing seed with jays and chickadees and squirrels. Cheering on the fox, waving at deer. For looking: back, forward, within. For walking in someone else’s footsteps, lifting the weight of memories. For mornings and mournings, holding them to the light, turning them, letting them go. Goodbye, 2022. 

1. More rocks. Thirty of them, in fact.  Yes, we already had plenty of rocks here. But going over to the beach at our little camp to pick up a rock, and snapping a photo of it, and then bringing it back to sit in a bowl in the kitchen were nice breaks from revising in November.  2. Something I don’t have words for yet, but if I did, one of them might be “ease,” and another might be “soft,“ and another might be “strength.”  I just realized that both “easy” and “soft” are antonyms of “hard.” A better antonym of “ease,” I suppose, is “effort.”  (Welcome to my brain.) In any case, I am feeling a form of strength. With ease and softness. (That sounds like an ad: “Double-concentrated Strength: now with ease and softness!”) Maybe because 2022 held some really difficult (hard) experiences, yet here I am. I imagine/expect/am unbothered by the fact that the future will hold its share of challenges, and I’ll survive those, too.  3. Gratitude (hmm, I say this a lot). I ap...