“Those who take joy in writing are never in want of something to do.”
I just came up with that while sitting at my intern desk at GrubStreet. I think it sounds good to me because it’s true, and that’s what good writing is: translating the truth—as we know it—into words. The above quotation is certainly true to me as I have found immense pleasure and repeatedly escaped aimlessness by keeping writing in my back pocket.
October 10, 2014 | Grub Intern
We’ve completed week three of the Dorchester class of the Memoir Project. Like Dorchester itself, the class is mixed racially and in many other ways. Some of the 15 students have advanced degrees and others don’t. Some grew up in the south and moved to Boston, while others were born and raised here. Some are very outgoing and love to share their work, and others are more reticent. Each week I hand out three or four writing prompts at the beginning of class and, and later some of the students read aloud a few paragraphs of what they’ve written in their notebook.
October 8, 2014 | Michelle Seaton
I’ve always loved reading. I can’t pinpoint exactly when it began, but I do have photo and video evidence that I’ve loved reading even before I could read on my own. That is, I’ve always loved stories – from the time that I had to rely on my parents to read to me, or when I had to count on the illustrations on the page to inform me of the plot of the story.
September 30, 2014 | Grub Intern
To improve your writing, write every day. I’ve received this advice dozens of times. However, I equate receiving such advice with going to the dentist. The dentist says to floss daily. Intellectually, I know flossing daily would reduce plaque build-up, but I also know I have no intentions of following this advice. But of course, I tell my dentist I will not only floss, but by golly, I will delight in it. At my next cleaning, I try to keep up the façade: “I flossed daily. Can’t you tell?” But evidence to the contrary is all over my gum line.
September 19, 2014 | Liz Breen
Last winter, when my son was seven-months-old, I made a decision—the same decision I had made six years prior—to move halfway across the country.
Six years ago it was much easier. I was 24, lived in a studio apartment, and had only enough belongings to fit in the trunk of my black Chevy Cavalier. I was untethered. I had just finished grad school, had completed a rough draft of my novel, and had a great reason to move from Illinois to Massachusetts: love