Writing links for May

It’s the end of May already. The end of May means the end of spring — the season — and the end of that metaphorical spring, youth. It’s time for summer, and for growing up, and for journeys … [insert needle dragging across record noise here]

Yeah. So I was writing up this post full of yummy May writing links yesterday and somehow it got all depressing and maudlin. This is not to say all of the links I want to share this month are depressing or maudlin. I’m not sure what happened — one minute I was happily writing up a list of links, the next I was using phrases like “that metaphorical spring, youth.”  Perhaps more caffeine (or sleep) was in order.

In any case, I’d like to start off this month’s links post with a preemptive strike against depressing topics. What better way to accomplish that than with Brontë Sisters Power Dolls?

Ahem. Ok. On to meatier clicking:

Is this the part where I tell you what I learned? San Francisco MFAer Margaret LaFleur wraps up her coursework and considers what it all means:

It’s the end and it’s the beginning and someone once told me that in any great story the ending should circle back and lead, somehow, back to the first sentence.

Some things to consider when tackling a case of writer’s block.

Over at The Millions, a beautiful essay, Elegy for a Stillborn Story:

One moment, I thought I had the story by its shoulders, but I was simply holding a shapeless protuberance of ice.  Other times I wrested it up with frostbitten fingers only to find it had changed.   It was born, or stillborn; I couldn’t tell the difference.  I mourned in the midst of celebration.  I buried it and dug it back out.  It was always ending and beginning.

Finally, Bay Area author Michelle Richmond considers what’s ahead for the Alabama beaches of her childhood in this lovely blog post, a kind of elegy of its own:

A whole way of life stands eerily close to extinction. If I sound alarmist it’s because I am very alarmed. What’s happening in the Gulf right now would make a great premise for some dire futuristic film–were it not for the fact that the film is real, and we’re all caught inside it, and everybody knows we’re in trouble but no one really knows what to do about it. My five-year-old son has been very concerned of late with the idea that perhaps we are not entirely real. “What if we’re just a book and someone’s reading us?” he asks again and again.

It’s easier, I suppose, to think of some things as not being real. Perhaps that’s why I like writing. (I love the idea that we’re a book and someone’s “reading us.”) I wish, as no doubt many people do, that the oil spill in the Gulf was some kind of fictional eco-thriller, but alas. If you feel helpless to do something about it, as I have for the past weeks, here’s a list of things you can do. There are a number of worthy organizations working in the Gulf to clean up the wildlife and shoreline, and they could really use your support.

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