By Nancy Peacock
For the twice-published novelist, examining a piece of writing approximately herself within the National Enquirer—under the headline "Here's One for the Books: cleansing girl Is an Acclaimed Author"—was greater than a surprise. It was once an thought.
In A Broom of One's Own, Nancy Peacock, whose first novel was once chosen through the New York Times as a extraordinary ebook of the yr, explores with heat, wit, and candor what it potential to be a author. An encouragement to all hard-working artists, irrespective of how they make a residing, Peacock's e-book offers useful insights and suggestion on motivation, craft, and feedback whereas delivering hilarious anecdotes concerning the homes she cleans.
Read or Download A Broom of One's Own: Words on Writing, Housecleaning, and Life PDF
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Extra info for A Broom of One's Own: Words on Writing, Housecleaning, and Life
Indd 32 1/15/13 2:10 PM Last Light “We should swing by and see if Jaha wants to wet a line,” I said. Jaha, short for Jeremy Anderson Hard Ass, a nickname earned in middle school for holding his ground against bullies half again his size, was the most natural-born fisherman I’d ever known, an angling genius who could practically talk a fish into skipping the drama and hopping straight into his cooler. My favorite image of him came from a day at that same fishing hole we’d just left down the highway.
Over the course of the three-day festival, we discovered we shared a go-with-the-wind, howl-at-the-moon spirit, and during down times had long discussions about Aldo Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac, which John carried around with him like a bible. Both of us were getting over heartbreaks that neither had seen coming. Both of us were more interested in fishing, even if we ended up getting hosed, or climbing some mountain in rinse-cycle weather than pursuing new girlfriends. indd 26 1/15/13 2:10 PM Last Light I had taught John how to roll a kayak, and had turned him on to the euphoria of skiing in deep, backcountry powder.
I had to fight to stay alive, no matter what it took. I remember this as a conscious decision. I remember promising myself that if I fought and lived, I would never look back and regret it. I didn’t know the mauling had left me blind. Once I’d made my decision, my mother vanished but I was not alone. A figure materialized off in the distance, showing itself as a silhouette backlit by a starburst of blue light. My long-dead grandfather. I recognized his lanky legs and the outline of his favorite ball cap.