“Creative nonfiction is not making something up but making the most of what you have.” John McPhee
I started writing late in life. I write in my second language. (Seldom in my native German.)
Swiss born, I arrived in New York alone, speaking and understanding little English. Fear a constant companion. I was 23.
I live in Scottsdale, AZ with my husband. I am a successful retired hair designer.
“We all harbor dreams of greatness . . . the size will be measured by our memories.” Anonymous
I cherish the gift of writing . . . a revelation of one’s personal reality. Writing is like creating a world by the light of the mind and the heat of the heart finding music in words. Oh, and — poetry — the impossible task of making the absent present, like photographing the invisible. . . Poetry is the most precise form of expression that language has given me — when emotions find words.
The Dog That Could Not Walk
He had no feet, no legs,
bouncing up steep steps as if he did.
The leash was brown, a string only, I found in
hardened mud, next to flowers with no name.
I had a dog in picture-perfect Switzerland,
where I once lived, loved, and had been young.
Majestic snow-covered Alps, hidden behind dark clouds,
it smelled like rain, again . . . no sunshine today.
A dog’s playful steps on a lonely country road,
no sounds of barking, my childish joy making me leap, run.
Blowing in the wind, thoughts of my seldom smiling mom.
Dog hair on her rug and spotless house, unthinkable!
Not hearing the sounds of Switzerland,
distant cowbells, church bells ringing, only
the shrill voice of my oh-so-stern, hard working mom,
”No dog hair on my new hard-earned couch!”
No dog allowed. I dared to dream. I was six. I was poor, made do.
A child’s trouble-avoiding eyes can see far-reaching is possible
radiating amazement at “perfect” not looking like I
imagined. I had a dog, chasing after me on a string.
I had a dog that was a ball, no chance to get hurt, fall.
My brother’s missing soccer ball.
A joyous secret, Noah was his name,
our walks a distant memory.
The first poem I ever wrote, in 2008 on the balcony in Coronado, CA, listening to the ocean, won First Prize, Dream Quest One, Chicago, Editor, Andre L. West, International Poetry Prize, $250.00, 3/9/2013. First Prize, Mid-South Poetry Festival Poetry Society of Tennessee, 10/1/2011. Second Place, Southwest Manuscripters, California, Poetry Contest, 10/18/2010, on my birthday. (This poem is at the beginning of my memoir. . .)
Writing has become my American life since 9/11 when I wrote my first story: “The Power of Prayer” that was chosen to be published by Goose River Press, in 2018, yet, resulted in my own inspirational book, (with pictures). Reading this memoir about the school of life as an anthology in poetry and short stories, about courage and adventure, belief in fate, joy, heartache and resilience and — love, may evoke feelings about what love is — can be — or simply help someone to believe in love and trust. Stories and poems about a belief in something extraordinary is possible — inspiration laced with love.
Coming to America . . . Living the dream. Fate at work.
Some Things Are Simply Meant to Be — (Picture above shows a proof copy of my soon to be released book.)
The dynamics of my writing world include: Stories and Poetry published in six Goose River Anthologies 2014 – 2020, available on Amazon or Goose River Press, Waldoboro Maine. Loose Mousse Publishing, ABSOLOOSE volume 1 and 2, choice collections of poetry, and Living Springs Publishing, “Stories Through The Ages Baby Boomers Plus 2019.”
Winnings of Poetry and Writing contests and, my great love for Soccer the world calls Football: Articles published, even in USA Today’s Sports section. Letters to FIFA, the ex-President Sepp Blatter (and his answer), involving changes to Soccer/Football rules, (some now implemented) with many fans’ signatures from all over the world I collected.
“True happiness is . . . to want what you have.” — Trudy Wells-Meyer