by Yule Heibel

Last night I went to the first-ever non-New York City “Women of Letters” event at American Repertory Theater’s Oberon Theater venue, brought to Boston by the Boston Book Festival people. It started at 7:30p.m., doors opening at 7. The venue I found terribly uncomfortable: very small, rickety and chintzy folding chairs (the slatted wood kind, […]

Pangs of regret coming from I-don’t-know-where. Perhaps sparked by something A. said in our Skype conversation yesterday, about yet another long walk he had taken that day in Berlin, and now, me, getting up at just before 6a.m., doing my thing, sitting down to write, looking out at this ever-expanding immensity of leaf cover, of […]

It was with great dismay yesterday that I faced the reality of the enormous gap between where I am and where I want to be with regard to writing a novel. I compared my word count – and I counted my “research” folder as well, which does contain many descriptions, some dialogs, scenes, and characterizations […]

Sometimes, when I sit down at my desk, the scent of incense I bought in a “Tibetan” store in Cambridge and which I keep on my desk wafts up. There are two kinds: one, the ubiquitous Nag Champa, which I love, and the second, a traditional kind I love even more but whose name I’ve […]