Write Your Life Story with Anne Randolph
http://www.WriteYourLifeStory.org
Write Your Life Story
Anna, The Ant
This was an exercise done with puppets. You could use a stuffed animal and tell your own story. Send me a copy for a prize to info@WriteYourLifeStory.org or info@AnneRandolph.com
Anna, The Ant - by Jean Caggiano Wed AM www.WriteYourLifeStory.org
Once upon a time there was beautiful little ant named Anna. She was born into a family of eight red ants, all female, except for the last baby ant to emerge who was named Alvin. Anna was beautiful but one of her antennae was flawed. It was crooked, actually, horribly misshapen, so that when she tried to straighten it in order to listen to all of the sounds of the forest, all she heard was a kind of ‘blurp’ which always caused her to lose her focus and direction. Thus poor Anna always walked in a lopsided fashion, canting to the right, the side of her one perfectly tall, straight antennae, as she was always guided in that direction . This often caused her to veer off course, missing many morsels of food-especially the gnats and mosquitoes -which her gleeful sisters and brother could find so easily by just closing their eyes and listening through their two pair of perfectly good antennae. Anna often wandered far off into the forest alone and one night she became so disoriented that she couldn’t find her way home.
She tried to snuggle down under a bed of pine needles but alas, it began to rain so hard that soon she was drenched, shivering, and her big silvery tears mingled with the heavy raindrops for hours until, finally, exhausted, she fell asleep. Luckily, when she awoke the next morning, the sun was shinning brightly and as she stretched her one good antennae ,a strange thing began to happen. She realized she was hearing more than the usual ‘blurp’ from her left, faulty antennae. It was more of a hum, almost a note, like the sound of a ‘c’ note played on the piano! How could this be? The sound grew louder and louder until suddenly she realized it matched the ‘c’ sound in her right antennae.
She was hearing perfect pitch in both antennae-they were matched and she was in balance, hearing perfectly for the first time in her life! Anna easily found a breakfast of plump gnats and mosquitoes and hurried home to tell her family the astounding news. When she arrived home and looked into the mirror, surrounded by her amazed family, she saw two perfectly straight antennae sprouting from her head!
She realized it must have been the way she had slept in the forest or perhaps it was the depth of the despair she had felt and had been able to release through her tears which had enabled her crooked antennae to stretch full-length and become straight again. She was never really sure but knew that something which had been pent up inside her had been magically allowed to release, to let go, enabling her to breathe deeply and come into her full, beautiful, delightful self. Anna spent some of every day after her antennae had healed in the forest helping those bugs and animals who were in some kind of distress and paying homage to the forest, the place of her healing.
It didn’t matter that she would never quite understand what had happened to her -it was enough that she felt whole again.
Anna, The Ant - by Jean Caggiano Wed AM www.WriteYourLifeStory.org
Once upon a time there was beautiful little ant named Anna. She was born into a family of eight red ants, all female, except for the last baby ant to emerge who was named Alvin. Anna was beautiful but one of her antennae was flawed. It was crooked, actually, horribly misshapen, so that when she tried to straighten it in order to listen to all of the sounds of the forest, all she heard was a kind of ‘blurp’ which always caused her to lose her focus and direction. Thus poor Anna always walked in a lopsided fashion, canting to the right, the side of her one perfectly tall, straight antennae, as she was always guided in that direction . This often caused her to veer off course, missing many morsels of food-especially the gnats and mosquitoes -which her gleeful sisters and brother could find so easily by just closing their eyes and listening through their two pair of perfectly good antennae. Anna often wandered far off into the forest alone and one night she became so disoriented that she couldn’t find her way home.
She tried to snuggle down under a bed of pine needles but alas, it began to rain so hard that soon she was drenched, shivering, and her big silvery tears mingled with the heavy raindrops for hours until, finally, exhausted, she fell asleep. Luckily, when she awoke the next morning, the sun was shinning brightly and as she stretched her one good antennae ,a strange thing began to happen. She realized she was hearing more than the usual ‘blurp’ from her left, faulty antennae. It was more of a hum, almost a note, like the sound of a ‘c’ note played on the piano! How could this be? The sound grew louder and louder until suddenly she realized it matched the ‘c’ sound in her right antennae.
She was hearing perfect pitch in both antennae-they were matched and she was in balance, hearing perfectly for the first time in her life! Anna easily found a breakfast of plump gnats and mosquitoes and hurried home to tell her family the astounding news. When she arrived home and looked into the mirror, surrounded by her amazed family, she saw two perfectly straight antennae sprouting from her head!
She realized it must have been the way she had slept in the forest or perhaps it was the depth of the despair she had felt and had been able to release through her tears which had enabled her crooked antennae to stretch full-length and become straight again. She was never really sure but knew that something which had been pent up inside her had been magically allowed to release, to let go, enabling her to breathe deeply and come into her full, beautiful, delightful self. Anna spent some of every day after her antennae had healed in the forest helping those bugs and animals who were in some kind of distress and paying homage to the forest, the place of her healing.
It didn’t matter that she would never quite understand what had happened to her -it was enough that she felt whole again.
Among Writers by Taryn Browne
Who could know the consequences of a pink plastic tablecloth,Among Writerspastries on little fancy dishes, windows bellowing in light
and strangers sitting under a white ceiling?
Who could know the consequences of the small voices
asking for room on the fresh page sitting before each writer?
The room smells of cinnamon, coffee and perfume.
I can hear the breathing of writers.
They breathe deep as they spread themselves upon the page.
They dip into ink pots of their souls
and make tiny dancers of their pens.
The table is a stage and each a ballerina for a pen.
The melody is heard, it is silence.
From their movements, the shape of their dancer bodies,
music is written.
A mountain is climbed.
Courage is the lover
and away they ascend to dance in the clouds.
Writers, the dreamers they are, don’t believe what you see.
The creative fidget, the bangle bracelets
and lipstick conceal the holy genius
who has found their feet upon a mystic ground,
singing in the silence.
It is a process,
a lonely motion
and down the dancers go into the well
and back up they rise to catch their breath,
dripping in the juice of creation,
the pulp of human living and down again they hit the vein,
plunge beneath the surface
swimming in the waters of their spirits.
Not a splash is made, not a resistant movement,
the flow has come and away they go.
And in their hands these writers carry all those they love.
They never leave anyone behind.
Their hearts are bigger than their sleeves.
Their hearts pound with intensity because
something has moved them.
The writers push off from every shoreline
with the heel of one hand
and reach into the unknown with the other.
Tiny dancers in their hands, big dreams in their ink.
They are dangerous people;
they draw upon the unformed and go beyond words
but speak languages unknown.
They are the revolutionaries;
they are the channels of freshness, newness and genius.
They are the canals of new birth
and when in their midst we can see the fog rising,
clarity is crystal
a new day commences.
By Taryn Browne
www.WriteYourLifeStory.org
January, 2009
Family Alphabet Soup
A is for applause for achieving ones goal.
B is for beauty surrounding us daily. It is , also, for my great grandsons Bill, Branson and my step daughter Bonnie.
C is for my late husband Charles, one of the loves of my life. It is , also, for my grandson Curt and my great grandsons Cruz and Cory.
D is for diamonds, my birth stone.
E is for energy to get through the day.
F is for the fantastic DVD that Kim sent me of our Japan Friendship group trip.
G is for the goals I set each day. He is for humor which graces my day. It is also for my late husband Harlan, my soul mate. It is for
H Harlene my step daughter.
I is for ingenuity.
J is for the joy of life and my grandson John.
K is for kindness given by friend.
L is for my son Lee who is handsome, handy, soft spoken, but knowledgeable about most things, and often my right hand when I need help.
M is for my daughter Monica. She is a wonderful mom. She has gorgeous curly hair, is talented like her brother. She is a great writer and can do crafts.
N is of the things I need to accomplish daily.
O is for opportunity abounding and my grand daughter, Olivia.
P is for possibilities.
Q is quizzical when it comes to this letter.
R is for my son Richard, who lives in Bangkok Thailand and teaches English there. He is musically inclined, great cook and bilingual. Re is for relaxing.
S is for surprise of daily happenings like listening to the Gershwin tunes at the Ford Amphitheater in Vial this Thursday, sitting on the green lawn looking out at Vail mountain and gorgeous green colors and beautiful wild flowers.
T is for Tom my grandson who just graduated from High School and plans to go to Regis for college.
U is for unusual happenings.
V is for my grand daughter who will be 16 months tomorrow. Watching her learn is a joy. She makes me laugh. Her new word is baby. Vi is for Vail where I spent the week taking bridge lesson.
W is for wanderings.
X is for xtra things that happen in ones life.
Y am I writing this alphabet.
Z is for zealous.
Marlene Shields Write At Home www.WriteYourLifeStory.org July 2009
WE STOP HERE
What a lovely tribute from a member of the Write Your Life Story Workshop. Try your own writing with the opening line. The first exercise was "We start here" followed by the opposite thought:
"We stop here..." Add your writing to comments or sent to info@WriteYourLifeStory.org
"We stop here..." Add your writing to comments or sent to info@WriteYourLifeStory.org
WEDNESDAY MORNING WRITING
I stop here.
It’s a place to share the words,
hear the talent
and move the pen quietly
over the lined pages.
I love the unique way each writer speaks his or her story
and it feels safe to tell mine.
Our teacher is special, an encourager.
Each person has enriched my life.
I stop here each Wednesday with anticipation
and wonder what the future will reveal
in regard to all the words laid lovingly in boxes,
in notebooks and on tiny scraps of paper.
One day perhaps, a book will bear
my name and make a difference.
I stop here with hope.
Shirley Ann Dormish
2/11/09
www.WriteYourLifeStory.org
WE START HERE
We start here.
So sit down and get started in on that looming yet inviting gathering of writing clouds.
You can pull things from the air, if you like.
You can also weave in the special things you are intrigued with in nature.
You are welcome to write for 15 minutes or a whole day, breaking only for food, coffee, water and bathroom trips.
You are welcome in your finest clothes, or your comfy pajamas.
Your most angry self, your envious, hateful self, your loving self your transcended self are all welcome at this writing space.
And so, have a seat and have a seat and have a seat for your many selves you wish to spill onto paper.
There is always forgiveness given.
Even my shaking hands and cloudy memory and neurons’ miss-firings are all forgiven.
It is a place for you to become whole, to see the whole of your life
or the missing pieces or the oh-so-very rich pieces.
They are welcome to show their shiny hopefulness,
or your tender, scratched places,
and your priceless hope and tears.
by Dana Bennett
5 Feb 2009
Soup Kitchen Evening Writing Gathering
So sit down and get started in on that looming yet inviting gathering of writing clouds.
You can pull things from the air, if you like.
You can also weave in the special things you are intrigued with in nature.
You are welcome to write for 15 minutes or a whole day, breaking only for food, coffee, water and bathroom trips.
You are welcome in your finest clothes, or your comfy pajamas.
Your most angry self, your envious, hateful self, your loving self your transcended self are all welcome at this writing space.
And so, have a seat and have a seat and have a seat for your many selves you wish to spill onto paper.
There is always forgiveness given.
Even my shaking hands and cloudy memory and neurons’ miss-firings are all forgiven.
It is a place for you to become whole, to see the whole of your life
or the missing pieces or the oh-so-very rich pieces.
They are welcome to show their shiny hopefulness,
or your tender, scratched places,
and your priceless hope and tears.
by Dana Bennett
5 Feb 2009
Soup Kitchen Evening Writing Gathering
TRY THIS START LINE
My last email announcement asked folks to send me writing for a suggested start line. Here is an intense response.
Try this opening line yourself "Stop me the next time I..." and email me at info@WriteYourLifeStory.org or www.AnneRandolph.com
Mike McNern from Colorado Springs wrote from Subject: Re: Try Kitchen Table Writing opening lines
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Stop me the next time I ...
reach for the pen. My arms are leaden and I struggle like an animal to move, and reach for a pen one last time. I try to think back, how did I get this way.
I sit in my tiny cage, the smell of rust and stale urine make my nose want to close up tightly against the onslaught. I reach for the pen hidden under the lid of of the smooth industrial toilet. Hidden from the prying fingers of the screws taunting me, trying to wrench the pen out of my hand, if I let them find it.
I remove the pen from it's secret place, hidden among all that remains of an unspeakable, wasted life. I feel compelled to write down a litany of my sins, real and imagined on the only paper afforded me. Rolled neatly, but too thin for writing, the toilet paper rips as I write upon it feverishly. My imagination spills out onto the paper. Are these my sins, or that leering pedofile down the hall. I write feverishly and tell the worst thoughts I have ever thought.
The screws have seen me. The paper tastes terrible. Maybe I can flush the paper. There is too much paper to swallow. If I could only get it into the toilet. I shoot, it falls short. I'm no Michael Jordan. The screws read my work. They laugh at me, as I lay beaten on the concrete floor. "It isn't real", I scream.
I sit before the judge. Everyone looks at me. My lawyer, that young pencil-neck right out of school is writing. I move like a cat and wrench the pen from his soft hands. I must write. The screws drag me out of court.
I lay on the cot. Waiting. I must write. I run my fingers around the inside of the toilet. No pen there anymore. I write with my soiled fingers on the wall, but I don't get very far. The screws return. "It's time", they say. I am roughly lead by the shoulders down the hall. A door opens and I am shoved like a rabid dog onto the rough hewn chair. They strap my arms to the chair, I can't move. The screws talk, but I can't hear them. I want to write. I writhe in the chair," I want a pen!" The screws yell at me, but I don't know what they're saying. Finally I hear "Any last words?". I scream "I want a pen!". Ten thousand volts short circuit my muse. ZZZZZZZZZZZ.
Try this opening line yourself "Stop me the next time I..." and email me at info@WriteYourLifeStory.org or www.AnneRandolph.com
Mike McNern from Colorado Springs wrote from Subject: Re: Try Kitchen Table Writing opening lines
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Stop me the next time I ...
reach for the pen. My arms are leaden and I struggle like an animal to move, and reach for a pen one last time. I try to think back, how did I get this way.
I sit in my tiny cage, the smell of rust and stale urine make my nose want to close up tightly against the onslaught. I reach for the pen hidden under the lid of of the smooth industrial toilet. Hidden from the prying fingers of the screws taunting me, trying to wrench the pen out of my hand, if I let them find it.
I remove the pen from it's secret place, hidden among all that remains of an unspeakable, wasted life. I feel compelled to write down a litany of my sins, real and imagined on the only paper afforded me. Rolled neatly, but too thin for writing, the toilet paper rips as I write upon it feverishly. My imagination spills out onto the paper. Are these my sins, or that leering pedofile down the hall. I write feverishly and tell the worst thoughts I have ever thought.
The screws have seen me. The paper tastes terrible. Maybe I can flush the paper. There is too much paper to swallow. If I could only get it into the toilet. I shoot, it falls short. I'm no Michael Jordan. The screws read my work. They laugh at me, as I lay beaten on the concrete floor. "It isn't real", I scream.
I sit before the judge. Everyone looks at me. My lawyer, that young pencil-neck right out of school is writing. I move like a cat and wrench the pen from his soft hands. I must write. The screws drag me out of court.
I lay on the cot. Waiting. I must write. I run my fingers around the inside of the toilet. No pen there anymore. I write with my soiled fingers on the wall, but I don't get very far. The screws return. "It's time", they say. I am roughly lead by the shoulders down the hall. A door opens and I am shoved like a rabid dog onto the rough hewn chair. They strap my arms to the chair, I can't move. The screws talk, but I can't hear them. I want to write. I writhe in the chair," I want a pen!" The screws yell at me, but I don't know what they're saying. Finally I hear "Any last words?". I scream "I want a pen!". Ten thousand volts short circuit my muse. ZZZZZZZZZZZ.
Message for the New Year!
What a great comment from one writer to another. See Barbara's entry below under A MESSAGE FOR THE NEW YEAR!
Barbara, what an incredible legacy you are giving to your grandchildren. It is a wisdom they can inherit from you now. What comfort in the last line, that they will always have the help of their family.
Taryn www.WriteYourLifeStory.org Writer
Barbara, what an incredible legacy you are giving to your grandchildren. It is a wisdom they can inherit from you now. What comfort in the last line, that they will always have the help of their family.
Taryn www.WriteYourLifeStory.org Writer
I AM BORN
I AM BORN
I AM BORN, I AM BORN, I AM BORN, I AM BORN
I AM BORN TO BE WILD
I AM BORN TO BE FREE
I AM BORN TO BE ELECTRIC
I AM BORN TO LEARN
I AM BORN TO SEE
I AM BORN TO LIVE LIFE FULLY
I AM BORN FROM THE EARTH
I AM BORN TO THE SKY
I AM BORN TO LOVE
I AM BORN TO DISAGREE
I AM BORN TO LAUGH
I AM BORN TO CRY
I AM BORN TO TEACH
I AM BORN TO CARE
I AM BORN TO HEAL
I AM BORN TO CREATE
I AM BORN TO TAKE RISK
I AM BORN TO TRAVEL
I AM BORN TO ENJOY MY HOME
I AM BORN TO COOK
I AM BORN TO CLEAN
I AM BORN TO READ
I AM BORN TO WRITE
I AM BORN TO PLAY
I AM BORN TO RUN
I AM BORN TO SKIP
I AM BORN TO FALL
I AM BORN TO SHOP
I AM BORN TO EXERCISE
I AM BORN TO COMPETE
I AM BORN TO WIN
I AM BORN TO LOSE
I AM BORN TO BE HUMBLE
I AM BORN TO BE GENEROUS
I AM BORN TO DRINK WINE
I AM BORN TO GROW GRAPES
I AM BORN TO HARVEST GRAPES
I AM BORN TO BUILD HOMES
I AM BORN TO LOVE ARCHITECTURE
I AM BORN TO LOVE THE MOUNTAINS
I AM BORN TO LOVE THE SEA
I AM BORN TO LOVE THE LAKES
I AM BORN TO UNDERSTAND
I AM BORN TO BE HEARD
I AM BORN TO EXPERIENCE
I AM BORN TO SLEEP
I AM BORN TO MATE
I AM BORN TO GET MARRIED
I AM BORN TO GET DIVORCED
I AM BORN TO LIVE AS ONE
I AM BORN TO LIVE AS TWO
I AM BORN TO LOVE ALL ANIMALS
I AM BORN TO BE A FRIEND
I AM BORN TO BE A SISTER
I AM BORN TO BE A DAUGHTER
I AM BORN TO BE A GRANDDAUGHTER
I AM BORN TO BE A COUSIN
I AM BORN TO BE AN AUNT
I AM BORN TO BE A NIECE
I AM BORN TO BE A DOG AND CAT MOTHER
I AM BORN TO BE A WIFE
I AM BORN TO CHANGE
I AM BORN TO GET OLDER
I AM BORN TO REFLECT
I AM BORN TO DISCREET
I AM BORN TO TEAR AWAY
I AM BORN TO FLY
I AM BORN TO DIE
I AM BORN TO BE REBORN
SASHEELA
Write Your Life Story class member
January 27, 2009
I AM BORN, I AM BORN, I AM BORN, I AM BORN
I AM BORN TO BE WILD
I AM BORN TO BE FREE
I AM BORN TO BE ELECTRIC
I AM BORN TO LEARN
I AM BORN TO SEE
I AM BORN TO LIVE LIFE FULLY
I AM BORN FROM THE EARTH
I AM BORN TO THE SKY
I AM BORN TO LOVE
I AM BORN TO DISAGREE
I AM BORN TO LAUGH
I AM BORN TO CRY
I AM BORN TO TEACH
I AM BORN TO CARE
I AM BORN TO HEAL
I AM BORN TO CREATE
I AM BORN TO TAKE RISK
I AM BORN TO TRAVEL
I AM BORN TO ENJOY MY HOME
I AM BORN TO COOK
I AM BORN TO CLEAN
I AM BORN TO READ
I AM BORN TO WRITE
I AM BORN TO PLAY
I AM BORN TO RUN
I AM BORN TO SKIP
I AM BORN TO FALL
I AM BORN TO SHOP
I AM BORN TO EXERCISE
I AM BORN TO COMPETE
I AM BORN TO WIN
I AM BORN TO LOSE
I AM BORN TO BE HUMBLE
I AM BORN TO BE GENEROUS
I AM BORN TO DRINK WINE
I AM BORN TO GROW GRAPES
I AM BORN TO HARVEST GRAPES
I AM BORN TO BUILD HOMES
I AM BORN TO LOVE ARCHITECTURE
I AM BORN TO LOVE THE MOUNTAINS
I AM BORN TO LOVE THE SEA
I AM BORN TO LOVE THE LAKES
I AM BORN TO UNDERSTAND
I AM BORN TO BE HEARD
I AM BORN TO EXPERIENCE
I AM BORN TO SLEEP
I AM BORN TO MATE
I AM BORN TO GET MARRIED
I AM BORN TO GET DIVORCED
I AM BORN TO LIVE AS ONE
I AM BORN TO LIVE AS TWO
I AM BORN TO LOVE ALL ANIMALS
I AM BORN TO BE A FRIEND
I AM BORN TO BE A SISTER
I AM BORN TO BE A DAUGHTER
I AM BORN TO BE A GRANDDAUGHTER
I AM BORN TO BE A COUSIN
I AM BORN TO BE AN AUNT
I AM BORN TO BE A NIECE
I AM BORN TO BE A DOG AND CAT MOTHER
I AM BORN TO BE A WIFE
I AM BORN TO CHANGE
I AM BORN TO GET OLDER
I AM BORN TO REFLECT
I AM BORN TO DISCREET
I AM BORN TO TEAR AWAY
I AM BORN TO FLY
I AM BORN TO DIE
I AM BORN TO BE REBORN
SASHEELA
Write Your Life Story class member
January 27, 2009
NIBBLING WORDS
This writing was inspired by a passage from Carolyn Jennings wonderful poem about writing, "Invocation." Take this line and begin writing and see where it goes. Email me your results or post in comments. Anne info@WriteYourLifeStory.org
Let them Nibble at the Tips of My Fingers -Jean Caggiano September 14, 2008
Let them nibble at the tips of my fingers, all of those unspoken, fearful thoughts, desires, and secrets that fill my heart and I yearn to share but stop myself, often abruptly, as I clench, glancing furtively over my shoulder, not yet sure that it is safe to do so. Let them nibble at the tips of my fingers as I sit composed, resplendent on my muted green-gold couch with the Mexican red and green throw pillows atop my heating pad, drinking in its warmth as rays of sunlight glance across the room. I sign, contented, sip the delicious coffee Tony has brewed, each day a mix of different roasted beans-vanilla and Carmel this morning- as I sink into myself. Usually thoughts come first of the past, warm and happy, and I smile as I remember John as a toddler, throwing stones beside me into the creek behind our house, laughing gleefully. Then I think of my father, gone almost two years now but still beside me as I remember the sheer delight of speeding down the ski slope after him, able even at an early age to almost keep up with him. I drift as I read a little, do a little of my Jin Shin, acupressure work on myself and then often I dissolve into tears as sad thoughts engulf me, usually as my hour of repose comes to an end, as it often takes me that long to sink into stillness, to trust that" yes, I won't disintegrate, there there will be something to access, something to connect with when the daily frenzy and security of constant motion is put to rest. " It's safe now, at last, to feel my feelings, to let them surface, uncensored, and even to write them if I so choose, so I let them nibble at the tips of my fingers.
Let them Nibble at the Tips of My Fingers -Jean Caggiano September 14, 2008
Let them nibble at the tips of my fingers, all of those unspoken, fearful thoughts, desires, and secrets that fill my heart and I yearn to share but stop myself, often abruptly, as I clench, glancing furtively over my shoulder, not yet sure that it is safe to do so. Let them nibble at the tips of my fingers as I sit composed, resplendent on my muted green-gold couch with the Mexican red and green throw pillows atop my heating pad, drinking in its warmth as rays of sunlight glance across the room. I sign, contented, sip the delicious coffee Tony has brewed, each day a mix of different roasted beans-vanilla and Carmel this morning- as I sink into myself. Usually thoughts come first of the past, warm and happy, and I smile as I remember John as a toddler, throwing stones beside me into the creek behind our house, laughing gleefully. Then I think of my father, gone almost two years now but still beside me as I remember the sheer delight of speeding down the ski slope after him, able even at an early age to almost keep up with him. I drift as I read a little, do a little of my Jin Shin, acupressure work on myself and then often I dissolve into tears as sad thoughts engulf me, usually as my hour of repose comes to an end, as it often takes me that long to sink into stillness, to trust that" yes, I won't disintegrate, there there will be something to access, something to connect with when the daily frenzy and security of constant motion is put to rest. " It's safe now, at last, to feel my feelings, to let them surface, uncensored, and even to write them if I so choose, so I let them nibble at the tips of my fingers.
Great Workshop comment
"Yesterday afternoon with the Parker Writer's Group was wonderful. Whether you have four people or forty people in your class - you get it done with ease! I know each in attendance left the library inspired and anxious to "make writing my first task" daily. I know I did!" Barbara Goldy www.WriteYourLifeStory.org class participant