By Nancy Peacock
For the twice-published novelist, analyzing an editorial approximately herself within the National Enquirer—under the headline "Here's One for the Books: cleansing woman Is an Acclaimed Author"—was greater than a surprise. It was once an suggestion.
In A Broom of One's Own, Nancy Peacock, whose first novel used to be chosen through the New York Times as a impressive e-book of the 12 months, explores with heat, wit, and candor what it capability to be a author. An encouragement to all hard-working artists, irrespective of how they make a dwelling, Peacock's booklet offers helpful insights and suggestion on motivation, craft, and feedback whereas providing hilarious anecdotes in regards to the homes she cleans.
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Extra info for A Broom of One's Own: Words on Writing, Housecleaning, and Life
He laughs and says he's sorry and we read the rest of them together, silently. They're taking me to surgery. This big bed can fit inside this elevator. But why are we going up? The operating room is down. We're up on the roof now, where the helicopter lands. I remember what it was like up here, flying. I remember the wind. Now we're going back down to surgery. We got lost. Mom and Dad are holding my hands. I can't talk because the tubes are still in from the surgery, but they ask me how I am and I say, I hurt, with the message board.
They said I'll have at least ten before I'm done. Today is the day that Tina and I will eat Ben & Jerry's together. Mom and Dad are here too, but they're not going to have any. Tina brings her favorite flavors—Heath Bar Crunch, Cherry Garcia, and New York Super Fudge Chunk. She pushes a button so the bed makes me sit up a little bit and gives me a spoonful of Heath Bar Crunch. Oh God, that's good. I forgot how good ice cream was. I'm feeling a little dizzy, but I ask Tina for another bite, this time New York Super Fudge Chunk.
My brother is playing basketball outside the house when I get home. He's shooting free throws. I rebound the ball for him and throw it back. I don't want to take any shots. I tell him the whole story, about what I did and what they're going to do to me. I don't tell him what I'm going to do to myself. When I'm done talking, he says, “That sucks,” and I go inside the house. I don't have to write a note anymore. Craig knows everything. I walk out to the shed to get the gas can. I bring it inside to the bathroom at the top of the stairs because that's the room with the most locks.
A Broom of One's Own: Words on Writing, Housecleaning, and Life by Nancy Peacock