Margaret C. Murray

Author of Dreamers and Sundagger.net

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  • The Poet & The Baby

    The story I’m working on is called “The Icebox”. As quickly as I write, I cross out–whole lines. The last paragraph reads: “Ice. Myself. The doubt image of constancy and playfulness twists my face in a pose of betrayal. I will come through. I must. The jealousy melts on the other side of the trick door, my coffin, my cage.”

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    Teaming up with my son: Books & Music Bundle

    Recently my eldest son and music artist Chris Goslow and I talked about putting together a special gift bundle that is truly “all in the family.” We decided to offer a book/album package at a big savings. For a limited time,  you can purchase and enjoy my books, Sundagger.net and Dreamers, along with Chris’ albums, Waterfall and I Love You . Click HERE to see more about […]

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    Dear Diary #5—Dying for Approval

    Dear Diary,   It’s beyond imagining. You would never believe it. I just received an email from my favorite high school teacher praising my novel, Dreamers. Sister Mary ___ (Alas, she hasn’t yet given me permission to use her actual name) is a nun in the Sisters of Charity religious order. She was only twenty five or so […]

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    New & Dazzling

    It was the Fall of ’96 when met Shelley Buck, author of EAST, at a school parent meeting. We parents were trying to mobilize against a formidable school district and keep our small public school program called APPLE alive. Shelley and I started talking and haven’t stopped since. Mostly, we talked about books and writing. I invited Shelley to be part of my long-time writing group, “I have boxes and boxes of photographs from my trip to the Far East that I want to turn into a book,” she might have said early on at one of our meetings. And that’s how EAST began for me, Shelley Buck’s publisher.

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    Admiration/Envy

    Marriage is not exactly on my mind when I think of Provincetown, Massachusetts, the ultimate Rave party of artist colonies by the sea. I came in on the Greyhound Bus at nineteen, my first summer away from Pittsburgh, and got a job as a waitress at the local Howard Johnson’s. The second time I set my bags down in P-town was five years later when I became a writing fellow in the acclaimed Fine Arts Writers Workshop. There were seven of us, two women and five men, the most famous, a Pulitzer Prize poet, became US Poet Laureate. It was in P-town that I began writing the novel that ended up as Dreamers.

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    Holding my violin, watching the movie

    A character can haunt you without you even knowing it, even when the story is finished, even after you’ve written it off! That’s what happened to me with Annie, the main character of my novel, Dreamers, after I saw The Late Quartet, a masterpiece of a movie with Beethoven’s Opus 131 as its main character. I too played the violin, taking lessons from 4th through 9th grade.  Though I never was part of a string quartet. . . .

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    Dear Diary #4—Remember the Fun?

    Dear Diary, Get a grip. I’m tired of reading about my incessant self-absorption of long ago. Let’s go to the California State Fair. What’s so great is I get to be one of 40+ featured authors. And I enjoy the whole damn show. Remember how I loved going to Kennywood Amusement Park in Pittsburgh? (No, I don’t even mention Kennywood in you, dear diary. That’s because it’s too much fun!) Remember screaming with excitement and delight on the Racer with Dad while the roller coaster climbed higher and higher?

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    Dear Diary #3—Once Upon a Time

    Once upon a time there was a girl who wanted to be a great writer and to do this she knew she had to go to the Underground. Nobody told her how. Nobody wanted to talk about becoming a great writer so she figured it was a secret and she had to find the keys to Queendom of Writerly Greatness for herself. Arming herself with a bunch of famous books, she set out right after high school . . .

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    Dear Diary #2—Sour Grapes

    You’re a work of my teenage literary angst, a time where I was in free fall, a teenager with a bad case of sour grapes who rejected love the more she wanted it, who wouldn’t be caught dead writing the commonplace salutation, ‘Dear Diary’. There’s a reason you’ve been buried for fifty years in assorted cardboard boxes stacked in dark closets and damp garages, moved from my hometown of Pittsburgh, PA to all the places I’ve lived. Yet now every day when I start to write I hold . ..

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    Dear Diary

    It was June 9th, 1962 when I began writing in you, dear diary. I had a new bright yellow Easyrite notebook with all the pages blank. “BITCH BITCH BITCH,” I wrote. I’m sorry to admit that my mother was the object of my fury. Why was I so angry with her? That June day I was furious because my mother had “banned” yet another of my precious books. But “BITCH BITCH BITCH” may be the only really compelling line in the whole diary. I don’t know because the truth is I can only bear to read a little at a time. Dear diary, I confess . . .

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