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The Eggs


I adore eggs — I eat them, I collect them. I love what they symbolize — new beginnings. And every now and then I'll open a book or a drawer and an egg will be there. Not the chicken variety — the small ones I've cut out of paper and written on when I was stuck.

I want to be a writer, but it's not happening.

My daughter's stomach keeps hurting. What do we do?

I am so angry at (fill in the blank)…

Then I tuck that egg away as a prayer, as a hope for things to be made right. I'd read of this small way to deal with concerns and anxieties years ago. What is so wonderful about finding an old egg, is that it doesn't stink at all — time after time I've smiled and seen how the problem was resolved. 

It is not possible to finish this book!!!!!!!!!

Sure it is. My 12th novel, TELL ME, just came out this fall.  May we find the eggs we've tucked away and remember how far we've come.

One response to “The Eggs

  1. Joan, your blog reminds me of all the associations that I have had with eggs, particularly the image of broken shells with runny yolks seeping over the sides of the jagged white edges. Then there’s the littke matter of cholesterol. Maybe that’s why I haven’t had a particular fondness for eggs. But your images make me think…why focus on broken eggshells that, like Humpty Dumpy, can’t be put back together again when I can see instead the miacle of a little egg that has so much life to it and within it? I like your images instead of mine, and am “officially” adopting them.

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