Main Street Writers Share

Members Share…

Several workshop members have been kind enough to share their work.  If you’d like to share something you’ve written, you can post it in the Comments Box, below… or email it to me at:

Thanks – and enjoy…


10 Steps to Becoming a Better Writer

  • Author: Peter Roarke
  1. Write.
  2. Write more.
  3. Write even more.
  4. Write even more than that.
  5. Write when you don’t want to.
  6. Write when you do.
  7. Write when you have something to say.
  8. Write when you don’t.
  9. Write every day.
  10. Keep writing.



Bird Sounds

  • Author: Karen Buchinsky

That Carolina Wren must have seen me looking for him. He keeps hollering, “Teakettle teakettle teakettle!” but when I go out to find him, he stops. I never get to hear them close up at my house, I don’t know why. I’ve seen winter wrens there. I get forest birds and lots of warblers. Most of them don’t mind you looking so much, but every time I try to see that Carolina Wren he stops singing and hides.

Mort's Wildlife Photography

I was surprised the first time I went birding with a group, to see how much yakking goes on. Pile into someone’s car, drive a little ways, and then we stop and all get out, listening, tilting our heads, and looking around, binoculars as an appendage. “Hear that? A Black-and-white Warbler,” someone says. “Goldfinch over there,” says another. You’ve no idea how many goldfinches there are in this world, until you learn their voice. New England is lousy with them. Perchickoree! they shout when they’re flying. I think it means something like, Geronimo! or Look at me, I’m flying! because they don’t say it when they’re just sitting around or looking for a mate. They have a question they’re often asking, the voice goes up and there’s always a question mark after it. Kerwee? But I don’t know what it is they want to know.

Teakettle teakettle teakettle teakettle! There’s that wren again. I swear, all I have to do is look out the window and he stops.  More…


  • Author: Cynthia Coffin

When I need to remember to trust
I look at trees.
Winter trees, reaching for the sky
with all arms open
wide enough to embrace
all the world
good, bad, and ugly.
And I look at the way the sun
blesses them with color
that winter tree color
that is all colors at once
gold and red and orange
and dusky purple.
I think how the acorn trusts
to grow where it falls
and how it feeds
on sun and rain and mineral
as though there were something
that loves all trees
and they know it.
You don’t see trees pulling up their roots
and walking across the street
to elbow other trees out of the way
all the while broadcasting
to anyone who will listen
why this is okay
and indeed
why it would be a dereliction
of its duty as a tree
not to kick the ass
of those other lazy scheming
undeserving trees.
You don’t see that.
You see them stand quiet
sending strong roots burrowing
down into the goodness of loam
and clay and glacial remains.
You see how their roots all come
back to one trunk, you see
how one trunk becomes many again
as it climbs into the air
fingers growing more numerous
and more slender
until each of its legion tendrils
is the perfect size to hold
one tiny leaf
come spring.
In the meantime they wait
the trees
their perfect arcs across the sky
the most trusting
and trustworthy
things I know.

The Creative Process

  • Author: Don Fisher

I can’t draw a decent stick man
he mocks me
my not well-drawn man
wiggles his non-existent hips at me
taunts me
but he’s only made of sticks.

I point this out to him
he reminds me
that I created him.
I’m his trickster god
“You made me this way”
he wails
shakes his thin arms at me
weeping a puddle of tears
that collect at his feet.

To make him feel better
I give him a boxy car
with not quite round wheels
bumping along a road.
With a slash of my pen
I give him birds above
half of a yellow sun
peeking from one corner of the page
a small house
with smoke curling from a chimney.

He’s happy now
so easily pleased.
If he gets down again
I will destroy him and his world.
I like being a trickster god.
Having some control over something
even if it is a simple stick man
and his simple stick existence.

“I love your work,” he says to me.
“I love you.”
He dances a happy jig
from one side of the page
to the other.
It doesn’t matter to him that he’s crudely drawn.
He is something.



  1. […] You can read more of Peter’s writing, as well as work by other Main Street Writers’ here – enjoy! adf adf aff GA_googleAddAttr("AdOpt", "1"); GA_googleAddAttr("Origin", "other"); […]

  2. […] alsdkfj You can read more of Peter’s writing, as well as work by other Main Street Writers here – enjoy! adf adf aff Share this:EmailPrintLinkedInPinterestStumbleUponDiggFacebookLike […]

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