I feel like it's an experience I have all the time, that I'm trying to grasp at something that I can't quite describe. I feel like Maine is that way very much. This is Daring to Tell, the podcast where writers read their true stories of personal daring, then we talk about writing and life, I am Michelle Radow. Ineffable in the Oxford English Dictionary is defined as "too great or extreme to be expressed in words" and in the American Heritage Dictionary of Indo-European Roots, ineffable is "to speak". How is that for a conundrum of a word? Today, my whole episode is one giant step of bravery for me. The idea of starting a sub-stack has been on my mind since last year. I love the idea of it, and mostly what I am keen on is making a commitment to my writing. I will also confess I don't have a new book to discuss today, I am behind on my reading, I do have a few memoirs I am working on, and that I really want to share with you, but I am just not there yet. I will proudly repeat what I said on my last bonus episode that I have put out my third, yes my third audiobook production, a hard silence, one daughter remaps family, grief, and faith when HIV/AIDS changes it all, narrated by its author, Melanie Brooks, now available from pretty much anywhere you find audiobooks, my first two productions are, and always one more time, a memoir, narrated by its author, Margaret Mandel, and also Sushi Tuesdays, a memoir of love, loss, and family resilience, read by its author, Charlotte Maya. I am so proud of all of these books, and so if you love audiobooks, I really hope you will check one or certainly all of them out, you can hear a sample from each one of them at my website, michellerado.com. That is a decent part of what my year so far has been about audiobook production that is, and why today I am offering some low-hanging fruit of an episode which is to say something by me. The reason that Substack has been on my mind for an entire year is because July is the month when Phil and I moved from Boston to Maine. As each subsequent year has ticked by, something has tugged at the back of my mind. I have missed a little practice that I began shortly before we moved, and that was sending out a private newsletter observing our time here in the Pine Tree State. Last year I thought about starting it up again, and I have kicked it down the road for a full year until now, it is July yet again, and the tug inside of me still pulls. It says something like, "You're not putting down what's happening. You will forget your life if you don't write it down. Remember your newsletter? That was a good practice." So here I am, and for this little declaration, I wanted to invite someone to have a conversation with me who I know understands the magical pull of Maine, and that is my dear friend Nancy Schnog. She is a writer whom I've mentioned a few times on this podcast for the connections that she has brought me. She has so much kismet about her because it was she who stumbled across another writer in Maine, Eliza Walton, who I spoke with about her very brave and beautiful book, The Colors I Saw, which was about her experience of having rectal cancer, a topic which was very close to my own gut-wrench journey. Nancy also met the writer Nina Lichtenstein when they were both in Tel Aviv, only to discover Nina also lives in Maine. You heard Nina read from an essay she has in the anthology called Awakenings, Stories of Body and Consciousness, and we also spoke with the editor of that anthology Diane Gottlieb. Nancy has been published in The Washington Post, The Baltimore Sun, Oprah Daily, and AARP. She has a great piece that was just published at Writers Digest titled Keep, Burn, Curate, Or Donate, What to Do with Your Old Journeys, so that might be of interest to many of you, perhaps. It is such a great article and I will link to it in the show notes. I also learned something new about her from her bio for that piece. She's co-editor of Inventing the Psychological Toward a Cultural History of Emotional Life in America. That sounds fascinating. I will certainly have to ask her more about that. So please welcome the writer and my dear friend and our guest host today, Nancy Schnog. Thank you so much, Michelle. I feel so honored to be in your studio and to have this opportunity to listen to you read. Oh, thank you so much. I'm so happy to have you here and so you are in charge. You get to ask all the questions. I'm in your hands. Okay, take it away, Nancy. Well, first of all, it's wonderful to be the guest host of Daring to Tell. I never really thought that I would find myself in this position, but as Michelle's sub-stack newsletter is going to help us all understand we want to walk down the roads toward those ends which we don't quite know. We want to leave a space open for the mysterious and the ineffable. So, Michelle, tell us a little bit. I have a little bit of background information, but why don't you tell our church listeners about what they can anticipate in the next 15, 20 minutes? Sure. So normally, I think that's a lawnmower in the background. What can we expect? You know, usually I talk with writers about their memoir or their personal essays, but every now and then I think maybe I'll share something that I wrote and I have been toying with the idea of sub-stack for a while. So the background, when I write, it takes me a long time to come around to what it is I'm really trying to say. I was trying to write about life in Maine because a commonality that we have is that we now are living in Maine which is a place that we both very much sort of dreamed about coming to for so long and sometimes I wonder why and I even wonder like when did I start dreaming about that and what does that mean and how did that happen and like why did I end up here? There's so many different aspects of that and there's this story of how I got here which I explain it again and again and the logistics are once Phil and I, my husband Phil and I moved here, I wanted to explain it and so I wanted to tell everybody how different it was. I don't know who everybody was. Well, we'll hear more about that but I really thought, okay, what was different this week and I would sit down and write things about it. I've missed doing that because it was a practice and one of the things about writing is that it is a discipline and I find that there's kind of two types of writing. There's when the muse strikes and you go, oh, oh, I have to get something down about that and then there's when the muse doesn't strike and maybe you just sit down and write anyways or maybe you don't sit down and write but I do find that it's better to do something and have no idea what it is than to not do anything and wait for something to happen. So that's a little bit about how this story came to be and I was writing more about my experience about living here and I thought, what is the story I'm trying to tell? Is it about actually living it here or is it about how I tell the story about living here? Does that make sense? It does and where I went in my mind listening to you was to also expand out for listeners because what you're really talking about is the connections between a sense of place, a heightened sense of belonging and a restored or rejuvenated sense of creativity and that's such a powerful confluence of forces and certainly when I have felt myself and I wondered if you could expand a little bit pre-you're reading on why Maine? Why do you think, I mean, you came from the city from Boston, you've been in New England but can you evoke for your audience, what are the words that connect to Maine or what is it here that has created that sense of belonging that has led to this creative uplift that has led you both to work on a full-fledged memoir and start daring to tell and now beginning a sub-step. I think a lot of listeners will say, "Wow, that's a lot of inspiration that has been realized during your time." So what is it? Why Maine? What's happening here? What's in the atmosphere? What's the elixir? That is the question, well, back to you. I have such trouble because it feels too simplistic or almost like a cop-out to say there's something in the air, like the air breathes differently up here. It just does. I feel like there's lots of places you can go to the shore and smell the salty ocean air. There's probably lots of places you can go and smell pine trees, but there's something about here. Phil and I, when we lived in Boston for a long time, we would come just to Kittery, which as many people may know, is right over the border. So we would cross the Piscatacua River Bridge, which is the bridge Nancy and I talk about all the time. All right, I'm north of the Piscatacua again. We would be like, "Okay, we're going up. We're going to just get a hit of the white pines and then we're going to go back home." Phil would always get one of those little, we call them Sacapine. I don't know what their real name is. We bring that home and when we were not in Maine, we'd be like, "Oh, smell the pine trees." This is also another funny observation, but for someone who spent a lot of time driving back and forth between Massachusetts, New York and Maine, when we do trips to New York, it's like the highways are wide and there's all this space and then you get to New Hampshire and the road is different. And then you get to Massachusetts and I feel like you get a lot more potholes coming from Massachusetts. It's fair for me to say this, you get potholes, the lanes narrow, you get more cars, you get a lot more exits on the highway, then you go through Connecticut, you get another sort of open vista and then you come to New York and it gets skinnier and skinnier and tighter and tighter and denser and denser and becoming the other way, we go, there's just this sense of openness, open sky, open road, you can breathe more. There's enough space. I just feel like there's enough space for everybody. I'm making really broad sweeping comments here, but yeah, north of the Piscatacore. North of the Piscatacore Bridge, I see. Yeah. Well, is it time for you to... Yeah, maybe I should just read. I think so. Let's explain. Let's move to your essay because it will bridge naturally, pun intended on the bridge. Bridge naturally to all the things you've just said about your life here in the pine tree state. All right. So I don't even necessarily have a title for this, but here it is. Do you ever find yourself repeating a story, a story that's pivotal to the core of you, or perhaps to the you of you at this moment in time, a story which your life makes no sense without. This is one of those stories, a story that's been on repeat for four years, four orbits around the sun, the same, yet not at all the same. One groove over on each rotation is its own new experience, like a record slowly playing towards its hub. Versions of this story find their way into unexpected conversations or as complicated answers to simple questions. Why did you move here? What do you do? Today it's arriving in the form of the origin story of a newsletter. It doesn't sound all that scintillating does it, but stick with me. There's a point usually takes me a little bit to get there, but I will. Four years ago now, my husband, Phil and I moved to Maine. The pandemic was completely incidental. For at least 18 months, we'd been planning to leave our careers in radio at the end of June of 2020, knowing we wanted to move north, we'd found a home in Maine in 2019 that happened to have tenants who were excited to be able to keep renting for another year. A giant premise for a major life change, dormant, waiting, a new life in a new place. I wasn't exactly sure what would follow, but I knew writing would be part of it. I had things to say about my life, about an uncommon childhood raised as a Christian scientist, about a lucky scare with gut surgery followed by a rocky recovery, about my endeavor to recognize and then articulate feelings I had been afraid to think, let alone speak of. You participated in the setting for this story we all did in March of 2020, the world shut down. Our workplace told us that out of an abundance of caution, remember that one? We'd need to work from home for two weeks, two weeks? That's insane, I thought. That's like a wicked long vacation. Never did I imagine that I would not return to work from the public radio station I had started working at in 1987 at the age of 19 as a Northeastern University co-op student. In all my years there, I had attended going away parties for people who moved on to other jobs, other places, other careers. Not me, I stayed, and stayed, and stayed. I couldn't imagine how or when I would ever leave. I also had a terrible time imagining my own going away party based on all the ones I had attended, the job equivalent of attending your own funeral. But I was spared that overwhelming circumstance and instead got what was the first Zoom Goodbye Party of our workplace. Phil worked there with me too, his was the second. A pivotal character who I can't tell this story without is Nadine Kenny Johnstone, a memoirist and writing teacher I had signed up to take a writing class with, then I'd had to drop out before it even began, so we never met. That didn't stop the universe from putting us together though. I still ended up on her mailing list and when she announced she was going to be starting up work as a writing coach, I thought that's exactly what I need, someone to help me and only me as I work through pages of what my story might be. So let that be a lesson to you. Even missed connections can make leaps through a void, kismet. I also signed up to attend a writing retreat she was planning for July of 2020, which of course got cancelled. Instead, she corralled those of us who had been planning on attending to participate in a 12 week class about the work of building one's platform as a writer. Platform as a writer, I didn't even have a shitty first draft and I was supposed to start audience building, it seemed extremely premature, but the class was on Zoom and it would be with other writers who were at various stages of working toward the same goal. And being part of this class would bridge this unimaginable transition I was headed toward, a departure from my decades long career in public radio and leaping into what I literally imagined myself running full tilt towards a cliff and leaping somewhere. Here I did not know, but I did know the direction, north. I said sure, sign me up, good mojo. Later, one of the other writers in the class said something I jotted down on a post-it that I still look at to this day. If you don't let go, you can't land, take the leap. The class was packed with all kinds of audience building ideas and endeavors. One of the first ones we discussed was a newsletter. This felt like the ideal step into the unknown. I was moving into a new life, I wanted to write, I had dear colleagues I'd be leaving as well as friends, acquaintances, connections that knew Phil and I would be moving. It was a way to ease the transition, from city mouse to country mouse, a way to retain connections when connections were so strained. I've loved books where the writer documents my year of X, and also as a person with a bad memory who journals to remember her own life, it felt all the more urgent to write down, codify, remember, make note of this time, our year of moving to Maine. I called it starting again, a weekly missive to a closed and close group of friends. Thank you, Nadine. From our final days in Boston to our arrival on the mid-coast of Maine, for an entire year, I sat at the end of our red couch with my laptop on a pillow and my coffee at my right hand and typed out my thoughts. Thoughts of what the week had been like, mulled over my own musings in such a different place than where I'd lived all my life in the big city. I allowed my mind to wander as I moved in and out of chores like raking and mowing and shoveling snow, tending to this 200 year old farmhouse with a barn and more yard than I ever thought possible. For a bug phobic city girl, I shocked myself at my reactions and growing devotion to this place. And each week I tried my best to get those feelings down and share them in that newsletter. I really was starting again. Another item from the platform building list of Nadine's class was start a podcast. Hmm, I certainly knew more than a thing or two about audio. Why hadn't this idea occurred to me from the start? So in January of 2021, I launched a podcast, yes, this one, Daring to Tell. I was immersing myself in the world of memoir writing. I was in a class filled with memoirists and aspiring memoirists. I could ask them the questions I myself was facing. How did you get to be so brave? How did you find the courage to write about the things that scared you to reveal? To write is brave. To write memoir, dauntless, resolute, intrepid, audacious, daring. One more chismet, someone else wanted to start a podcast, Nadine. She wondered aloud to me one day about how she might do that. Well, I am an audio producer, I reminded her. She asked me if I'd work with her and my answer was yes. She hatched Heart of the Story and that launched on Valentine's Day of 2021. Yes, podcasts are another direction I have spiraled out from this big bang of a move we made in 2020, but my point, which I have promised you before I diverged too far, is a newsletter. When some are rolled around again, landing me at the one-year mark, I stopped writing, starting again. I also thought that Daring to Tell needed its own newsletter, so I began channeling my energies into that. Phil and I toasted my year of newsletters, our inaugural year, at what we call Flying Pig Farm. Arriving at the finish line I myself had set, I cast off my habit of sitting at the end of the Red Couch on a Friday morning. I still sat there, I still wrote, but the mojo of my sacred, weekly, early morning ritual on the corner of the Red Couch was gone. I missed the dedication of that time, a self-imposed deadline to hit Send. To push something out, ready or not, messy or small. Not even that, so much as the time before the time on the couch, when I was tuning in to moments in my day that catch my interest. Do I have more to say about that? Or that? In the meantime, substack has become the latest it thing. As one of my writer friends pointed out to me recently, first it was medium, now it's unstack, will it last, I don't know, but what the heck, substack will be the wall I am tossing my hat over at the moment, a new reason to get my mojo back, to sit on the Red Couch and ready or not, push things out I've been thinking about 5 years in at Flying Pig Farm. I don't know exactly what this newsletter will be yet, I don't want to erect rules from my past to guide my future, but I felt as if that earlier one had gifted me with a process to pursue the ineffable. That's what I regret giving up, what I've missed. The time and space of the habit I had already built. Part of what I've learned over the past four years is that the lessons from one year are often not tidally applicable to the next. Then do we look to the past for guidance, when do we heed the current conditions to guide our steps? I want to give myself enough rain to let this be what it needs to be, but I liked the freedom of following my interest, and I'll say somewhat surprisingly, quite a few folks really seem to like it, so maybe you will too. Honestly, I am still toying with what to call it, 5 years in, the ineffable newsletter, details from Flying Pig Farm, so that's my story of a newsletter in my pronouncement that beginning this month, July 2024, 5 years in at Flying Pig Farm, the place where Phil Rado and I grow creativity, I will be starting weekly, sub-stack newsletter. I hope you'll read it, I hope you'll enjoy it. As always, thanks for making it all the way to the end, XOXO, Michelle. Thank you, thank you, congratulations, thank you, thank you for listening. Always, and it's incredibly exciting to quote the title of your first newsletter to be starting again. Actually, that's funny, I know, isn't it? It's like we're always starting again in different ways. Yes, and I think that the title and your reading brings me back to something you brought up at the beginning of our discussion where you talked about that either dyadic situation or the conundrum or perhaps it's a character type of those of us who seem to move in a disciplined way versus those of us who might sit and follow and muse, and I think this is maybe a good time for you to talk to us about how your sub-stack contemplations, even if you haven't defined a theme at this juncture or maybe it's going to be defined through the process, but how are you thinking about that entanglement of discipline and muse? Yeah, discipline and muse, I guess I do find that the muse will respect discipline, you know? It's sort of like, if you decide you're going to do it, if you decide you're going to sit down every Friday morning on the couch, like I don't know why it was a Friday morning, I think it was because it was the end of the week and I had been spending a lot of time thinking about my week and I really did it was something that would always be percolating in the back of my mind, like what am I going to write about this week? What is a thing that has stuck somehow in my brain? And there's a few people who know some of those topics which include, oh gosh, as I look over nervously at the window, bugs, I am so, you've been with me when I've had a little bug freak out. Remember we were walking in with Casset and it was, I think it was early May and those flies were everywhere and you had a hat and I didn't and we went walking and you were like, let's walk through this field, I remember thinking, oh, I don't know, all right, let's go and then it was like buzz, buzz, buzz and I was like, oh, there's a lot of flies and you were like, would you like my hat? I don't remember, I'm sorry, I don't think I have other phobias but maybe not so much the bugs. Well, you offered me your hat and that was so kind and I took it too. Yeah, so bugs are something that always catch my attention and the discipline and the muse. Yeah, and so it's like, okay, why am I so afraid of bugs? And if I had a freak out about a bug this week, I'll sit down and start writing about it and then usually once you do sort of latch on to something, something comes from it, you know, because there's a reason that it's stuck in your attention, I think. Yes, yes, let me pick up on that, kind of pull the thread a little tighter in your essay you write about the memoir genre in particular as demanding bravery and courage as certainly it demands bravery and courage to sit down and start to write and revise and or start a podcast and or start a sub stack newsletter. And I wonder where that bravery and courage comes from. I think a lot of us, you know, have dreams myself. I just want to get my acoustic guitar fixed and I said to the guy at the music center, I've been a beginner for 40 years, so don't worry too much about, you know, fixing up this guitar. Probably be a beginner 10 years from now, but you are modeling, growing and moving forward and starting a new project that will demand consistency, discipline and delivering on your commitment. So where does that come from, Michelle? That one I think is almost like exposure therapy, you know, if you don't sit down and do that thing again and again, I tend to be an incremental, I take baby steps for things. So I put a toe in the water for something that has scared me to think about or to say if you just keep doing it, I think it helps you decide. Because I think for memoir writing, so much of it is the decision of what makes sense to say about myself, about my life. And it's one thing to think about it for oneself in the closed environment. And it's another thing to put it out in the world. It really is. And so for me, it has been the courage and it's been part of the whole podcast because I talk with memoir writers and I ask this question all the time. I mean that to me is like what was most daring about this for you? And I think that it is deciding where that line is and when it makes sense. So in the space between doing and being and if writing is trying to find words for being, it's really boots on the ground, you need to be doing the writing, doing the revising and get out of that ideation of, oh, I think I'll be a memoir writer. So you're really, it sounds to me like you really have made a case today for the discipline involved in writerly labors and that if you're not sitting down at the desk doing it, you just will not get to your destination. Right. Right. And I do think that also for me, it's been the permission to think a thing first. It's really been, you know, I don't know how much people know about Christian science upbringing, but that's the part that has really, there was a lot of rules for how to think about things and allowing myself the permission to stop using the rules. I think that was a little bit of what I was trying to work myself to. It's an odd combination of like, yes, the discipline isn't sitting down and doing it and typing out something and seeing what will arrive along with the permission to not send it, you know, but there, you have to also decide if I'm going to send it, well, what do I, what am I willing to say today? And that's also the other part of it is like, what am I going to do today? And if we don't make a decision for today, if we kick that down the road, then it's easy to kick the whole thing down the road as opposed to, you know what, today, I can say this very in the moment, yeah, kind of Buddhist oriented, capturing, capturing the moment. Yeah. And in the present, yeah, I have been, I've been doing a good amount of meditation in the past year and, oh, so many things. Well, we haven't been writing them down. So that's why I'm like, wait, what have I been doing if I don't write them down? Exactly. I have to have one other question. It might be rumbling around in the minds of some of our listeners as memorized writers. We are always reminded to be thinking about the personal story as a universal story. We can never forget that linkage. We don't want our writing just to be narcissistic or to be fueled only by our own neurotic kind of compulsions. So I just wonder, I think it's interesting, I think you are doing some post-Christian science rule breaking by saying, I'm going to just let the themes emerge, I'm not going to plan them before, and I wonder if you could maybe think us through how you as a writer feel out that relationship between the personal and the universal. How will you know, is it something that even matters in a sub-stack newsletter or is this a bigger issue? I think here, just to rephrase, when you talked about writing every Friday, I was thinking about diary writing and journals. You sit down and you write what's happening in the moment. So do you see your new undertaking more as a wing of journal keeping or as a wing of memoir writing, or perhaps some hybrid? I do think it's probably a little more on the journal side because it is a little contemplative about what's happening. I don't ever remember things. So I really like the practice, again, I go back to the practice, like a practice of sitting down to do a thing, because then also I remember, it's like, oh yeah, this was a thing I talked about before, what else do I have to say about that? And actually the way that it relates to unique versus universal, that's such an interesting question. And I don't think I ever think about it, but what I've heard other people say is the more specific one is, the more unique something is, the more universal it ends up being. And it's one of those funny little conundrums because I think that this is how I interact with other writing when I read it, which is I can see the space between what that writer is saying and what my experience is. This is related to memoir or even this is the other big thing we could spend a lot more time talking about is the creative process, you know, so what does move us to understand our creative process versus someone else's? And when I hear someone else's, it helps me understand my own. So it's like the unique and the universal are somehow intertwined, interesting through the creative searching and that brings me to my final question, you use the word with me before ineffable seems like a key word for you. For me, ineffable has a connotation, a little bit of the divine, something that you can't quite know, the mystery, the things, the unknowingness of things, things you can't grasp. And yet in writing, we are always searching to grasp the writing processes, always bringing us hopefully toward it more knowledge or enlightenment. So just to thread back to the beginning, could you just talk to us about that connection between Michelle Rado, the writer, Maine and the ineffable, which seemed to be the seeds of your new enterprise. Exactly. Yeah. Oh, thank you for asking that one because that word, that's a word that has resurfaced for me again and again. I don't even know when it first kind of popped into my consciousness. I feel like I didn't even read it anywhere. This sounds maybe a little too woo woo, but I feel like I woke up one day and that word was in my head. How have you used that word in the past and what context or not much, you know, it's not a word that you'll kind of default word you might bring up and it's not interesting. It's not, but I feel like it's an experience I have all the time that I'm trying to grasp at something that I can't quite describe. I feel like Maine is that way very much. And I struggle with the concept of the word that you bring up, the divine because there's a religious connotation with that versus what I much more comfortably refer to as the universe that you and I have talked about this before and the kismet, you know, like I certainly feel like I've been well immersed into experiences they don't always understand and I accept them as that. But when we're trying to write something, how do you put that down? And that's why that word I think I looked it up and I thought, oh, that's exactly it's like the word itself is an oxymoron it's like a word for something you can't say, you know? And so I just loved that and I remember writing it down on a piece of paper and then I didn't think about it again for a really long time. But here it is again. Here it is. It's what came up for me listening to you is something I've often thought about how in the 21st century, we have woken up to a data driven world. Everything is concrete and empirical and knowledge that can be backed up by evidence and something that I find inspiring about what you're doing is it is a cultural counter to that. Let's privilege with the things we don't know, we can't know, we search to understand. And I just look forward to remind me of the old days when people cared about things like Sigmund Freud and the unconscious and, you know, young in psychology where we immersed ourselves really in the ineffable. And here you are bringing that back into a kind of cultural prominence and I think that's a wonderful, that's something that we can all benefit because at the end of the day there isn't a study that answers everything. That is, I'll let it stand with that. Okay. All right. Thank you so much. It was a total pleasure and I look forward to more daring to tell and your sub stack and anything else our friendship brings us to. Oh, wow. That really kind of blew me away at the end there, made me feel like I'm really doing something quite significant. That's an interesting thought. I sure hope so. But at the same time, I feel like all I can do is tune into myself and see what it is that's in there that I have to say. And I do hope it's something that may be of interest to you. Of course, my big takeaway here is that I hope that you will check out my free sub stack newsletter that I will be starting. I have decided I'm just going to call it ineffable since that's really what I'm always in pursuit of. Maybe I'll have a subtitle since that is always handy to provide a little more context, but I think it shall be ineffable five years on the main coast at flying pig farm or something to that effect. I will put a link in the show notes. Since the timing is good on this, I would also like to let you know that on Tuesday, July 9th, Nadine Kenny Johnstone, whom you heard so much about in this episode, is going to be offering a two and a half hour workshop with Melanie Brooks. I am so pleased to have been able to put those two extraordinary writers together, extraordinary writers and extraordinary writing teachers. The workshop they're leading is going to be called writing hard stories, apropos of Melanie's new memoir that is out. So maybe there will be some chismet they're waiting for you in that class if that's something that you are working on. Please please please hit that little arrow at the top of your app to follow this podcast, so it will pop into your feed on the first Tuesday of every month when I push it out. If you like it, tell a friend. And one thing I've noticed, I get a little bit of data about the listening of my podcast and it's not like I get a huge drill down on you or any kind of thing like that, but I do get info about where people are listening and an interesting place that has popped up as of late is Cupertino, California. So a shout out to you if you happen to be listening in Cupertino, which of course is the famous home of Apple, so I will just say if you work for Apple and have any sway with anyone looking for podcasts to feature on Apple podcasts, well, heck, I hope that you would give my little 100% indie effort here a consideration. If not, well, you can always write a review and I would of course love that as well. You have made it to the end of another daring to tell. One more thanks to our guest host, Nancy Schnog, my main and writing sister who I am so happy is North of the Pascadicoa with me. Thank you to my wonderful musician, husband Phil Rado for all the music that you hear on this podcast, including this song, which I think is especially appropriate. This one's probably in my top five, so real sky, I hope you'll enjoy that. First of all, my thanks go to you for daring to listen, I will catch you again next month. It isn't hidden in the seascape, it's not about the state we're in, it's almost like a secret, it's a real sky, we've found a real sky. There was nothing on the mountain, or any valley we've been in. Some has come around again with a real sky, we found a real sky. I felt the wind blow from all directions now, I felt the fog grow from east to west. I've been a sailboat on the ocean, and the wind made blowing me a different way towards home. It has nothing to do with heaven, nothing to do with brighting wrongs, where the sky is fury with a real sky, we've found a real sky. There's nothing on the pages, all the books that line the shelf. There are no hidden beings in a real sky, and we've found a real sky. I felt the wind blow from all directions now, I felt the fog grow from east to west, and I've been a sailboat on the ocean, and the wind made blowing me a different way towards home. It isn't hidden in a seascape, it's not about the state we're in, it's almost like a secret it's a real sky, we found a real sky, we found a real sky. [Music]
