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Diana Raab's Writings

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Article
Jan.30.2012
The Huffington Post
  Since the age of ten, when my mother gave me my first journal to help me cope with the loss of my grandmother, you can say I have been addicted to writing. You might think of having an addiction as something to be treated, and in some cases it might well be. However, the only possible negative connotation about being addicted to writing is that sometimes...
Article
Jan.30.2012
The Huffington Post
  When I was in grade school I wanted to be a writer and one of the first things my English teacher told me was that to be a good writer you must be a good reader. Since that day, I have been a lover of books and have some ever-lasting visual memories of my mother taking me to the library and coming home with a stack of books piled all the way up to my chin...
Article
Nov.16.2011
Huffington Post
  Over the years I have oscillated back and forth on a spiritual continuum. After much contemplation I have come to the conclusion that I am spiritual person, but not religious. My spiritual journey began at the age of ten, when my mother gave me a red leather journal with Khalil Gibran sayings on the top of each page. "Write down your feelings," she told me...
Article
Feb.19.2010
The Writer
How a memoir writer struggled with the challenge of a dual story line. 
Article
Jan.26.2010
Boom Underground
Article
Jan.26.2010
Survivor's Review
Poem
How We Worry.jpeg
Jan.04.2010
Lucidity
 HOW WE WORRY  Writers worry about stories Salesmen worry about selling Bus drivers worry about stopping Kids worry about homework Maids worry about dust   Musicians worry about tunes Dogs worry about their owner’s whereabouts Cats worry about his next bowl of milk Birds worry about nests Grandma worries about grandchildren   Growers worry about rain Taxi drivers...
Poem
Jan.04.2010
The Smoking Poet
What floats through my mind now drifted through it one day in sixth  grade and it was nothing more than kisses spread upon an empty willow tree spreading it’s dry roots into the horizon searching for any sunlight or wisdom enabling the seed wanting to grow inside of her.   It’s possible to believe the nourishing which happened when our eyes linked on the...
Poem
Jan.04.2010
The Smoking Poet
Early this morning on the beach frequented by wandering canines,   joggers and hungry seagulls, fifty feet from the crashing waves,   round and untouched on the ivory sand were three whole watermelons,   one-hundred feet apart. My dog and I wonder   from where came these titanic fruits so out of place, so bizarre,   so begging to be...
Jan.04.2010
Chickenpinata. The Bridge Issue.
  She sits at dinner proud and sure   of a life she never owned, and then   in response to the horizon as if someone had painted it   just for her, she rises, wraps her black shawl   around her bare shoulders, tiptoes down the stairs   to the beach where she can be alone and watch the moon   meet the ocean,  only to rise one...