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		Excerpts from The Pen Is Mightier Than the Broom: Preface Come inside these pages and meet the women of Stromboli Streghe, who proclaim, “The pen is mightier than the broom”; and find out what that statement means. More than 10 years ago, in 1994, a half-dozen women in a workshop led by Joe Mancini at the Writer’s Center in Bethesda, Maryland, decided to meet on their own when the workshop ended. ... [W]e quickly began to see tangible results from the critique-and-revision formula we developed. We held our collective breath after essay submissions went into the mail. Then we celebrated with giddy excitement . . . when our writings appeared in the Washington Post, Christian Science Monitor, and Common Boundary Magazine, and in such literary journals as Potomac Review, Iris, The Sun, and WordWrights!  Each submitted work was a cosseted offspring of the group, and each accepted piece was pride and joy for us all. . . .  We needed a name for the group: Of course, it would include “Stromboli,” for our meeting place, but then what? The “Streghe”―Italian for “witches”―were born after just a brief labor. . . . We thought of ourselves as “word witches,” using the wizardry that grew out of group chemistry to transform ideas into powerful prose. . . . Many of these works have been published; some have not yet found their niche in the wider world. But even if we haven’t touched you with a Streghe spell, it’s likely you’ll find something here to enjoy.                                                                                      -- Barbara Shine, Editor Forced Watch Mom’s fingers have forgotten the piano keys; her feet no longer love a polka beat. She writes invisible lists with a fork and eats string beans with her hands. When she sniffles I hand over a tissue, which she folds into quarters and tucks under a sleeve while her nose drips unchecked. Mom seldom complains, but neither does she sing. Her pale blue eyes, faded from the deep, piercing, chocolate brown of young motherhood, seem free of worry, but they are likewise devoid of joy. I’m helpless while a sculptor I cannot see or dissuade chisels away the sharp corners and tender bulges that made my mother unique. Her features and personality, even her voice, tend toward the smooth sameness of her nursing- home peers — just one egg among a crateful. Yet, whoever remains when the sculpting is done, I must find a way to single her out and to love her more than ever.                                                                                               ― Barbara Shine Copyright 2006-2007 Barbara Shine; all rights reserved.
				Praise for the anthology: [The] hope that order and meaning will emerge from chaos, that new possibilities will rise from what seems intractable, is often reflected in this special collection of autobiographical meditations . . . . In all, we enjoy the deft touch, the grace of curiosity, and, above all, the love of word following word.                                      ― Joseph Mancini, Jr., Ph.D. . . . A beautiful Bulgarian-born mother flees her past to become a pilot in America. . . . A child discovers why her glamorous mother with a dark past . . . has made her unacceptable to her new family. Buried memories of an abusive father, his “surges of creativity and his fury.” Through surgery and creativity, we can recreate and hone our lives.                                                ― Elisavietta Ritchie