Pots and pans on the stove, in the sink. Shreds of paper on the floor. Stacks of mail precarious upon the table. Paint residue on my arm and between my fingers. Doors are locked. Lights off. And my car–with baked on remains of many suicidal bugs across the windshield– speeds
When I was 14 years old, I told my dad I wanted to be a writer. I could feel it in my bones. I knew writing was what gave my life its most profound meaning. I could taste it. “I think I want to be a writer,” my young, tender
The Guild is my seductive mistress and most demanding task-master. It has, for years, been the primary focus of my writing life. And while I’m mixing metaphors, let me also say: the Guild is my baby. I have held it close and nurtured it since its inception, and would probably
I have returned. I know, I was AWOL all year. Here are the highlights: 1-I had to face a devastating and painful grief. 2-I had to increase my weekly therapy sessions from 1-2 (or sometimes 3) 3-I had the best summer of my life. 4-I had the worst year of
I did it: I released my book to the world. And now… I’m nervous. Thirty-five units have sold. Now, to be fair, four of those were me, because I needed several paperback copies, plus the Kindle copy. But even if I take myself out of the total, there are thirty-one
He views the worldfrom behind my eyes, reaching,wondering, calculating. As calculating as Icould ever be.I fade.I whisper, “See me!” I runthrough the stacks, lookingat piled volumes of the memories, knowledge that already belongsto me. He pursues me.I trot
I walked through the open door of my house, confused for a moment that is was open instead of tightly shut and locked as it should have been. My dog was quiet, though, so I assumed my roommate must be home; if it was a stranger, Daisy would be going
In an effort to put a more selfless face on my writing, I hereby submit this blog of my words. I can’t promise it’s safe here in my head. Enter at your own risk. But if you do come, introduce yourself, Reader, because maybe yours will be the face I place in my mind when I focus on my reader in the future. And then I can never again say I’m not certain who you are, because you will have pulled up a chair, put your feet on the coffee table, and taken up residence here in my brain. Sorry about the mess. I hope you’ll stay awhile.
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