I am being interviewed, and the voice on the phone asks me why I’m not very social on social. It takes me a second to decode his words, or even his intent. Social on social? What? Is it not part of your strategy? he asks. You know, do you not see it as an essential
Our Christmas tree towers in the dining room corner. The starless top is drying, browning, but the lights are still strung delicately. (The cranberry garland off to the birds long ago.) I haven’t been able to take it down, and not for lack of want. The space will be nice, I think. The pine needle
It began last summer, the itch. — I’m no stranger to the itch, have had many in a lifetime. Every creative project I’ve ever endeavored to explore has been a direct result of a prickle’s first beginning. The early notion, the quieting of all else. Once the itch turns feverish, begins to keep me awake
I use the word becoming because it’s important. Because, as in anything at all, there is no being a better writer. No arriving as a better writer, certainly no tricks to staying a better writer. There is only becoming, both on the page and off.
An excerpt from my latest piece for Fathom Mag: “In this Google-able age, where the very names of our most popular technological resources are rooted in mythology—Siri, Alexa, Amazon—we might do well to remember that our world, mighty and mysterious, is vastly unfindable. That our declinate minds will fail us. That curiosity needs little confirmation.
Last weekend, my friend Shannan and I shared our respective stories with the beautiful community of Flourish, and during the Q&A portion, the conversation naturally veered toward boundaries. How do you set them? What are your own? Where do you draw the line? Shannan’s answer was flawless, and it was simply this: we do not
Head’s up: Sponsored by High & Mighty. — Here, then, is how it goes in our house. There is a photo, a shelf, a hook to be hung. Sometimes out of necessity, mostly not. And because Ken is the official Hangman in the home (he, being the only one with both the patience and precision
2am, the alarm rings. When you’ve got yourself a baby with boundless energy and a little girl with endless questions, 2am is sometimes your magic hour of silence, of writing, of work. While the two littles are tucked safely in their beds, I pad into the dining room for cinnamon tea and words. It is,