At what point do you become a writer? Is it when you first put pencil to paper or hands to keys and write a story? Or does your writing have to be published somewhere that people, and especially your friends and family, can tangibly see and touch it? Or is it when you start getting paid for the words you write? It’s something every writer ponders, and it’s been written about by nearly all of them. Continue reading
I love books. Some of my earliest memories are of sitting on the floor of my bedroom, back propped against the bed, reading. I read it all–the Treasury of Children’s Illustrated Classics sprawled across the shelves in the family room, my mom’s old copies of the Bobbsey Twins, Judy Blume, Babar, Raggedy Ann, Highlights magazines; too many to remember or list. My favorite was Bear Circus by William Pene Dubois–most likely for the simple reason that I’ve always adored Koala bears. I was also a huge fan of horses and Secretariat.
Don’t get the wrong impression: I didn’t sequester myself in my room my entire childhood. Continue reading
This is a riot–I just found the blog that I started (and obviously abandoned) 6 1/2 years ago. You know–when I had no time to write. But I wish I had. Reading about the kids at ages 4/5 and 6/7 now, when they’re a semi-independent 11 and 13, would have been such a welcome walk down Memory Lane…
For the better part of a year now, I’ve been contemplating the ideas surrounding stories, particularly perspective and ownership. Continue reading
I was 11 when I found my mother’s jar of teeth. It hadn’t been lost or even hidden. I’d actually been dusting the container for years, not having the slightest inclination as to the contents within. I couldn’t even say what made that day unlike the rest. Curiosity, of course. But I’d always had that and, more often than not, gotten into trouble because of it. Continue reading
Time is irrelevant; place is everything.
That had been the first, and most important, lesson my father had taught me. “Wanderers, or what other people call spirits, transcend time. Instead, they haunt a place–a specific location–even if it changes as the years go forward. Or backward.” Continue reading
This week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers: Photo prompt with story to be 100-175 words.
I’d always imagined the End of Days as bleaker, blacker, somewhat more desolate. Well, okay, I’ve never really imagined the End at all. But in the movies, it was not nearly this serene. So maybe they’d got it wrong. Or have I? Continue reading
Prison time doesn’t follow the rules. Looking up, I’m convinced that the clock on the goddamn tower hasn’t moved a hand although it feels like hours have passed. Nobody else has moved a hand either. Not the clock, not the other inmates, and not the goddamn prison guards. In fact, where the hell are they? Continue reading
I’ve got a confession: I’ve gone tribal.
Nah, not that kind of tribal: I’m still living here in Central NJ sans headdress, feathers or large spear (though I did throw javelin back in high school), and the last baobab tree I saw was actually in the pages of Le Petit Prince. I simply mean that I’ve found my tribe(s). Continue reading
I couldn’t help but think of the frozen pizza commercials from a few years back when I just wrote that. And now I’m looking at the word Snicker and thinking about chocolate… Is it me, or are you getting hungry too?
So, I digress. And it isn’t because thinking or talking about death makes me uncomfortable. Not at all. After all, it’s not like we go through life not knowing the eventual end game. Continue reading