• Spinning

    The earth is spinning on its axis at 1000 miles an hour while it whips around the sun at  67,000 miles per hour. And I can’t keep up. I know what you’re thinking. I don’t need to. The earth is going to do its thing regardless of my thing and thanks to the magic of physics, we don’t even have to hang on. But I’m not here just for the ride. I want to stand on the leading edge and see the sunrise before it knows its colors. I want to stick my toes out as we cross into autumn, feeling the bite of the coming cool just ahead of…

  • The Table in the Corner

    There is a table in the corner of a small cafe where The Writer sits. It is a table for two, but one seat always remains empty, waiting. The table is next to a bookcase. The books there are dusty, but not forgotten. They have earned their dust. The ghosts would agree. The ghosts often sit in the empty chair, listening. Nodding sympathetically when they’re not nodding off. They understand the dust. Sometimes they draw their names in it. “It’s not easy,” they whisper. “This writing thing.” The Writer often responds aloud. “You’re telling me.” Someone at a nearby table will glance over, then quickly look away. A stymied writer…

  • Vivisection

    If you watch a writer in a coffee shop, you won’t be particularly impressed by her work. You might not even notice that she’s working. The external act of writing is a mundane thing. It is quiet, often deathly so. ten fingers tapping long sighs and silent swearing insomnia cure You have to slice a writer in half to reveal the invisible truth. Writing is sudden bursts of brilliance racing ahead with yellow-jersey speed while you labor to catch up with tricycle typing fingers. It’s a magnificent ache and pointless pursuit sandwich smothered in what-the-hell-was-I-thinking sauce. It’s creation and destruction. Hope and despair. Love and love and more love. And…

  • Finding Stories

    I don’t know where you find your stories, but I find mine everywhere. All I need is a little prompt – an object, a smell, a look from a stranger. Some of my favorite stories are inspired by listening to the words people don’t say. Here, I’ll show you what I mean. I’m sitting in a Panera restaurant. I have a window seat. It’s just after the lunch rush. I’m going to look around and eavesdrop and see what stories appear. I’m sure I could find a hundred, given time, but I’ll limit myself to the first five that appear. And so you can see how my brain works (don’t…

  • Thangst

    It’s hard to look at. The ache. The mistake. The longing. The breakup. The failure. The betrayal. The abandonment. The affair. The loss. The sin. When you sit down at your desk to write, it clears its throat. It’s hiding behind your lamp or tucked under an unpaid utility bill. It’s watching, waiting. It nods “go ahead.” It whispers “it will be okay.” Instead, you turn away. You look down at your computer keyboard. You rest your fingers there. ae ess dee eff, jay kay elle sem You’ve done your research. You’ve read all the how-to books. You loved Stephen King’s On Writing and Betsy Lerner’s The Forest for the…

  • Dreaming Up and Writing Down

    At this very moment, I’m sitting in a Borders bookstore cafe. I tell you this to give you context for the words that will follow. See, when I’m surrounded by books and people looking at books and people talking about looking at books, I find it difficult to stay focused. My thoughts wander, my words follow. Or my words wander and my thoughts follow. Sometimes my thoughts and words both wander and I lose myself in a… I can’t figure out if the tiles on the floor of this cafe are arranged in some kind of purposeful pattern or if the tile-placer just made it up on the fly. A…