I’m reading Natalie Goldberg again. This time I’m reading her for my Andrea Reads America project. I know she lived and taught in Taos, and I wanted her voice when I read New Mexico. I’ve been restless lately, needing to create, yet not creating. Knowing writing would make me feel better, yet not writing. Goldberg’s … Continue reading Live with vigor
I often get down on myself for the lack of meaning in the spurts of writing I publish on my blog, the ten-minute free writes that are unedited streams of consciousness, the spewing of thoughts after pulling a prompt from a box. “Who cares?” I ask myself. Who cares about the details of everyday life? … Continue reading In defense of the ordinary
Instead of staring into a cold glow of pixelated light this morning, I kept the computer shuttered away in its desk and sat by the window, where blackness transitioned to grey, and grey blushed warm and pink as dawn approached. I turned on a lamp, pulled Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones from the shelf, … Continue reading Stitching Sentences
I remember how pretty the marsh looks in summer, when a storm is coming, and the grass looks neon green against a blackening sky. I remember the Fourth of July in Savannah that year with Brian. We rode in his Jeep with the top down, drove down to River Street to watch the fireworks. But … Continue reading I remember
Butterfly Mind 