When a Book Finds You at Just the Right Time

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn found me when I was 11, the same age as the main character when the book begins. A Little Paris Bookshop found me just after a breakup. To the Lighthouse found me a few weeks ago— I guess I’ll figure out what brought her to me in the retrospective. But…

How to Be A Writer: Don’t.

It’s rare that one of my inner monologues finds its way from my brainwaves to my fingertips to the computer keyboard, so let me be swift and painless lest the mood to get this down deserts me. I’ve seen a lot of posts (mostly on Pinterest, because I fulfill the basic white girl stereotype) about…

I Am Not A Stereotype: An Essay

I’ve been writing stories since I was little, probably six or seven. My first story, I remember well, was 22 handwritten pages about mermaids.  Each mermaid bore the name of a girl in my elementary school, and we had a blast. It featured a turtle who doubled as a dancing DJ. But a few years…

I Am Not A Blogger: An Essay

I’ve tried it before. I’ve paid for a custom site, I’ve written out all my ideas, and I’ve even started writing a few posts. But here’s the thing: I have nothing to say. Everything I want to talk about has been talked to death and into the afterlife. I have no original opinions, nothing worth reading…

I Am Not a Poet: An Essay

I never really thought of myself as a poetry kind of person until I found myself in my bathtub with a stack of Dickinson and Frost, with hundreds of used tissues scattered about like trashed snowflakes, whispering their last words to their unused loved ones, wishing them well and giving them advice with their last…

Dappled II: Flame and Glow

Like first-flight birds, the days together flow. Breathing deeply, I know where I have been. Life dapples the soul with flame and sorrow. Helios’ disc in my eyes rises slow. I stop and let (some) soft healing begin. Like lazy waves, the days together flow. Wind shakes songs from the trees, songs I used to know….

Lather III: The Sink Will Remember This

Mister loved his leather chair. Sink and walls knew they’d never amount in his mind, though they did try. He bounced his little son on that chair, knees like anything but trampolines to the naked eye. He sat and laughed for hours at the table, with his son, so sure so sure he knew his…

The Blanket

Mother, loving, smoothes my new, soft face’s skin. White threads do try to quietly caress This image of a heaven’s peaceful hymn, This tiny picture of sweet innocence. Croups and coughs caught within the quiet folds Fire and ice trace fingertips on my head, Covered by cords thankful they can’t catch colds. I gather them about, soaking…

Lather II: Sink and Drain

I watch us drain.Scalding water scours scars in my skin, where your fingernails now fail to trail.  I watch us drain.We drip, stick to the slick, soft sides of the sink. Porcelain drinks from us. I watch us drain.The soap traces constellations; the sink will remember this. I watch us drain.Water revives, refreshes, redeems. We…