Jan 19: Brainstorm – There are writers who plan extensively before they put words to a page. There are writers who sit down and let it pour out. In medio stat viritus, we learn from Aristotle, in the middle lies virtue. I lie in bed, stare at the mirror that
I have never participated in a writing challenge before, but this simple short-term challenge from Hope Writers seems the perfect opportunity. Below are my responses, shared daily on Facebook (for the most part) during the challenge. Jan 14: Word – Do I own the words
You shared yours, now I’ll share mine… 1 surely, fairies live down this path 2 a sneak attack, with only a few witnesses 3 – Either he has a long way to go or the contemplation of our isolation and our ambition 4 this
“The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.” ― William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream I am inviting you to a thought experiment. The poet sees beyond the surface. You may see below a collection of plants or a bunch of hydrogen and oxygen molecules creatively organized.
Photos of the week…or… Due to some technical issues, my photos of the week are tucked away, safely on a device where they will not be disturbed, until my husband returns from his musician’s retreat. I offer you this instead, a day late. How did I become a writer? Because
I might venture into kid lit soon. Below is my working draft of a story about a girl in a race of giants. I cannot take full authorship. All of the dialogue was imagined by my co-author and daughter, Regina. She can neither read nor write, so her creativity is
She reflected on the events of the past week, how close to the precipice she had been. It was first a fever, than inconsolability. Yet her child still tried to play. Then he became tired. Like those days one year ago. She had no energy to fight with the king
Philothea reached her home just as the storm settled in for a strong blow. On her walk, the wind first held her back and then pushed her forward. Light rain that speeded her step moved in sheets as the wind blew. “This is just one side of the mountain,” she
When the king came again, he knocked at the always-open door, stepped over the threshold, and sat at her table. Philothea prepared the tea. The silence had remained all this while, but the king, true to his word had returned, more than once. Philothea warmed the tea kettle. As it
“I just felt comforted by you and now you’re going to leave again.” Philothea stared at her cup as she spoke. It was morning. Her child cried in the background. The king was leaving. She stared at her cup, this teacup and saucer from the palace. As she stared visions
