Does God Talk To You? I’ve been in another publishing funk of late where I’ve really begun to question the wisdom of continuing to write. Why? I whine to myself like a grouchy two-year-old. Why, when there are so many aspects of indie publishing I abhor, am I still doing…
He’s got custody of his newborn daughter which he’s ill-equipped to handle. His son wants nothing to do with him. Emmaline’s sister shows up at his door and blames him for her death. The daughter Doug never knew about because Emmaline gave her up for adoption without telling him arrives, bringing her own anger and abandonment issues.
I know I was at fault. I shouldn’t have left my friends. I should have made sure they were safe. There’s no excuse for being young and dumb and naïve. The memory of what happened to Rose, of losing her friendship, doesn’t seem like punishment enough for what I did. Which is probably why I buried the memory as long as I did.
It’s one thing for a publisher to undervalue an author, but it seems to me, it’s quite another for the author to undervalue his/herself and his/her work.
Ask anyone who’s tried to write a book. It is not an easy thing. Well, not an easy thing if you want to write a good book.
She had been in a nursing home for several years, deteriorating at a snail’s pace. On my annual visits, my brother and I would question the wisdom of stockpiling old people in places like this.
From where he sits on the sofa, Vivaldi on the portable CD player next to him, he sees everything but can make sense of nothing. His home gleams. Not a spot of dust anywhere. His wife, with nothing else to do but care for him, has become obsessive. Dust she can control. A husband whose mind deteriorates a little more each day is beyond her.
“What’s it like to be dead?” she asked him, her voice barely above a whisper.
She tried to imagine it when he didn’t respond. She thought it would be cold. Lonely. Much like her life now. She rubbed her arms as the breeze became a cold wind, gusting against her. She fell against Johnny’s stone, hugging it to keep herself upright.
Rosa Parks did not yell and scream. She did not have a mob behind her yelling and screaming about her rights as a woman and as a human being. Rosa Parks sat on a bus and refused to move. Hers is just one example of demonstrating power. As a woman and as a human being. We could all learn from her example.
Picky Reader Reads Again I used to do Picky Reader blogs about the books I read for pleasure. I’d say whether I liked the book or didn’t. But as an author I decided I probably shouldn’t be critical of other authors’ works. Even though I tried not be too critical.…
Between father and daughter: “I’m who I am because of you.” Meghan McCain gives a heartfelt, emotional eulogy for her late father, Senator John McCain. Through her tears she shares his tragedies and triumphs, and his success as a father to whom she was extremely close. And I think, well,…
