I wish it wasn’t so cliché to say, but I’ve been a writer all my life. My career started with stapled pieces of sketch paper on which I wrote tales of cats befriending aliens. Hell, I even illustrated them, because I was that passionate. Continue reading
This morning was great. Chris woke me up with a candlelight breakfast–golden eggs–and I asked him sweetly if he planned on reading the chapter I sent last night. Continue reading
“Wow, I just read your passage. Your work makes me want to set mine on fire.”
“What? My work sucks!” Continue reading
I was feeling pretty good about myself again, you know, that whole “writer’s streak” when all of your “readers” are telling you:
“This is it! This is your magnum opus! The apple pie of all pies! The cirrus cloud among all of your cumulonimbus anvils!” Continue reading
I’ve had an epiphany of some sort.
Last night, Chris and I watched The Cider House Rules–a movie based on a book I now must buy. And while watching it, I suddenly wanted to write. I wanted to paint a true melody of the orchard, the way the trees looked on the Maine bluffs behind Tobey Maguire. Soft. Patterned. Existing. Fading. Continue reading