Writing Is
Reading others’ work and wondering if you could write between the gaps of their legacies.
Reading others’ work and wondering if you could write between the gaps of their legacies.
All these things are as small as a whisper yet feel as nourishing as a full breath of spring air.
We all settled in for work from “home” days together (it’s a corporate girl summer after all).
The pace of the game, a deterrent to some, feels to me like the perfect match for a slow summer night.
The muskrats giving glimpses of their heads before diving back underwater—all that I was seeing was so very fragile.
No, I have not heard the new song by The Weeknd and I don’t plan to, because I’m different.
No one ever saved me; no one ever knew I needed saving.
And often I decide that these excuses are all stupid and that I’m failing the world and God by not taking more drastic action.
I stood with a clump of counselors somewhere around midnight, watching the torrential downpour jarred by flashes of light.
I chalked it up to my self-control, which crumbles under the doldrums of summer—I could no longer resist the siren call of romance novels.