Today, before I checked my phone, email, or got dressed, I made a nest by piling pillows up to the corners of my bed, propped my laptop against a blanket on my legs. I opened up an old Word document and began to write, well—not write, but edit a story I’ve been stuck on for two weeks, quite possibly two years. That early in the morning, my brain submerged in the story. I could see it more clearly when my hackles were down.Continue reading
What do I remember?
The spine of a proud oak in my backyard next to a shrub with red berries. I’d dig for arrowheads in the dirt, old nails, pennies of a certain decade.
One Christmas we were told to play outside. We looked on in horror as my mom locked the door. My sisters conferred and decided she meant we had to live like wild things forever. We tried to pitch a house under the slide, a part of the castle my dad had built. Of course, none of us realized we could have lived in the castle. So we collected flat stones to build our walls. I packed cold mud in a wagon as we tried at staying sisters for keeps.
I worshipped the sun—in Texas, you can pack on another childhood to the one you already have because the days are so long.Continue reading
I spent last night writing a bad poem and the morning hours reading the Ice Palace from front to cover in bed under my electric blanket.
It was surprisingly heartbreaking—who would have thought I’d be so struck by a doomed love story between two eleven-year-old Scandinavian girls?Continue reading