Category Archives: Writing

I used to wait for inspiration’s nudge. The spirit moved me now and then to write, and what emerged was hard for me to judge because my type so rarely saw the light. Then I’d produce a poem or two … Continue reading →

I thought a story had to have a plot – I jotted sex or drugs disturbing peace, but had to crank it up cause I forgot sensation is like porn; it needs increase. So character development was next, but that … Continue reading →

I want to wed a word to word, to mount a phrase that I can nurture to a line, and build from that a quatrain of account, and pen it to display a thought of mine. And then I’ll set … Continue reading →

You used to tell me, halfway serious, that I should take the measure of our years, and write a book of them and love and us. Remember that? I do, but it appears that there was either nothing there at … Continue reading →

I sent a sonnet in an envelope, with reading fee, to some address back East, and with it in the mail I hosted hope for praise, encouragement, or at the least a helpful phrase or usable advice. Instead, I got … Continue reading →

If I, for fifteen minutes every day, assign myself to write a bit of prose, I think I’ll find I have some things to say, for doing leads to noting. I’ll compose a quarter hour worth of text a night, … Continue reading →

This pen’s a stick of charcoal in my hand. I sweep in strokes across a page of lined buff paper, spiral-bound and pale as sand, or shade with tiny smudges. All I find outside commuting windows or beyond my walking … Continue reading →