Category Archives: Writing

Homework

I was browsing through old poems recently, and came across two written 17 years ago but in the same week, about life with my kids. I was 44 at the time. Katie had just turned 18 and Danny was 12. … Continue reading

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Backtitled

I watched a striving author try to write a novel once, a score of years ago, except his search for perfect title quite disabled him. His story wouldn’t grow until he had initiated it with words he mined, and screened, … Continue reading

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Rebuttal

As far back as I can remember, I wanted to write. I’ve always loved stories and verse, and I’ve been dabbling with them, or more, since I learned to read in 1956. And at least through adolescence, I operated beneath … Continue reading

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Characters

It’s been said before and today it’s my turn. When you create fictional characters, they’re likely to make decisions and proceed in directions you didn’t anticipate when you started them. It isn’t that they act perversely – rather, you didn’t … Continue reading

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Kaleidoscope

  When I was almost 54, I glanced out the BART window and was dazzled by sun diamonds. It was a bright winter morning and I was on a train headed to San Francisco. My seat was on the port side, … Continue reading

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Hot Pink

   When I was 14 I had a vivid demonstration of the paint chip illusion. The paint wasn’t actually chipping. The term referred to small squares of color on strips of light cardboard, with dramatic names printed below them. Stores that … Continue reading

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Writing on the Wall

   When I was 16, I got permission to write on the walls of my bedroom. The room’s closet and the adjoining bathroom created about four feet of entry hall that begged for decoration. After I made a short argument for … Continue reading

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Sonnet & Site Map

When I was 41 I began regular sonnet-writing. I was fresh off the boat, but the boat was a cruise ship to Alaska. I’d had an intense and happy relationship with the cruise’s piano player, falling so deeply in love … Continue reading

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Dear Diary

     When I was 14 years old, I kept a diary. It was a corny store-bought book, bound in imitation leather and labeled “Diary” in golden script, starting its lined pages with January. I kept it that year and continued … Continue reading

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