Writing is a magic act, like slipping into the space of a pocket door between layers of drywall, contorting into a fold of space-time. All around me, the house vibrates with activity, oblivious to my sorcery. The song within, the chorus surrounding, bloodlines...
I’m 68. I lived for decades with a poet’s soul, hoarding scraps of paper in drawers. I earned a living doing traditional communications work – editing and producing brochures, press releases, and annual reports; proofreading publications;...
I get my best ideas folding laundry. From the bedroom window of the home I work from as a nanny three days a week, I can see the Cascade range, the glitter of Lake Washington, and the inverted bowl of clouds that so often rests on top of Mt. Rainier. Words and...
Serendipity: the faculty of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for This summer I almost became a believer in the alignment of the stars. In luck. In serendipity. Like each summer of the last several, I spent a long weekend in June at a...
This year, I wrote about a subject that I did not want to dwell on, but for some reason could not stop writing about. I grew up Catholic and was fairly devout for most of my life, but over the past few years, given the testimony of acquaintances,...
I cannot imagine wanting to have children, which must be why I never had them. I wonder if that’s the reason I became a writer, if giving birth to stories instead of babies sublimated my maternal urges. There are indisputable similarities between the two...
