My Friend

My friend Rebecca is a mess. Her life is a mess. She’s unreliable. She’s irresponsible. Why do I love her so much? She makes me feel alive, she makes me feel things are possible. She supports me when everyone else thinks I’m crazy. She has a big heart and would do anything for me – and sometimes does. She . . .

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The Cookbook

It was 60 years old, that cookbook. You know, the one with the red checkered cover like a tablecloth. The pages were falling out of the binder. Some pages were greasy with use, others were untouched. I found what I wanted in the section on pancakes and waffles. Yes, exactly what I remembered – mama’s pancakes. I pulled a big bowl . . .

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Keep It Up

“Keep it up, Buttercup,” Mom yelled from the bleachers. I hated it when she called me that. So embarrassing. I trotted back to my spot in right field amid general cheers. I’d made a catch – an out! I’d thrown to second base for another out. I was a freaking hero and my mom still called me Buttercup. I bent my knees and took . . .

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Moon dance

I discovered a moon dance on a rocky hill near my campground in the Rocky Mountains. The noise attracted me and I approached. There were 13 women. They introduced themselves to me as Wiccan, but I always thought of them as witches because of what happened afterwards.

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The Corner

There was a bench outside The Olive Garden where people could sit in the shade to wait for a table. I planted myself there to wait for Talia to come around the corner. A couple with 3 kids wandered in my direction. The parents joined me on the bench but the kids scampered in circles around the bench and the tree. The oldest boy . . .

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Passive

My brain works in passive voice. Words fall onto the page in passive voice. I finish a first draft and spend the next 17 sweeps through it changing verbs. I never fix them all. I don’t even see them. What’s your writing bugaboo?

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In My Day

Out the door, on the bike, and gone. Go anywhere in 5 minutes and be back home before my mom knew I wasn’t there. But it didn’t matter where I was, because the town was so small the whole place was my own personal backyard. Now when I leave my doorstep and close the door on my family I walk into a crowded world where . . .

Write something. You. Yes, you.
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My Crazy Cousin

Jared, my crazy cousin, never unpacked his camping gear from the back of his van. Every weekend he disappeared into the woods with a load of fresh groceries, water, and fuel for his lamps. He told me he drove way up the mountain, almost to the tree line, and camped in a place where no one ever showed up. Except one time . . .

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Mama

“Oh, mama,” she said. The fire in the trash can flared up much higher than she expected. She stepped back. She waited a few minutes for the fire to settle down a little. She moved closer again so she could finish feeding the rest of the pages of her novel into the trash can.

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Uncle Buck

My uncle Buck was famous in our home town. He did so many good works. Everybody loved him. To me, he was just my uncle. He would take me fishing down by the dam. We caught carp. He made me throw the carp back in. If we caught catfish we took them home and my mom cooked them. The thing I loved most about uncle Buck was . . .

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