Rarely do I have an opportunity for purposeless activity. If I’m running, I’m training. If I’m driving, I’m going to work, grocery shopping, or to some sort of appointment. If I’m reading, I’m studying. If I’m at the computer, I’m working or writing. Even my free time is filled with purpose. Our lives have become
Over the years, I’ve made friends with many writers through social media. I wouldn’t recognize more than a handful of them if I passed them on the street, yet I feel that over time, I’ve come to know them personally through recurring themes evident in their books, social media, and blog posts. These identifiers are
I was fortunate . . . for a while, but now, I guess you could say I’m of an age where I’ve begun to go to more funerals. Beyond losing one much-loved cousin—barely out of her twenties—to breast cancer, I hadn’t really lost anyone close to me. But soon, death, a snowball, became an avalanche.
One of my first assignments this term for my MFA lyric essay class is to keep a weekly journal. Despite my love of writing and despite the purchase of all the cute journaling accoutrements—colored pens, journal with writerly mantra on the cover, and irresistible Etsy stickers—I have not, as yet, been able to discipline myself