Last night, my husband and I went out for dinner. We chose to dine outside by the water as the South Florida weather is especially beautiful at this time of year. Two well-lubricated couples seated at the table next to us were engaged in a loud, animated discussion peppered with the f-word. Forget that this
I find myself longing, daydreaming for extra minutes just to have more time to write . . .
In the farthest corner of my house, in a room very occasionally used as a guestroom, there is a box that rests high on a shelf in the closet. In the box, thanks to my mother, is everything I have ever written from the time I could hold a crayon through my senior year in
A day from last summer’s adventure.
Over the course of my lifetime I have, on many occasions, been guilty of sticking one of my size sevens in my mouth. C’mon, be honest we’ve all been there. It usually happens when I become riled up over some socially sensitive subject and find out too late that the person I am with is
I was twelve years old when I first read The Magnificent Barb written by Dana Faralla. As so often happens with great characters and young readers, the Barb and the Fitzgerald’s instantly became my friends, and my desire to be part of their world was closely connected to my girlhood longing for my own horse
Recently, I wrote an article about some of the students I work with. I tutor writing and English at the local state college, and since I love the work, I was inspired to reflect my feelings on paper. When it was published, I proudly emailed it to my supervisors. Both of them took time out