I’m supposed to be heralding the publication of my new book.
And heralding I’m trying, but unlike my other posts, this one is just….not…writing…itself.
So I’ll follow the birds outside my window, who are heralding the signs of spring. Flapping their wings, singing songs, tapping on my outside windows – Look! LOOK! Continue reading
I am a fantastic speller. Always have been.
I acquired this gift without ever asking for it; it’s just part of me.
My brother, who is a horrendous speller (or as he would spell, a whorendus one), claims spelling is a genetic tick. I disagree. I believe that the number of books you read equates how many words you can spell correctly.
Many others (who can’t spell) claim it’s not a requirement in this day of digital spellchecks.
I’d like to inquire: how many times has spell check messed them up? Continue reading
His gasp brought Charlotte back to her past, decades ago in their sophomore year in college, when a skinny tall boy with too-large ears approached her after their English lit class. They’d been assigned as a team by Professor Rife to write a 10-page thesis paper. (Continuing from last week’s The Bookstore Intruder.)
“Each team must agree upon a book most admired, and then defend it. The goal is to read your paper in class next week and convince the other teams to vote for your book.”
Charlotte shivered in annoyance when the young man found her an hour later in the library. Continue reading
When Charlotte heard the ring of her bookstore door, she popped her head out of the masterful novel she was perusing.
From behind the book stacks she watched the intruder slink into the aisle. Continue reading
There once was a girl who could write
Her words were full of insight
She tried a limerick
That fell like a brick
But her stories floated like light.
In March, I still don’t usually like to walk in the morning.
Even though I’m a walker.
I don’t hike or run, trot or dawdle. I walk for miles for the majesty of . . . walking.
No little music plugs; instead I keep my ears open for the sound of the woodpecker and the hawk, the trill of the mocking bird and the taunt of the squirrel. I listen to the scrunch of the leaves, the low roar of the plane above me, and the soft slap of my shoes on wooden bridge and wooded path. Continue reading
roughwighting 