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Musings
My Imperfect Perfect: Ima Gina Tion
The branches of the trees outside the window behind the piano have assembled themselves in the wind to look like a begging dog, all wobbly and shaking while jumping up and down for a treat. Then just as quickly as if I said, “No, Fannie, not now,” they are still. When...
A Safe Place to Write: Beneath the Surface
Do you, fellow writer, find this to be true, too? When you check your Blog Stats, sometimes very old posts pop up that have recently been read and you go back to rediscover them too, along with all the imperfections? So today, I have to tell you thank you for...
One Entangled Evening, I Wasn’t Even Hungry
“Brrr. It’s cold in here,” he says rubbing his arms after he walks through the door at the end of the day. “Remember I work in an air conditioned office.” “Sorry,” I say closing the front door. And on another evening, “Honey, why don’t you have the air conditioner...
Writer and Dog at the End of Day: a Confession
He’s a projecting, guitar playing, good housekeeping kind of guy. I wouldn’t call myself a slob, there’s just always something better to do other than clean. I’m a good paper towel cleaner upper. I can wipe up the kitchen floor with a single section. He’s also my...