Writing is a private affair. One mind, one hand holding a pen; or two hands hovering over a keyboard. It’s is almost always carried out alone. And when the pages are written, then what? This is a key question because it defines a crucial divide...
originally published in Feminine Collective See how she scuttles across the floor The cold tile numbs, then burns Her palms, knees, shins All portions of flesh pressed on The harder thing—the hardest thing Not cursed yet— —Soon Then there’s this back The thing that holds her together The thing she’s built around Grew up around Now crushed...
Sometimes the best books are the ones that catch your eye on a table at a small independent bookstore. We have a couple of great ones where I live in Olympia, WA, though they’re closed these days, like just about everything else. The last time...
originally published in don't die press Fire eats the forest Evergreens turn to ash Water chokes the canyon Slopes fall under mud Wind inhales the neighborhood Throws rafters to the ground A woman gives her body out of hunger for the touch Her private land is fertile where scattered seeds are sown Abundance is Husbanded, Planned, Discussed Until...
originally published in Feminine Collective What if my dystopia is your heaven, my utopia your hell? We’re not on the same page, darling May I still call you that? You said it could never happen here Isn’t that what the Germans said of Hitler? Where did they think his anti-semantic rants...
This essay originally appeared in my (small press) writing day I come into my office each morning with one goal—to calm the chaos in my head. I don’t sleep well these days, probably my body telling me I need fewer hours in the sack—and what I’m...
originally published in Medium|culture I used to watch Perry Mason on television a lot when I was a kid. I loved the edgy black-and-white film; the unlikely plots; the relentless drive for truth. Not to mention the cars. What ten year-old girl immersed in rerun after...
originally published in Feminine Collective Agony—a gone knee Can’t bend—no way to mend This isn’t about aging—maybe about raging What stops the crazy rhyme-time? Unplug the clock Blind its ruby face Tear your eyes out if you must Choke on dust There I go again, too easy This lilting rhythm and sound Trapped by the jazzy...
originally published in The Buzz, Unsolicited Press's blog If you could cook dinner for any author, dead or alive, who would it be? What would you make? I think I would roast a leg of lamb for Virginia Woolf, though I wouldn’t do it as well as...
This essay also appeared in The Startup on Medium In the fall of 1985 I sat down at an ancient typewriter and called myself a writer. I wrote short stories, one after another, and nine years later published my first one. Eventually I collected the best...