If you’ve been reading my blog posts, you’ve noticed some repetition. Hell, it’s been blatant recycling. At this moment, I’m a writer two chapters from
Being a writer is a tricky proposition if you’re going public. Recently, in one of my posts someone took umbrage at my point of view.
Chatting with Son 1 the other day brought up a question. Why did you kill her? This isn’t a new question. Folks frequently ask me
I can see the back of my fridge. Understand this isn’t a new thing, but after weeks of holiday foodstuffs, the light, airy space of
Wham! A great writing idea hits you. You jot down some notes, but are interrupted by some critical thing. Dog, cat, teenager, laundry, sleep….you know,
I’ve become a fitness class attendee. This is big for me. I’m not a joiner, never have been. I played tennis because I could play
I’ve admitted to being a terrible person. It’s okay, I really like me. Being me, finding new peeps is a TV marathon of The
I’ve been mulling over this post for a couple of weeks. It’s presented me with a struggle. Last night with friends helped crystallize my thoughts
In the grander scheme of building our audience reach, the Beard’s been researching other writers. Not a bad thing, except it fills his head with ideas.
Invariably someone, who knows I’m working on a new book, asks the dreaded question. How is the book coming? I liken this to watching reality