Baby news. Yesterday, the banana, i.e., the first non-cereal food ze bébé has tasted. I popped open the top and tasted it. Lee saw me. He was grossed out that I tasted it. Not because of any supposed spit contamination (not that I stuck my tongue in it or anything), but because it was baby […]

Jealousy. I’ve decided that reading Mecawilson is a bittersweet experience. Bittersweet? That’s not the word. If there’s some word combining the tang of pickles with the acidic, gut-eating taste of jealousy, then that’s the word I mean to use instead. “Bittersweet.” He’s funny. I’ve seen a lot of good writers on the net lately, good,

Oven. An update of my progress in editing “Feather” would read something like this: Crap. And you know what that means. Let’s have a nice learning experience, eh? I’ve finished the first go through the manuscript. I now have beats, which each of them have a beginning, middle, and ending; the story is now twice

Modern writers. The term “modern” gives some people the hives…yet all it is is a sophistication (although perhaps an over-serious one) of the moment when the vaudeville actor leans into the audience and winks. While “modern” poetry seems to be all clever renditions of the song “doom, despair, agony, and woe…WOOOOOE”* (i.e., T.S. Eliot), “modern”

Sigh. “Avoid clichés.” Including that one.

An old dream. I had this one last year, while I was still pregnant, about August or so. Two brothers go on a trip to Chicago. They want to see the city from the observation deck of one of the skyscrapers. About halfway up, the elevator stops. The two brothers get out of the elevator

Family. Rachael’s making noise. It’s important. She’s experimenting with her vocal cords. She’s experimenting with her ability to manipulate other people–what’s the best way to get people’s attention? Fussing? Crying? Squealing with delight? Coughing? She alternates, cute with crying, only to discover that pretty much any sound will get my attention. She smiles at me

Editing. Something that pisses me off about my English education is that none of the teachers in my creative writing courses had any intention to teach me how to edit. Maybe I had bad teachers. Maybe the policy was “Workshop…and see magic may happen!” Maybe the instructors assumed that all we needed to know about

Stuff.. I don’t think I’m going to get the edit done tonight. Mr. Joe Woods was over; Mr. Joe Woods introduced us to Papa Murphy’s Chicaco-style ‘za. I nearly made the cashier cry. “Do you want some bread sticks?” she asked. After all, we were only getting a family-sized pie, and this is Joe and

Current reads. I’m in the middle of a reread of The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas; I got a cool used copy at a local bookstore named Poor Richard’s. Wonderful place. Leatherbound, gold leaf, little ribbon bound into the…uh…binding. I just finished the third issue of “Black Gate.” I have yet to be impressed with