Author. Poet. Reader. Animal Lover. Blogger. Gardener. Southerner. Aspiring playwright.
My Books at Amazon: https://amzn.to/36n25yy
I'm Such a Putz!
I love visiting old consignment and antique shops. There's always something odd or interesting that I like to hunt for at these places. I've collected vinyl records over the years. I've obsessed over old sepia tone and black and white family photographs. Being a creative person, I always find something inspiring in these stores that feeds my creativity.
How to Write 10 Short Stories in 10 Weeks
I started 2021 doing a final edit of my next novel and preparing to start the daunting task of querying literary agents. I’d been working on this particular novel off and on for almost ten years, so I was exhausted creatively.
What I’ve Learned from Three Years of Journaling
My fascination with journaling started at a very young age. I’m pretty sure it was after I read “Harriet the Spy” and became obsessed with the idea of recording everything in notebooks. A diary with a little lock on it that I found at the Scholastic Book Fair that same year would have certainly helped get me started but it was pink, and diary-keeping seemed like something only girls did in books or on TV shows.
“What should we do with this package?” Dianne yelled to Barb. Dianne worked part-time for Barb, who was an estate sale coordinator. Barb came into your dead relative’s house, sold everything, and kept thirty percent of the profits. Dianne had retired as a bookstore clerk a few years back. She’d always enjoyed going to estate sales, and she frequently ran into Barb. The two had become good friends.
The Mystery of Mississippi Mud
“It’s not here!” Eileen whined with defeat, the tone of a child not ready for bedtime. Eileen was fifty-two, the youngest of the three Wormwood sisters. She’d been flipping through her mother’s church cookbooks for at least an hour.
A Kid in the Barn
Daddy was not a farmer. But all of his closest friends—the quiet ones who kept their secrets—were farmers. His friends drove giant green tractors and used machinery shaped like dinosaur skeletons to harvest corn, wheat, and cotton. The farmers’ leathery skin was blistered from the summer sun, and they picked their yellow teeth with single strands of hay. Their faded denim overalls and soft plaid shirts were stained with dirt and manure. Those stains were badges of honor earned for the hard work done from sunrise to sundown.
The Bath Road House
1968 Janet and I felt like prowlers as we drove through the upscale neighborhood. From the car, we admired what we could see of the homes. Each was set back from the main road, hiding behind thick coppices of trees and shrubbery. We glimpsed the slopes of their roofs through the clearings between the tree branches, and we whispered to each other as if the houses were sleeping giants that had eaten the people inside them.
Everything Stays the Same
“Thank you for keeping my car for me,” Corey said as he hugged Joyce. “Of course! Anything for you, sweetie,” she said, wrapping her arms around him.