Don’t call them “Rebs” and don’t call it The War of Northern Aggression even in fun. OR in sincerity because you’re contrarian by nature and you’ve read waayyyyy too much about the Right of Secession. They will go pale, look frustrated or guilty or…..guiltstrated…. and not be able to think of how to respond.…
I’m a New York Times Best-Selling author. It’s rather technical, the NYT divides its non-fiction into sub categories. I’m on the Fashion, Manners and Customs list. I’ve decided it counts and have began dressing appropriately for a person befitting my station (see left). The big list…just plain “Non-Fiction Hardbacks”….I think you have to be on…
“I want you all to STAND UP! Greet the person next to you and say, “HELLO, MY NAME IS BLANK, AND I AM A WRITER!” This was years ago, at a literary convention. I was five months into an excruciating pregnancy, my brain swamped in chemicals that caused it to hear hungry tiger roars and…
“You haven’t posted in such a long time. I had to call to make sure you were all right. You told me I was to keep you grounded!” Sara went to boarding school with me 20 years ago. She had a tough time of it. Like me, she was chubby, confused by fashion, and in…
” I was asking for the relief from living that the drug supposedly gave, with none of the greasy memories I tied to it still attached.”
. I loved it. I hated it. It felt sick there and so special too. Like Nigger Ben Butte, all wrong, distasteful even, but sickly compelling in its defiance.
My son’s not on your spectrum, your stupid rainbow of pain and awkwardness.
String together some rocks, not stones. Not semi-precious tumbled and shining. Just gray hard rocks, fist sized. Then knot that string. Then swallow it. And you will feel like I did staring at my cell phone, waiting for it to ring. I have something akin to a “team” now. Team Therese. Or rather, Team…
I put him to bed tonight. I tried to tickle, hug, sing, play. Slow, gentle; I know not to smother or overwhelm him. Interspersed between each new attempt was the constant refrain, near tears, “Get out! Get Out! Get Out!” pointing at the door.
“Oh…crap. I was really hoping for Roman gold hoards. Not children frozen for eternity in terror clutching at their dead mothers’ throats.”
You're Doing It Wrong 