Write On

  My son Alex is 11 years old. He has no friends.   He has never had any friends.  Well, he has his older brother, and his older brother’s friends have often been kind and sometimes even inclusive when they were all young enough to still have some reasonably overlapping interests and abilities. But the developmental age gap widened mercilessly each year.  Then we had to move in with my parents, across the country,  in California because Alex was just too sick for me to care for him properly while holding down a job.  We lost our New York City tribe of supportive families; those loving beings and their children who had embraced and included Alex from the time of his infancy.  And so, Alex is left behind.  Alex is left out.  Alex is left alone.  With me.  His only friend.  And in a lot of ways, I don’t count. Because I’m a 45 year old woman. And because I’m his mother. And I’m simply not a satisfactory sole playma...

 Here is the link  

May 15, 2021 Hi fellow women writers, I'm currently in Phonix with my family. What was supposed to be the long awaited post-vax reunion turned into a family emergency when my Mom received a completely-out-of-the-blue cancer diagnosis the day before my flight out of JFK. As I'm helping my family navigate this, I am filled with thoughts and zero ability to translate it into words. But, it is important that I stay tethered in anyway possible and continuing with this group is something I can make room for emotionally. I recently took a 4 week songwriting workshop with singer songwriter, Jill Sobule. She is as good a teacher as she is an artist. Jill is a lovely positive human. Her class brings together all ranges of experience and ages. I enthusiastically recommend it as a creative jumpstart. I've never used those creative muscles before and it was such a low stakes, warm, and welcoming environment. Complete other end of the spectrum of the art group critiques I had to weather ...

  “Not haunted, huh?” Christine released her grip on my arm. “Not even a little bit.” Becca flipped a light switch, and a dusty bare bulb in the ceiling gave off a dim glow.  She nodded toward the staircase.  “Upstairs is still a jumble, but let’s see if Mama’s got that wall down.” We followed Becca through a living room plastered with gaudy, floral wallpaper.  The frizzy halo of broken hairs atop her head brushed low wooden beams, catching the light and waving like sea anemones in underwater movies.  Despite the pastel 1980’s vibe, the room had an old built-in corner cupboard and a huge fireplace surrounded by more of that painted wood.  My mom is a nut for “original period details,” and from the looks of it, the Jesse house was jam packed with them.  Paneling crawled into the dining room, framing another fireplace big enough for two Santas to come down at once. A cheesy brass chandelier threw off just enough light to keep us from running into the fur...

 I am hoping you can access this " secret draft."

 I travelled to Mississippi for the first time recently and found myself ensconced in the Victorian home of a beloved friend who had retired to her hometown about a decade earlier. Her house stood proudly atop a rolling green lawn punctuated by pale pink azaleas and the barking, jumping, and nipping of two large juvenile rescue hounds. The exterior of my friend’s place had a perfect wraparound porch. The interior boasted 16-foot ceilings, six fireplaces with colorful ceramic surrounds, and lovely antiques, carpets and paintings. The large country kitchen was the heart of the house, and the two dogs, William and Percy, lounged comfortably within its limits when not outside chasing bees, cars, humans, and any other moving creatures. During my visit, my friend and her loved ones lavished me with Southern hospitality: croquet and dinner parties, supper clubs, meals at historic inns. I met former high school rodeo stars, real life cowboys, special needs children, and a sweet man teeteri...