What happens when you leave the only career you’ve always known? Here are my thoughts on leaving teaching.
Here’s a very short story of suburban dystopia for all those parents who hate play dates.
The writer at his desk is surrounded by crumpled failed drafts, stacks of newspapers and books. He is disheveled, eccentric, misanthropic. In all honesty, I find the image quite noble. Growing up, I wanted to be that person. I wanted the intense focus; the seclusive nature- the endless quiet, save birds and music. I wanted
Not only do I write in books, I love writing in books. Some of you are, without a doubt, putting your hands to your chest and sighing a yes. Some of you are making ugly faces. Tell me, which one are you? One of my favorite activities is to skim the pages of my books
Me: So how’s your day going? You tired? Did you eat well here or no? The Fly: Humans have no idea just how filthy their houses are. I’ll be living out the rest of my life here, Lady. Your house is a paradise. Me: How come you aren’t in the kitchen with the other flies?
Not long ago, I shared that I had gone to the used bookstore and brought home a new bundle of book babies. They’ve been getting cozy, and now I’d like to show them to you all. I have one or two copies of Robinson Crusoe already, but I couldn’t resist the raised texture of the
I’ve taken to writing in my underwear. It’s damned liberating. This past week, I’ve been doing my writing in one of these. The IKEA Poang chair is the best thing that has happened to my body in a very long time aside from my bike. Whenever I come up with something really good, I lean
And then I smile at her. And for the past two mornings, she has stared me straight in the eye and not so much as twitched a phony smile. It’s the oddest thing. I’ll try one more time tomorrow.
And, yes, even now, there’s no lack of crap. I know that this is a shocking revelation, but some of the so-called literature in many grade school literature books is crap squeezed between two covers.
So, I walked into my room last night and looked at my bed and thought, What the heck? Honestly, I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s always the same issue. My mornings look like this: I stare at my closet trying to figure out which type of a mood I’m in. I settle on something and put