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  • Cold Mother II

    Cold Mother II

    In Januarycold winds blew in cold baby, eyes like minea heart murmured, an objection that soonleft no trace I dip my toes infrigid sighing frozen seasjust beyond the topazthere is darkness I mistakedichotomies for choicesI segregateone thing from the other I prefera life lived bleeding into and out ofdrafty spacesthings without names Januarycold mothers with…

  • Sleeping Beauty

    I’d forgotten how hard blogs are. There’s a story to tell and I keep thinking it’s about Nepal. I should be writing about Nepal. I am supposed to be writing The Nepal Story, after all. So, why can I not write about Nepal? Dramatic sigh. I was once told by my mentor to trust my…

  • The Scenic Route

    Let’s forgo the easy way. In October, I found myself at a funeral for a friend’s daughter, who was just shy of her 19th birthday. She’s just a kid. It’s the phrase that played on repeat the whole day. At the service, two things were emphasized that struck a deep, reverberating chord in me: — Finish your…

  • sun dreams

    Sun dreams! You are naughty, wakeful spiteful dreams! Leaving no trace but a whisper, a whisper Uttered by those who know but stranger to the one whose fate is sowed In sun dreamed dreams

  • I Don’t Do Happy: a Writing History

    My writing origins are murky at best. As an early elementary-schooler, I remember writing things like “Happy Easter, [heartsign] Loria” with my name going off the edges of the Bunny-shaped construction paper gift meant for Mom and Dad. As is many times the case, my writing history begins with my reading history, which begins in…

  • Pub or Perish

    My publisher has notified me in writing that I am contractually obligated to say I did a reading (a little ditty called Pub or Perish) on Sunday that corresponded with the Arkansas Literary Festival. Rumor has it I did not perish. Thank you to the menfolk who made that reading (and writing) possible. Except for…

  • Lost Skin

    There is nothing quite as uniquely satisfying as a good book. A book of the soul, writing that just clicks with some inherent voice in your head. You won’t find me talking about authors’ love sonnets and classics, reciting flowing language that sags and droops like the lost, loose skin that falls in defeat when…

  • A Summary of My Life Thus Far

    I’m a writer or something like that. I will regain my status as a tap dancer soon. I had a boy, lost a boy, got another boy. Loss pending. I adopted a dog, adopted another one, and adopted another one (the last of which was in part due to my fondness of odd numbers, 3s…

  • Writing Inspiration: Dating

    A good date is always a bad date for a writer. I get a rush of delight when I realize things have gone horribly awry and I’m stuck in a situation that I will be forced to endure for another 53 minutes. It’s sweet, the taste of the meat of him, the reassuring thought that…

  • A Reader’s Purge: Binging on the Ruminations of Little Girls and Dying

    I’ve been crying since I was eight years old. Blame Lurlene McDaniel. I do. In the summer of 1987, I found death on a shelf at the Lee County Library in Sanford, North Carolina. I had been looking for those pre-teen romance novels, the ones where boys didn’t have naughty intentions and girls said no…