I have been contemplating a phrase from the Book of Common Prayer. Even as I read it silently, I hear this particular prayer sung in
In No Time to Spare, Le Guin seems to challenge Franklin’s pervasive, pernicious quote that we must “write something worth reading or do something worth writing about.” What is worth reading and writing about? Galaxies, journeys, and revolutions, certainly, but also cats, trees, and eggs. What is worth doing? Imagining different worlds, exploring important questions, and creating magnificent narratives, most definitely, but also caring for pets, cultivating traditions, and cooking breakfasts.
Badly pronounced words do not trouble me, for it indicates that the speaker is more used to reading and writing than talking. Badly used words, however, trouble me immensely.
I have been journaling for over ten years now. My first entry from 2010 begins with the ever-eloquent “Arghhhh!” of a furious thirteen-year-old. I was
The other day, I asked my dad to print my dissertation at his office. That evening, I found it neatly stacked on the counter and
Stickers cover the back of my laptop, forming a small collage of my personality and of the various influences in my life. In the centre