A Writer’s Whim

Skimming the stories I loved so, I saw the growth of a writer. Glimmers of the novel I am drafting now and the woman I am becoming shine out in those early pages of limping syntax and predictable plots. Every now and then, a good sentence or single word stands out and says, "There is hope for you yet, Scribbler."

Late Night Writes

When night falls yet I cannot sleep, words crowd my brain. The following two poems, one serious and the other silly, are the products of last night's writing: "Hover" I lay still in my bed yet hover 'tween the sheets propelled by the heart¬† which wakefully beats.¬† A'whirl my mind spirals through darkening, deep space…