Tag: coffee

let’s build

I get asked fairly often how it is that I do what I do. For a long time I didn’t realize that not everyone has an endless loop of stories in their heads or characters that pull up a chair to have a chat. It seems inconceivable to me and I know that in those

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sunshine and kindness

August is something of a transition month for me. When I lived in Upstate New York as a kid, it had this impending feeling of autumn, but with the heat and free spirit of summer. Corn of the cob and macaroni salads filled picnic tables, kids splashed about in Lake Ontario, and trees were just

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what matters is now

For a long time, in my teens and early twenties, I was sure that we would see the end of the world in my lifetime. Part of me clung to science fiction in what I only now recognize as hope that I was wrong, or some unacknowledged notion that even if Armageddon was to happen,

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love what you do, do what you love

Every story I write, there comes a time somewhere in the writing or editing (or both) where I decide the whole plotline sucks, when I’m ready to chuck the whole thing and give up writing forever. Every single time. Sometimes at multiple points in the journey from concept to published story. I’ve recently hit this

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the morning ritual

Human beings tend toward ritual, even if it is in an informal manner. Take for instance the morning coffee. There is a precise manner and order for arriving at a delicious, hot cup of coffee. For me, that ritual begins after my morning ablution. And, because I’m owned by two cats, it includes their morning

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the beauty in brevity

There is something I love about the freedom in a short story. There is no obligation to begin at the beginning, in fact it is sometimes more fun to jump in somewhere in the middle. Short stories ask more skill of us authors, in some ways, than a full length novel. There is the challenge

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to office or not to office, I’ll just stay home, thanks

This has been a tough week, and I’m not even really sure why. But the good news is that we have made it to the Friday and there is only about 6.5 work hours between me and the weekend. I’ll admit to a certain amount of anxiousness about this whole “returning to normal” thing that

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what goes around, comes around

At the risk of alienating some of you, I’m going to talk about being a woman of a certain age, with all the attendant drama and bodily functions. If this might bother you, please just keep going about your day and ignore me. I find it interesting that here, on the approach to fifty-three and

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