I muscled my way through writing as I did with mountaineering, relying more on brute force than actual technique. In mountaineering it nearly got my killed and as a writer it kept me at the junior varsity level of blogger…. Read More ›
We’d drive the twisted road down from France across the border and into the crowded dusty parking lot in Spain then return home with cases of wine and if they had it, the Bols oude genever.
We are animated by a force that inhabits this shell, bound to it.
We didn’t move to the beach for that, we moved there to postpone growing up for one more summer.
It is a small but very precious part of me hanging in our front window.
Maybe the art was in the refashioning of otherwise useless things.
I started to learn that to write is to live, and you can’t do much of the former without the latter.