I still remember the first time I read my own work in front of a group of people. I was 21. It was at an open-mic at the University of Alabama called “Common Ground.” The poem I was reading was about domestic violence. Continue reading
When I tell people I’m a writer, they usually respond with some version of, “I’ve been trying to write a book…” and then this trails off into infinity. But then I ask, “What’s it about?” And I’m genuinely interested. I want to see everyone write the book they’ve been wanting to write. I thoroughly enjoy discussing manuscripts and drafts with writers. It’s something I geek out over. I especially like having these conversations with people who don’t yet call themselves writers. Continue reading
There was a time you actually called yourself a “real writer.” You took every opportunity to write. You were desperate, at any time of day or night to get to your notebook. Maybe you slept with it next to your bed so you could write your dreams and thoughts immediately. You were an active lover of the written word and your nose was always in a book—if you weren’t writing. Continue reading
This is the final post in the series.
My mother has five children. She has always considered me her turtle. And I am–sometimes to my own frustration. But being a turtle works, too, because little by little, bead by bead, you are moving forward. Continue reading