a gift for fiction

Eight out of 10 people believe they have a book in them. Do you need help getting yours out?

book coach3

tic toc

It’s not too late to join January Journal Camp! Join the tribe, get writing prompts delivered straight to your inbox each morning for a month, journal in your fuzzy bunny slippers. Talk about starting your year the write way. Just sayin’

January Journal Camp (virutal)writer's workshop

WRITE. NOW.

Join me in January to jump-start your journal practice. Write better, write now.

January Journal Camp (virutal)writer's workshop

Journal Camp Day 25

What I Never Told Anyone

  1. You’re smokin’ hot!
  2. That hat makes you look fat.
  3. No cake for me, thanks.
  4. I’ll have seconds of that liver!
  5. That mushroom tapenade doesn’t look like dog food.
  6. I’ll have the duck feet.
  7. Let me wax the car, darling!
  8. Move over, there’s room for all of us.
  9. Give me your tire iron.
  10. I love to go car shopping!
  11. Why yes, I’d love to get into a bidding war for that condo!
  12. Fried clams: mmm!
  13. There are never enough wildfires.
  14. Oregon pinot noir: meh.
  15. Travel is over-rated.
  16. Self-care is a waste of time.
  17. My chosen tribe doesn’t get me.
  18. True love is an illusion.
  19. God takes all my plans very seriously!
  20. Who needs income equity?
  21. Democracy as we know it is in no danger whatsoever.
  22. Creative writing is for fools.
  23. Canada is just too nice.
  24. Civility is for suckers.
  25. Watch out – that dog looks dangerous.
  26. Please, let me shave that beard for you.

Journal Camp day 22

Saying I love you

He said I love you by calling her back from her circle, by competing with her banjo, by holding her hostage to starving ghosts. He said I love you one hundred and ten percent and therefore you owe me something in return. You owe me I love you back one hundred and eleven percent. Can you dig it? She laughed, then sobered. Oh, you’re serious then, she said. Those words cut. Those words did not say I love you one hundred and twelve percent. Okay then, she said. I will shave back my performances by ten percent, cross my heart and hope to die. What else, he averred, there must be more. Well, she replied, I will cut back visits with my sisters by twenty-five percent. All together, that’s thirty-five percent more for you. That’s pretty good, hey? I can say I love you thirty-five percent more than before. Harumph! He tooted. I still love you more. Is that the best you can do? I’ve given you one hundred and thirteen percent of my heart and I still don’t feel your love. What about my children, she asked. I’ve given them back to their father for you. I walked them back to their paternal home. When do I get credit for that? Children belong to their father, he said. A woman belongs to her lover. She practiced saying I love you, I love you, I love you, in the mirror. Finally, she thought: the truth.

Journal Camp: day 12

My Oldest Living Relative

My oldest living relative would by my aunt, my mother’s sister. She was one of four children, and she had nine babies with my uncle. As a reward for a life well lived, she is our matriarch. It is so strange to move inevitably closer to that category: the elder generation. The wise ones. The ones with institutional memory. Where do the stories go when the elders are gone? Does the narrative lose its bite? Do the family mythologies soften around the edges like a cherished photograph carried for years in a wallet? Perhaps family stories are like an image that over time fades until only the ghost of an persona remains.