reading is…


After all, reading is arguably a far more creative and imaginative process than writing; when the reader creates emotion in their head, or the colors of the sky during the setting sun, or the smell of a warm summer’s breeze on their face, they should reserve as much praise for themselves as they do for the writer—perhaps more.

insight: The Well of Lost Plots, Jasper Fforde


a poem…

White is the color of little bunnies with pink noses.
White is the color of fluffy clouds fluffing their way across the sky.
White is the color of angel wings and Angel’s wings.
White is the color of brand-new ankle socks fresh out of the bag.
White is the color of crisp sheets in schmancy hotels.
White is the color of every last freaking, gol-danged thing you see for endless miles and miles if you happen to be in Antarctica trying to save the world, which now you aren’t so sure you can do because you feel like if you see any more whiteness-Wonder Bread, someone’s underwear, teeth-you will completely and totally lose your ever-lovin’ mind and wind up pushing a grocery cart full of empty cans around New York City, muttering to yourself.

That was my first poem ever.
Okay, so it’s not Shakespeare, but I liked it.

Poem: by Max, from The Final Warning – James Patterson

Inky: hmmm..  so did I.  I’m back, had to take a little break.  House is still trashed but I got all Zen about it.   Walked away, new backpack and I and lazed somewhere with mimosas.   See?  Zen…



Doing:  surveying the stuff all over my floor, sipping a toddy and wondering when I can come back home…



Comic: PHDComics

Doing: Trying to write, and failing.  I’m out of my element, and my mind is insistent on returning home before it will let go of the first word.   ARGH!!!  Where’s the bourbon? Yes I know it’s morning, but bourbon goes well with coffee, right?  Right?


I’ll see you sometime, Monday.    Maybe…


For those I come from, there is nothing more devouring than the feeling of want for home, the feeling of need for home. We are all waiting for a form of transport, a ship, a saucer to carry us out of the too-dark night.

In Tune: Hanna Assadi
Image: found at

Doing: So the bathroom repair is coming along.  The entire floor pulled up, new joists in place, new shower purchased, new flooring and a carpenter with a big hammer who knows his stuff.

But I feel out of whack.  I miss the comfort of my home. Where I am staying is nice, very nice, but it’s not home.   Another week or so I’m being told.

Am I whining?   You bet your boots I am.   I feel like the nuts and bolts are coming loose, I hear them rattling and pinging to the ground.  I’m not writing and it’s driving me crazy…

at night…

theguardian com

At night, when the objective world has slunk back into its cavern and left dreamers to their own, there come inspirations and capabilities impossible at any less magical and quiet hour. No one knows whether or not he is a writer unless he has tried writing at night.

Observation: HP Lovecraft

writing tip: persistence…


You must keep sending work out; you must never let a manuscript do nothing but eat its head off in a drawer. You send that work out again and again, while you’re working on another one. If you have talent, you will receive some measure of success – but only if you persist.

Sound Advice: Isaac Asimov
Comic: Charles Schultz

Doing: So it’s like this, evidently my shower was installed wrong, and I will now need a new bathroom.  Seriously.

So I’m moving out for the next two weeks while our contractor completely revamps my lovely old bathroom.   <sighs>

Mood:  Annoyed, Sad.  Packing, and muttering, muttering and packing….

writing about?


So okay― there you are in your room with the shade down and the door shut and the plug pulled out of the base of the telephone. You’ve blown up your TV and committed yourself to a thousand words a day, come hell or high water.

Now comes the big question: What are you going to write about?

The equally big answer: Anything you damn well want.

Advice: Stephen King, Writing: a Memoir of the Craft
Image: found at pixels

Doing: wondering how anyone knew the plug on the phone is pulled, the shades are down, and the door shut?  Starts searching the room for hidden cameras…..

Mood: Mellow.  A glass of wine on the nearby table, the house is really quiet, in my fave soft jeans, and an oversize tshirt, curled up in a comfy chair re-reading MC Beaton.  I really love the hot mess that is Agatha Raisin.

So I’ve been asked…


..what is in the backpack I keep grabbing when I head out. Although it’s ratty, and well loved, it holds my survival gear.

And it goes like this: my journal of course, a couple of pens, matches in an airtight container, a change of clothes, my phone charger, my phone, stashed cash and credit card, travel toiletries, my daddy’s army knife, d-battery, brillo pad, a small phillips and flathead screw driver, small flashlight, a fishing hook and coiled line, small first aid kit, and a small sealed bottle of bourbon (for medicinal purposes of course).   On my keychain is were the pepper spray lives and my car has a sleeping kit of sorts in the back.

In my food tote: a thermos of coffee, sandwiches, normally some olives & cherries in plastic air tight containers, slim jims, peanuts, some cylinders of instant coffee, water, and a small sealed bottle of bourbon (for medicinal purposes of course).

What?  No, I didn’t repeat myself. I always have two small bottles of bourbon with me. You are aware that there is more than one kind of snake running wild out there.  Right?

Image: odysseyonline

Mood: Sad.  I’m gonna have to buy a new backpack the seams are finally giving way.  This one has seen alot of adventures, and miles with me.   The day Sally broke down out on the middle of nowhere, the afternoon we found a field of lavender going on forever, and ever, the night we met my first love, and the weekend we traveled north to bury him.  The summer we ran away to Texas and started all over, and the night we found our self in some really, really bad company.

This is going to be hard…

unlike most writers…


You see, unlike most writers today, I do not use a computer. I write the old-fashioned way: on the walls of caves.

Humorist: Cuthbert Soup
Comic: Baloo

Doing: it’s Saturday folks!  I’m going to drink a mug of coffee, don jeans and a tshirt, and hit the road. Remember experiences enrich writing.  I’m about add some more of that experiencing stuff to my cache.

Mood: Happy.  Sun is shining, my car is full of go juice, and so am I.  Gonna grab my backpack, a thermos some sammies, my keys and I’ll see you sometime Monday.  Go have some fun!