Happy nearly spring. What a crappy, hard knocks winter. I've turned into a bitch and I'm not even up north where I know people I love and miss are cold and aching and dry and tired and working, working, working. Strip come the sun, my friends. Peel it off!
Your stories will be better than anyone anywhere else. Write them down quick before all the snow melts.
My life isn't what I wished for. Nothing close. That statement about being careful what you wish for couldn't be more of a lie in fact. Phooey! Most I can see of myself is that I think I may make it to die okay. There's a house to finally have (to walk inside and drop a bag and sigh deeply in relief because I have a space I belong in; that kind of a thing), and working to pay that off, with beneificaries on this and that (did I spell that wrong? oops!), and that's it. I'd like to have a house to leave to someone.
I am convinced that when I have such a perch I will write the big, fat book. No rush.
Finger's crossed my 140 character poem get's picked up for the anthology. I did win first place for a DRAFT of a poem, "When We Are Old", at the Pamlico Writers Conference, and my poem "What Will Sit You Down" received honorable mention. Was a neat day. I made a prompt friend. (that has two meanings.) There's my poem "July 1973" coming out in the July online issue of the Blue Lake Review. I have more. So, there I go.