For Anyone Who Has Ever Been Asked “So What Do You Like to Be Called?”

Painting On Scars

Leaving you this summer day with some astute observations from comedian Hari Kondabolu about the power of social constructs, or rather, our strong attachment to them.

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Weekend Edition – Writing and Money Plus Good Reads and Writing Tips

Live to Write - Write to Live

Let’s get down to brass tacks: Writing and Money

Art by Hugh MacLeod of Gaping Void Art by Hugh MacLeod of Gaping Void

I realize that this little blog post is to the topic of writing and money as one ice cube is to the 200,000-ton bulk of your average iceberg. Nevertheless, the topic has been on my mind lately so I’m going to go ahead and share my ice cube’s worth of random thoughts.

I have been self-employed since my divorce in 2007 – first as a web development project manager, but since about 2009 as a copywriter and content marketer. I may still be driving my 2002 Pathfinder and wearing many of the clothes that I packed for my move out of the “marital home,” but I have also managed to successfully maintain an income that’s kept me and my daughter well housed, well fed, and – while not exactly living in the lap of…

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Writing As a Way of Life

boy with a hat

woman writing painting

Many people want to become authors these days, to be published and make a living writing fiction. And many of them work hard on their books. Yet only relatively few writers bloom into authors in the true sense of the word — dedication doesn’t guarantee success. I sometimes wonder what makes the difference between those who work hard and succeed and those who work hard and don’t.

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Butterfly Mind

My grandfather had a great round belly, and he wore dentures. He and my grandmother lived on a hundred acres of hilly land in dairy country, in Eatonton, Georgia. When we visited, I knocked the spider webs out of Nannie’s rubber boots each morning, and I walked through the dewy grass with Grandaddy to the compost pile, where he’d dump the canteloupe rinds from breakfast and the green bean tips from last nights dinner. I looked up at the hollowed out gourds he hung for bird houses, and after tossing the produce scraps on the pile, we walked among the peach trees.

The air smelled different in the morning because the world was cool and wet. The grass smelled grassier, the earth smelled earthier. Later in the day the world would smell musty and oppressive: hot. But in the morning it smelled fresh. Since Grandaddy and Nannie didn’t have cows…

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