Sharing Our Stories

Sharing Our Stories

It is not our accolades and accomplishments that make us great storytellers. It is in remembering when Grandma Hazel peeled a double-yolk Easter egg, when Dad bought me a pair of Lee jeans and red leg warmers so I would fit in with the other girls in 7th grade, when my younger brother got hit in the back with a firecracker, and when my mother made vegetable beef soup in her black, speckled roasting pan.  It is remembering the day I met my beautiful sister, the day my sophomore English teacher gave me permission to do a project on Madonna, and the day my older brother defended me on the school bus. These are not earth-shattering events, but they are my stories.

In Good Company

In Good Company

Whether we write for a living or for ourselves, we often do much of what we do in isolation. The camaraderie with fellow writers is difficult to achieve. As the supervisor of a college writing center, my staff and I are somewhat of our own island. We have fascinating conversations amongst ourselves that no one else on campus would give two shakes of a stick to listen to. And in terms of my personal writing, there are very few people I trust to share it with, so that circle of collaboration is even smaller, tighter, and harder to break through.

Is the Election Over Yet? Please?

Is the Election Over Yet? Please?

This morning, I so, so long for civil debate. I’m tired of hearing about affairs, possible affairs, emails, secretly taped conversations, and radical Black Panther ties. I’m tired of listening to candidates dodge the questions of substance they are given and instead marching out their tv dinner, pre-prepared rants and ravings. I’m tired of devisive, biased news coverage that proves that journalism is no longer a craft, but a vintage, forgotten art form.