When I was in junior high school, and dad and I watched a horror movie about vampires. I don’t remember which one. What I do remember is my father, a goofy hippy, making a joke about hippy vampires.
I sometimes say that I grew up in the middle of nowhere, but that’s not quite true. If I really think it over, it’s more accurate to say that my little town perched on the edge of nowhere.
Those essays didn’t start out as anything ambitious, either. At their core, they’re just primal screams.
When I was in the first grade, I was probably the only girl in my class who’d never gone rabbit hunting with her father.
I remember almost nothing about him. I just remember he was there, that I cared for him, and his name.
What was the first evil thing you loved?
Everyone has a first memory. Over the years, memories fade and shift, altered as we lose the truth behind them and start to shape them based on our retellings. Earliest memories may fade into still images, as many of mine have, but we all still have them. They linger on. Some are cherished, but not all.
Going home it always bitter sweet. As I crossed into my home county, I felt the anxiety settling in. I was home, and that was only comforting until it suddenly wasn’t.
Last night, I enjoyed a short story by one of my favorite authors: “The Last Question”, by Isaac Asimov. I’ve long admired his work, but when someone told me that he’d written a brilliant short story that deals with the same topic as a story I’m currently working on, I had to check it out.
Have you ever gone onto Twitter, Reddit, or some other broad writer space on the internet and seen all the joking about procrastinating instead of writing?