Hi loves, I hope this message finds you well and enjoying your summer. It's been an incredibly busy time for my family. We've traveled, hosted beloved guests, celebrated the end of school, and attended several fun-filled events. In fact, our frenzied pace doesn't show signs of slowing any time soon. I'm writing now from the skies, on my way to Santa Fe to celebrate my mother's 70th birthday. One of a few more celebratory trips scheduled for the next month. In between the big shiny happenings of the summer, I've been revising a novel, helping friends with their writing projects, and considering next steps in my own creative career. Not all of this has been easy. You might remember that I signed with my first agent in March 2017. It was a thrilling and joyous experience. I'm still grateful for the energy and hope that opportunity sparked. Unfortunately, our relationship didn't work out and I chose to terminate my contract this past week. It was a dif
Poem 23. Just one week left. Gentle reminder that I love your poetic responses (but I also just love you). Here, have a sonnet: The Realist’s Plea By Edith Hope Bishop, November 2015 I think no godly basket will collect, the souls we’ve dared to cultivate. Nor will some cosmic lottery select, which spirits live and join the greats. I can’t see us returned as trees, nor soldiers brave, nor kindly priests. Though some profess eternity, it seems to me that all will cease. What was whole will fall apart. What was real will scatter. Though we love with all our hearts, None of this will matter. Yet there is Peace in time’s demise, And Peace in life, if we be wise.
A year ago today I lost one of the greatest loves of my life. Phoebe Search was bright, hilarious, deeply sensitive, and stubbornly joyful. She loved to sing at the top of her lungs, preferably for an audience. She loved adventure and mischief and philosophy and psychology and pop culture and garbage TV and smut. God, she loved smut. In delightful contrast, she was her best around children, and loved all of them, including her own, with the special ferocity of a mother who cherishes every fart and runny nose. She wanted nothing more than to shelter and protect their innocence from all the hardest parts of life. She’d seen more than her fair share. She knew loss and rejection and horrors I wish no soul ever had to endure. People she loved sometimes brutally hurt her. Physical and mental anguish were familiar guests in her body. But she was also a powerful force for survival and flourishing against the odds. She survived all kinds of suffering to live and laugh and dress up for ano