Done. Finally, done.
To the land of Parrot Chickens.
2017 was a mean year.
and other things I do.
What poetry and Brussel sprouts have in common.
Self-publishing starts innocently enough…
I’m not proud of what I did. In my defense, I was in my early twenties.
What happens after the happy dance…
Editing the editing, and then when you’re done, edit some more.
I was fifty-nine years old and someone had scribbled “Why should I care?” in thick red ink on my hard-fought 300-page manuscript. Not just once but every few pages. Wait, it gets better. I sold a saddle to pay for this! It started on Christmas Eve, my second least-favorite day of the year. I packed up … Read more