Tag: Writing
-
Showing Up
Writing is a lonely business. Alissa knows. That’s why she pulled me toward the table. Because she knows me.
-
One Page Turned Into a Week of Saying ‘I Like You’
1980s. New kid. A girlfriend with a binder full of hearts, a Mormon friend, a Coke machine full of Pepsi, and one simple request: write me a real note. I should have known better than to start.
-
Worth Reading. Worth Hearing.
The algorithm rewards volume. And packaging. But what does it do with the craft? Here’s what I didn’t say in the comment box.
-
The Cheap Seats
Yesterday I wrote replies for strangers on LinkedIn. By the fifth one, I caught it. Same question, every time. I just didn’t know I was asking it.
-
With Me When It’s Scariest
I was five the first time I dialed a phone. A yellow rotary on the wall. My grandmother’s number. My dad behind me on the barstool. I’ve been dialing scary numbers ever since.
-
The Overqualification Olympics
Overqualified. Overeducated. Over fifty. Enthusiastic. Reasonably caffeinated. This is my situation, and I am choosing to find it funny. Mostly.
-
Writing That Happened
I read a faith column in Sunday’s paper. Three numbered points. Charlie Brown opener. A tidy bow at the end. And nowhere did the writer tell me what he was afraid of. New post on Five Minute Observations. What does showing up actually look like? Link in bio.
-
Told It Gently
A budget meeting goes sideways. Words land like scalding coffee. Ten years later, everyone still remembers the room. What’s in the cave your words come from?
-
Key? What key?
Marcus woke up hungover, handcuffed to a steering wheel, and missing his Ray-Bans. The key belongs to Eric. Eric is somewhere over the Pacific. And Doug? Doug wants a breakfast burrito. Some mornings just go sideways from the first click.
-
Three Feet
Fran drives to the far end of the Walmart parking lot every time. The walk tells her more than any interview. Thomas Sudameyer IV has a Patek Philippe on his wrist and a 2:30 he keeps mentioning. He’s about to find out that how you treat a cashier, a cart pusher, and a stranger in…
-
Theology Or Horror. Who’s Driving?
Patrick Holloway walked into that book club with four good points and a disciplined spine. Candice Pruett walked in with rubber bands and color-coded tabs. One of them was more prepared than they knew. The best lessons don’t come from conferences. They come from rooms like this. Theology or Horror. Who’s Driving? New post. Five…
-
The Word Got Very Tired
“I was this close.” Danny shows the gap between his thumb and forefinger. “I had it on me. I just. I couldn’t.” “None of us did.” Ray’s voice is flat. The woman at the counter picks up her phone. Nobody moves. They have ten minutes. Maybe less. And everything that comes after depends on what…
-
A Brief Inconvenience
Is it worth it to show up? Misery loves company. We lied. We just didn’t want to be alone. Showing up depends on what you’re carrying.
-
Treatment. Or Freedom.
He thought he threw away 8 months sobriety. From a broken chair she offered grace. I almost kept walking. Three people. One hallway. And a lesson none of us can afford to miss.
-
When Nobody’s Watching
The afternoon sun hit her face. Keys in hand, she did the math. Rent in nine days. Electric past due. Javier needed new shoes. Not wanted. Needed. Forty-three dollars in checking. Then she saw it.
-
Which Direction Leads Home
Once, a long time ago, I had a friend. He was someone who I knew didn’t agree with me on, well, pretty much everything, including politics. He called me an idiot for believing the way I did, and it was people like me who made it harder for people like him to give away money,…
-
White Paint
Pledge wood cleaner. The scent of lemon washed over Marla the second she stepped through the church doors. A sharp citrus scent and underneath it, something much older, mustier, harder to scrub away. Old hymnals. Wool carpet. The smell ancient churches accumulate whether they want to or not. It’s a smell Marla notices because she…
-
The Witness
Oliver walked out of Henderson Hardware into the late May afternoon, a plastic bag in one hand and a crowbar in the other. He wore what he always wore for weekend projects: khaki cargo shorts, a faded Cardinals t-shirt, and the old New Balance sneakers Sarah used to tease him about. She’d been gone four…