“The thing is…” A story begins the way a forest does with one stubborn, hopeful tree. But neither grows in polite symmetry. They sprawl, they scorch, they resurrect. Fire, drought, writer’s block, rewrites… these are the storms that shape both roots and chapters. So here you are, quill raised. Step into the wild. Welcome the fog, the questions, the crooked path your characters insist on taking. That restless idea inside your head? It’s time you let it breathe.

“Get me out of here!” At nineteen, our daughter was sure of nothing, but positive about this.  Southern Oregon University was “too small,...

Fall is a lady. The languid summer party dwindles into, sameness (as it always does).  Today was yesterday, yesterday was...

It's lunchtime.   You're hungry. Applebees is down the street, but you head over to Tom's diner, the last non-chain restaurant in town. ...