truth

After 431 wordles, my start word finally hits. That’s enough writing for today.

A visual history of watermelon in America. My latest Bitter Southerner story traces the evolution of this symbolic fruit, in abundant times and terrible times. Got to spit some seeds, too. bittersoutherner.com/feature/2023/w…

My mother saved up to buy me an absurdly expensive fountain pen years ago and I didn’t appreciate it at the time. Today, I used it to sign with a literary agency. Never question mothers.

My sister had a talking Pee-wee Herman doll as her car mascot. In heavy traffic we’d roll down the windows pull the string and let it cackle. While chanting “I know you are but what am I?” Never failed to crack us up.

Whoosh goes 9,065 words. Might quit early and go fishing.

I wrote six sentences today. This counts as two of them.

Missed seeing Mavis Staples four times during pandemic concert chaos but last night I finally got to hear a legend live on stage.

RIP Miss Emily. She taught me how to make breakfast shrimp. May she shine among the stars.

Please read this essay by Anne Byrn

Green eyes and a love of old books by chatty authors. That’s what I got from my Irish family. Go bragh.

With all due respect, why are authors still being told we won’t ever make any money, so just do it for the art? I’m so utterly tired.