I signed up for belly dancing and for a Feisty Girls Writing Workshop ( Read more... )

Culling through old stuff. Here's a Jessica story.

Another 18 kitchen counters, another 15 kitchen sinks and .... Honestly, I'd settle for a kitchen that is actually a kitchen. The table that separates my "kitchen" (appliances) from my "living room" looks like a ghost town. White towels are draped over a good many ferments and soaks. Forget trying to squeeze another thing on this table. ( Read more... )

Woke up to fleas in the kitchen
(that really isn't a kitchen),
mold on my sunflower sprouts,
acne on my face and back,
and all sorts of
worry about Jessica,
worry about the grandgoobers.
And major, major PMS.

( As the day progresses, ... )

I fretted over the library's last writers' workshop. But I went. It was a miserable experience. I don't do well with writing prompts, especially not while festering fear in front of others. And forget reading aloud whatever prompted scribble did make it on paper. Yeah, a writhing writing experience. So what have I done? I've signed up for ( Read more... )

This writers' workshop thing has my panties in a twist. Why did I sign up? Why? I have two and a half hours to prepare. There are eight participants, mind you. But the blurb says you'll be given prompts to write about and then you're to read them before the others. I don't do well with prompts. I freeze over a prompt. (Let me write about ( Read more... )

It makes me want to write. Not true. I've always wanted to write. Rather, it makes me believe I can and could if only I tried.

It's hot today.