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Large meadows are lovely for picnics and romping, but they are for the lighter feelings. Meadows do not make me want to write.

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Feeling Lighter Lovely Meadow Picnic Romp Writing

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The stories themselves haunt, they stick around, they linger, inhabiting a little corner of the reader’s brain and resurfacing to evoke mystery or sadness or longing.
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That she might not actually know us seemed the humblest thing a mother could admit.
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I watched as she added a question mark at the end. Arc, line, space, dot.
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The most so far, because she found the saddest thing of all to be the simple truth of her capacity to move on.
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Pouring over me, but it was a different kind, siphoned from a different, and tamer, body of water. I was her darling daughter; Joseph was her it.
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