Years ago in the scorching heat of the summer months, my mom took me peach picking. We walked along the rows of trees picking the peaches straight off the branches. Some went into the bag while others went straight into my mouth. They were warm and ripe. The juice dripped down my chin and I …
Why you write
I can say with complete honesty that I fear never writing again more than I fear death. A fellow writer once asked me what I would do if I was told I could never write again. I told her I would explode. Simple as that. Just the thought of it alone made me short of …
642 Things to Write About 