When I Cannot Write a Story

When I Cannot Write a Story

Four years back, this room smelled of acrylic and turpentine. Stained brushes fanned out in jars, bouquets of spotted color on horse hair. Canvas after canvas leaned against these walls…Summer Yellow Wheat, Reading Tree, Starbursts…all windows to...
A Bowl for Stars

A Bowl for Stars

I have a thing for words pounded out, a mallet to metal spreading sky like a bowl for stars. What is the creative life but this brush with infinity? One more keystroke at the end of the page, edge of the formless void, the yet wordless place, and a new page springs...