I’ve been reading Dying to be Me by ANITA MOORJANI. I had first heard of her several years ago…
I think Thanksgiving is kind of like Valentine’s Day—if someone beats their partner 364 days a year but brings them chocolate on Valentine’s Day, does that mean that Valentine’s Day is special?
Fiction, I’ve read (somewhere) is the art of telling lies that present a greater truth. Fiction walks the tightrope between fantasy and reality.
I have a confession to make: I have lost my voice. It’s here, somewhere, or there somewhere. Maybe it’s next to my car keys I can’t find at the moment, either.
I f we are to eventually accept that we can, in fact, be change makers, with both ourselves and the world, how do we even begin that journey?
In the excitement of having sooo much to write about, my horses were so far behind the cart that they were still checking out the Golden Gate Bridge while the cart was taking in a Broadway show.