A Mini-Manifesto on Bliss
Two beautiful romances for any age group.
It's okay to exploit death, really.
This is why I hate biopics, damn it.
In which the Author Discovers a Victorian Sex Manual and Hilarity Ensues!
What's it take to be the greatest writer in the English language?
Get out the popcorn for this classic treat!
What happens when I face a disaster in real life?
There are more lessons than I expected.
What does it mean when history provides no easy answers?
A sweet treat for your weekend.
The play's the thing, and for the most part, the movie has nailed it.
I try to explain my fascination with a certain type of very naughty hero.
An evening's idyll with Jane Austen fits the romance bill nicely.
Just enough information about the Victorians to help a reader beginningJane Eyre.
Movie Recommendation for your weekend viewing pleasure.
Thoughts on John Donne's "Meditation XVII."
cascades, like a river’s current. Spring
/has finally arrived, green and reaching, while
/wildflowers, petite (mostly pink), line the trail beneath
Proposal for a class on Jane Eyre. Are you in?
An essay on the problems with the movie adaptations of Jane Eyre.
My novel... you can buy it! Please do!
A clock, older than time itself,
/chimes out the hour.
I begin the unconscious
/for the ringing thunder --
And the dance begins: a hop
/a shuffle forward, and a half-step back.
its rushing water down
/shelves and steps of rock. Here
/they built their platforms, each one
/the whole inheritance of families. Perched
I have made attempts to command him
/and to domesticate his wild, animal stillness – that
/is what we humans do, after all: we vanquish him –
You raised your hands
/to stop their fall, but you could not
/keep them from their deaths, and I saw
as the instructor points the tips of his skis
/downhill in a neat plow. “Follow me,” he cries,
/and one by one, we push off from stillness,
/a wounded snake, stilted and cautious.
my angel is the fire of Divinity, an archangel,
/sword raised for when my fear makes me cower
/and my passion flees and I am left alone, whispering.
for pheasants, golden-eared pheasants,
/with burnished coats of rajah's jewels
the waist-high grasses, these monuments to nature’s impending death stand
/ominous against the grey line of sky above the black roaring ocean.
Before this moment, there was no way to look
/across to one another. Suddenly, how tightly we are tied,
/equally lit by the flickering fluorescent bulbs above.
She carries no suitcase of worn brown
/leather, the surface cracked and scored
/like skin spent in a lifetime of sun.
untethered, trying to touch sunspots
/or maybe flares -- blown by the breath
/of an awestruck God and briefly
and pass it through trembling, joyous air
/with a hum of imagined electricity.
Standing before statues,
/lifting near-frozen faces
/and bananas to mock the grapes
/dripping from a granite hand.
As featureless as a blank check
/A smooth, white road too deep to drive
I pressed the blankets to my ears and wished it dead. I envisioned
/its drab, stifled body and weak feathers, until dawn when I awoke
all guts, no glory. We lifted,
/shifted and rolled, as golden
/filaments of swift wind lit
/our round windows
An essay about a little boy who likes pink.
A short story about a dissatisfied young girl on vacation, and her sister's boyfriend.
A short story about an orphaned girl and a very cold bunny.
A short story about a child's rebellion.
We read by candlelight, gentle and clear /And fall asleep in our long underwear.
Part 4 of a semi-autobiographical series about my time as an exchange student in New Zealand.
Part 3 of a semi-autobiographical series about my time as an exchange student in New Zealand.
Part 2 of a semi-autobiographical series about my time as an exchange student in New Zealand.
Part 1 of a semi-autobiographical series about my time as an exchange student in New Zealand.
"Masie's Wedding" is a horror story, and one of the first I wrote in college.
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