Tag Archives: Creative Nonfiction

The Right-Size Glass

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“Accept—then act. Whatever the present moment contains, accept it as if you had chosen it.”

–Eckhart Tolle (b. 1948). German-born spiritual teacher and author of The Power of Now and A New Earth, whose teachings focus on presence, acceptance, and personal transformation.

A few weeks ago, over cocktails and conversation, my neighbor—an IT guy with a philosophical streak—offered a twist on the old “glass half full or half empty” dilemma. His late wife, Jody, always saw the glass as half-full, but as an engineer, Gary sees it differently:

“Just get a glass that’s the right size for what you’ve got.”

At the time, I nodded politely and filed it under:

“Clever things other people say that may or may not linger in my memory.”

Turns out, I remembered.

A few mornings later—cue ominous music!—my tablet powered up with all the charm of a sulky teenager and promptly informed me that Microsoft had done me the favor of wiping my PowerPoint app into oblivion.

This, mind you, on the eve of speaking to the Mary E. Wilkins Freeman Society—an international gathering of scholars and fellow literary sleuths—about a woman who has occupied both my imagination and my file drawers for over fifty years. The event was titled An Hour with Mary E. Wilkins Freeman and Brent L. Kendrick. The tech test was hours away. I clicked. I reinstalled. I cursed. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

And then I thought of my neighbor.

“Wrong glass, Brent.”

I hauled my all-in-one PC upstairs to the better WiFi zone, and boom—there it was. Slides intact. Calm restored. Presentation saved.

Turns out, sometimes you don’t need more water. You just need the right-size glass.

Since then, I’ve been thinking more about the right-size-glass concept, and I can think of several other times when I applied it unawares.

There was a time, for example, when I thought my glass had shattered completely. Not cracked—shattered. After Allen died, I wasn’t sure there was any vessel left that could hold what I’d once poured so freely: love, joy, even hope. For a long while, I didn’t try. But healing has its own quiet rhythm, and eventually, I realized I didn’t need the same glass. I just needed one shaped for the life I have now. It took a while, but recently I’ve found one the right size to hold who I’ve become. To hold who I am. Now.

Long before that right-size-glass moment came the time when I first moved to my mountain. I wanted a cabin in the clearing—so I cleared a wide swath of woods to make it so. I cleared far more than I could have imagined, and certainly more than I could realistically manage, especially now at my age. Some days, it feels like my glass is half empty, like I’m falling behind. But the truth is, I just need a different-sized glass. If I choose—as I have chosen—to let some of those cleared areas return to their wild, natural state, I haven’t lost anything. In fact, my glass is now full—full of birdsong and the wisdom of knowing when to stop clearing and simply let things grow.

I think we can apply the “right-size-glass” concept to more than gardening and grief.

Let’s begin with a few low-stakes moments—the ones that test our patience more than our purpose.

● Cooking substitution. Out of buttermilk? Use yogurt and lemon. Different glass. Same outcome.

● Gardening workaround. Tried planting in the wrong spot? Don’t mourn the wilt—move the pot.

● Home décor puzzle. Wardrobe too big for one wall? Move it to a room with a larger wall that showcases all of its Shaker joinery.

Some shifts, though, aren’t minor—they’re wake-up calls. Still, the right-size glass helps.

● Travel plans. Canceled? Money’s tight? Plan a “staycation” with the same sense of purpose.

● Exercise limitations. Can’t run anymore? Try swimming or yoga. Same vitality, different vessel.

● Friendship shift. Someone pulls away? Focus on others who consistently show up.

● Career detours. Passed over for a promotion? Use the freedom to explore a side gig or project with heart.

Or let’s move on up a little higher to some emotional and existential applications.

● Creative droughts. When the writing won’t flow, ask: is it really writer’s block—or just the wrong-shaped glass for the ideas trying to come through?

● Life plan upended. Divorce, retirement, illness—what happens when your “glass” shatters? You pick up what still holds and find a new container for your spirit.

● Shifting beliefs. Formerly held faith, politics, or ideals evolve? Refill your life with what still nourishes—and let go of the brittle framework.

By now, I’m willing to bet you’ve started thinking of your own moments—the ones when you didn’t force what no longer fit, but quietly shifted, adjusted, adapted. Maybe you pivoted. Maybe you paused. Either way, those are the moments that reshape a life.

So, my Dear Readers, consider this your open invitation to rethink how you hold disappointment, change, resistance—or anything else that life sets before you. Not by pouring harder into what doesn’t fit, but by choosing a different container altogether.

Here’s to finding the right-size glass—for your spirit, your strength, your joy.

The Rust Whisperer

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“Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.”

—Lao Tzu (6th century BCE. Founder of Taoism. His teachings focus on harmony with nature, patience in becoming, and the quiet power of letting life unfold in its own time.)

Every time I walked to my Jeep and looked toward the forest’s edge, I chuckled. Smack dab in front of me was a contraption the likes of which I had never seen in my life. Actually, I made it and even gave it a name. The Rust Spa.

“Say whaaaaat?” someone just rasped.

Yes. The Rust Spa. It didn’t take me long to come up with the idea. It works so well that I may apply for a patent and sell it to US Steel, the company that owns the trademark for Corten. You may know it as COR-TEN.

Either way–and rather ironically as you will discover–the COR stands for COrrosion Resistance and the TEN stands for TENsile strength. Corten is well-known for aging gracefully and creating a deep, natural tone as “the thickened oxide forms.” For me, that translates to aging gracefully as plain ole rust appears, and I actually love the deep rich natural brownish-red tone that metal takes on over time.

That’s exactly why I bought myself a Corten planter–for its trademark rusty patina. Of course, I realized when I bought it, that rusting would take time.

I knew it would take a long, long time when the planter arrived, and I opened the box. Behold! Sleek. Clean. Almost smug in its shine. Smooth bare metal, cool to the touch, untouched by time. No rust, no streaks, no signs of surrender. Just raw, industrial silver. It was so pristine it practically glinted in the morning sun, as if daring me to try to change it.

Change it, however, I would, and I knew my resolve from the start. In a bottle, I mixed equal parts of white vinegar and hydrogen peroxide with one tablespoon of salt per cup of liquid. Then I positioned the Corten planter on a stump near the forest’s edge, and every three hours or so, I sprayed it evenly like a soft mist of time.

After just a few applications, the raw steel started to shift—deep ochre streaks rippled down the surface, gathering in drips and blooms that caught the light like burnished velvet. The edges darkened, the face mottled, and the rust arrived quietly.

But I was eager for a little more fanfare. In that moment–and let history take note–I came up with the idea that will ensure my infamy: The Rust Spa. I wanted to speed up the alchemy. Easy peasy. I misted the planter with my magic spray of time. I put it inside a black yard bag to trap heat and moisture, both ideal for rust formation. Then, to keep it all in place, I inverted the delivery box and placed it on top. Voila! The Rust Spa.

The Rust Spa worked its quiet magic. When I disrobed the planter, it sat proudly on its stump throne, no longer silver and self-conscious, but cloaked in a deep, burnished rust. Its warm, mottled patina caught the light in uneven streaks, each drip and blush a quiet testament to time, to weather, to letting go. It no longer shouted; it hummed. And in that stillness, it held a beauty—neither flashy nor fresh but seasoned and settled. With a coat of boiled linseed oil, I sealed the patina in place, locking in that rich, rusty finish like a photograph of time itself.

Now, locked in time, it graces my deck in the middle of a rustic, wrought-iron table with stone top.

It’s there in all my comings and goings, and every time I cast admiring glances in its direction, I cast backward glances to my own life, to all the times when I wished to be older so that I could experience sooner all the things that I would experience later on at the appointed time.

When I was eleven and twelve, I was eager to be a teenager, so I could do the “cool stuff.” Looking back, I’m not certain what the “cool stuff” was. We didn’t have a car. We didn’t have a telephone. We had a TV, but why would I stay up late? For what? As for choices, I was known for making my own and for making them my way. Still, I wanted to fast forward my life. I wanted my own Rust Spa.

After I reached my teenage years, I was eager to be sixteen. Even though we didn’t have a family car, my sister and her husband lived next door. Judy taught me how to drive, and I thought that I had arrived when I got my driver’s license. I’m not sure why. I suppose I dreamt of driving off into the sunset with the gay date that I didn’t have in the Chevy that I didn’t own. Still, I wanted to fast forward my life. I wanted my own Rust Spa.

Then, of course, I was so eager to be eighteen, so I could get away from all the limitations of my home, my town, and my place. I did. I went to college in fast pursuit of me, myself, more authentic than the one I wasn’t really able to be in my home, my town, and my place. How ironic that I always went back on holidays and breaks. Still, I wanted to fast forward my life. I wanted my own Rust Spa.

With my degree in hand, I was eager to start climbing the rungs of my career ladder. That’s just what I did, and it ended up being a twofer. I landed a position at The Library of Congress, at home in the place with all of the books. And I found myself living on Capitol Hill, at home with me as a gay guy, realizing that I wasn’t alone. Still, I wanted to fast forward my life to a place where I could learn more. I wanted my own Rust Spa.

The place turned out to be the University of South Carolina in Columbia, where I earned my doctor’s degree in philosophy and became an expert in American Literature, British Literature, Handpress Bibliography, and, more important, where I learned that an education softens character and keeps it from being cruel. Still, I wanted to fast forward my life to a place where I had been before: home. I wanted my own Rust Spa.

I circled back home to DC and the Library of Congress. A place of emotional grounding where I felt whole, safe, and—authentic. A place where I sensed spiritual and intellectual belonging. A place where I could elevate self-acceptance from fleeting to permanent. A place where I could wrap my arms around all with all that my mother taught me as a child about diversity, equity, and inclusion and, at the same time, widen my embrace to include gender identity and sexual orientation. A place where, through the power of my pen, I soared to heights higher than I ever dreamt that words could fly. Still, I was eager to be what I had dreamt of being since the third grade: a college English professor. I wanted my own Rust Spa.

Laurel Ridge Community College opened the door, and the dream was fulfilled. Imagine! Me–a professor. A desire to stretch my students helped me stand on tiptoe looking at the bright futures of more than 7,000 students for twenty-three years. And beyond fulfilling the professional dream was realizing another one. Falling in love and exchanging wedding rings. Two men living their lives openly. Proud. Explanations? None. The happiness of our twenty-year love outlives Allen’s unexpected death. Still, I was eager to write my final chapters. I wanted my own Rust Spa.

I’m writing them now as one more part of Reinvention. Ask all who know me. I did not reTIRE because I ain’t no ways tired. In fact, I’ve been reinventing myself forever, with every twist and turn of my journey. This most recent started in 2023, and it’s turning out to be one of the most creative and productive times of my life. Five published books with others in progress. Speaking engagements several times a year, including a few that showcase not only my hopes for AI to save us from ourselves but also my hopes for online dating to spirit another Mr. Right my way so that we can co-author the closing chapters together–his, mine, ours.

And here’s where I start to chuckle again. My Corten planter had absolutely nothing to do with achieving its exquisite and inexplicable patina. I did it by speeding up the process in my Rust Spa. I kept applying my mist of time until it achieved the look that I wanted. Then, I sealed it for all eternity.

And so it is with me. Despite all the times down through the years when I wished to be older so that I could experience sooner all the things that I would experience later on at the appointed time, I could do little more than wish and dream.

In reality, I had no more control over achieving my aged patina than my planter had. It’s been a journey filled with yearnings. To arrive. To become.

In reality, every time I was eager to be “somewhere next,” I had to wait on time to take me there.

In reality, I can no more see my finish than my planter can see its.

Yet I know that it’s seasoned.

Yet I know that it’s settled.

Yet I know that it’s not finished.

Still, of this much I am certain. When the appointed time comes, soft and magical mists will seal in place patinaed perfection.

Still Foolin’ Around in Bed—Now Digitally!

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“Lovers of print are simply confusing the plate for the food.”

—Douglas Adams (1952–2001; British author and satirist best known for his cult-classic sci-fi series The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. he embraced e-books long before they were mainstream.)

Well, friends… it’s official.

The Third Time’s the Charm: Still Foolin’ Around in Bed is now available on Kindle!

This is the first of three editions rolling out over the next couple of weeks. Today, I’m delighted to share the digital version for all of you who like to read with the lights off, your glasses on, and your e-reader tucked beneath the covers.

This collection gathers 440 pages of my most personal essays—stories that stretch from Appalachian coal camps to online dating, from gardening joys to philosophical musings, all written (as always) In Bed. There’s humor, heart, and a fair amount of reflection. If you’ve followed The Wired Researcher blog, you’ll recognize the voice. If you’re new, welcome to my little “postage stamp of native soil.”

Coming soon: the paperback edition, followed by the hardcover—with its delightfully mischievous dust jacket. I’ll be sharing more when each one arrives.

Until then, if you’re eager to start reading, the Kindle version is ready to crawl under the covers with you. I’d love to hear what resonates—and what surprises you.

P.S. If you enjoy it, a quick review on Amazon would mean the world. It helps other readers discover what you’ve found—and it gives my word messengers a better chance of finding their destination.

A Glimpse Beneath the Covers (Book Covers, That Is)

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“Embrace the glorious mess that you are.”

–Elizabeth Gilbert (b. 1969. American author best known for her memoir Eat, Pray, Love, which became a global bestseller and cultural phenomenon. Her work blends introspection, humor, and an embrace of life’s messiness—much like the spirit behind my modest The Third Time’s the Charm.)

Guess what arrived in the mail today?

(Hint: it isn’t another gardening catalog—though those are always welcome at my house.)

It’s the printed proof of my next book, The Third Time’s the Charm. At 440 pages, it’s a whopper! This brand-new collection of personal essays is drawn from my The Wired Researcher Series. Today, I’m delighted to share the cover art with you. Once again, the art is by acclaimed caricaturist Mike Caplanis. Although he was inspired by the essay “What If I’m Not Who You Think I Am?”, the book’s cover captures the spirit of this collection perfectly—thoughtful, mischievous, and comfortably tucked between the sheets.

This book is close to my heart. It’s a gathering of essays written—yes, literally, as you know already—in bed, where I do my most creative thinking and, often, my most honest writing. I hope these pieces reflect a voice that’s warm, a little witty, deeply rooted in everyday life, and shaped by the rhythms of memory, nature, and reflection.

William Faulkner once referred to his childhood landscape as “a postage stamp of native soil,” and in this collection, I’ve claimed one of my own. These essays rise from the soil that grounds me—Appalachian roots, coal camp memories, gardening, grief, and joy—and reach toward readers everywhere. I hope these pieces help you discover something true in your own story, too.

The book will be available very soon—just a few weeks away. For now, consider this a soft unveiling and a warm invitation. I’ll share more details soon, including where and how to get your copy. Until then, feel free to admire the cover, fluff your pillows, and prepare to join me—in spirit and in story—In Bed.

P.S. If you’d like to be among the first to know when the book is available, keep an eye here—or better yet, follow me if you’re not doing so already.

In Defense of Memoir Writers

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“The universal does not attract us until housed in an individual.”

—Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882; American essayist, lecturer, philosopher, and poet who led the Transcendentalist movement of the mid-19th century. Known for his influential essays including Self-Reliance and The Over-Soul.)

Memoirists writers are shamelessly self-centered, and I ought to know. I’m one of ’em. And of course, I know that you really want to know why I used ’em instead of them.

You do want to know, don’t you? You don’t?

Well, this is where things start to get dicey, because I’m going to tell you anyway.

I chose ’em instead of them because the former seemed more casual and playful and, in my mind, it makes me feel comfortable bashing the hell out of ’em since I’m bashing the hell out of myself at the same time. Now you know.

Aren’t you glad that I told you? You’re not?

No problem. Like I said. We’re shamelessly self-centered.

Now that I’ve cleared the air about that one teensy-weensy word choice–it was a choice, of course, though I’m not sure ’em should count as a word–let me tell you how the title of today’s post bullied its way to the top.

You do want to know, don’t you? You don’t?

Well, I’m betting that you know exactly what’s coming next. You’re right. I’m going to tell you anyway. Like I said. We’re shamelessly self-centered.

Originally, today’s post was titled “An Apologia for Memoirists.” Clever, no? I thought so, too, despite the way the word apologia looks. It may look like an apology, but it is not an apology at all. Au contraire. It is a staunch defense of something.

Let me give you an example of an old and famous apologia. I’m thinking of Plato’s Apologia Socratis, the legal self-defense that Socrates spoke at his own trial for impiety and corruption. He was defending himself against the charges of corrupting the youth and of not believing in acknowledged and accepted gods.

After thinking about that example, I decided that apologia was a poor word choice for inclusion in the title of today’s post. As I have just demonstrated, its meaning is easily misconstrued. Beyond that, its pronunciation is not easy either.

Is it “a–puh-low-jee–uh?”

or

Is it “a–puh–low-jee-uh?”

Damned if I know. And if I don’t know how to pronounce a word, I’ll be damned if I’m going to use it.

So, in a touch or two on my Smartphone, I struck right through An Apologia and replaced it with two words that are easily pronounced and readily understood: In Defense.

There. I’ve straightened out Apologia. Now, let me explain why I scrapped Memoirists. I suppose any reader who knows what a memoir is would know–or quickly deduce– that a memoirist is “a person who writes memoirs.” Don’t you detest circular definitions like that? I do. But you can’t blame me for it! Blame dictionary.com. That’s where the definition came from, and that’s why I put it in quotes. I may go ’round in circles, but I would never give you a circular definition. I’d spit it out exactly as it is. A memoirist is someone like me who takes the raw material of their life—its triumphs, trials, quirks, and quiet moments—and shapes it into a narrative that not only reflects their truth but connects with the truths of others.

That definition is mine, and I like it. However, I scrapped Memoirists for an entirely different reason. If you think pronouncing Memoir is an exercise in tongue-mouth calisthenics, try pronouncing Memoirists:

● mem-wahr-ists

or

● mem-wawr-ists

Well, maybe it rolls off your tongue just fine, but it gets stuck to the roof of my mouth. And, I don’t know about you, but when something sticks to the roof of my mouth, I get rid of it as quickly as possible.

That’s just what I did with Memoirists. I got rid of it. Quickly. In just a touch or two on my Smartphone, I struck right through part of Memoirists and replaced it with Memoir Writers. I know. Two words instead of one. Fine. What I lost in word count, I gained in mouth feel.

It took a while, but now you know–even if you had no desire in knowing–everything you never wanted to know about the origin of the title In Defense of Memoir Writers. Like I said. We’re shamelessly self-centered.

Now, I’m certain that you want to know why I feel the need to defend myself and other memoir writers. You do want to know, don’t you? You don’t?

Well, I’m betting that you know exactly what’s coming …

Like I said. We’re shamelessly self-centered. Right? I mean, after all, we share all of the intimate details of our lives with the entire world as if they give a rat’s ass about our world. But we do it anyway. Is that self-centered or what?

Take me, for example. I may have one-upped Anne Sexton who commented, “I tell so much truth in my poetry that I’m a fool if I say more.” I don’t know how many words are in her canon–she does have a canon, you know, though I shudder at the thought–but since 2021 when my blog shifted focus from research to memoir, I’ve spewed out nearly 300,000 words. My God. I’m taken aback. How is it possible that I have shared so much about me, especially when I tell writers that there’s no me in memoir. If they looked closely, they would see for themselves that there is a me in the word, and, like I’ve said all along, memoir writers like me are shamelessly self-centered. This post proves it. After all that I’ve written who would think that I could write more, but here I am, dragging you along to somewhere I think you might want to be for a few minutes–perhaps leading you to somewhere you might even want to stay a while to rest, perhaps to heal.

I shudder at the things that I have shared with you. I do. You know as much about me as I know about myself, and if you don’t know it off the top of your head–and that’s how certain I am that I matter to you–you can find it by foolin’ around in my blog. Let me zing you with a few things, and as I do, I wonder–I just wonder–whether you would put yourself out there for all the world to know.

You know that I’m so full of myself that I fully believe that I helped my Mother give me birth so that I could start charting new territories in my brand-new world.

You know that as my mother preached I wiped away the tears that fell from women’s eyes, some of them slain in the Spirit and hopping from the back of one pew to the next, all the way up to the front of the church and then all the way back again, never missing a jump and never suffering a fall.

You know that when I hold out my right hand to you, you’re grasping the hand that my Father held tight after he nearly cut it off accidentally while butchering a chicken.

You know the challenges that I faced as a gay guy born in the Bible-Belt in the late 1940s, growing up there in the 1950s and 1960s, trying my best to stay true to my authentic self.

You know that I chase dreams and never let go, even if it takes me 50 years as it took me to become an English professor.

You know that the praying hands my Mother and I witnessed in the lid of my Father’s coffin took us both by surprise with the words, “May God hold you in the palm of His hand until we meet again,” holding for me, and me alone, a lasting message.

You know that after my Mother’s burial, I took my hands–strong from the strength of hers–and released from their cage three white doves, flying upward, perhaps at that same mysterious moment when my mother found her way back home and celebrated her arrival with outstretched hands.

You know that when I wrote my late partner’s obituary, it was as if angel wings brushed across the page, just as magically as Allen brushed across and touched our life together.

Equally important, you know that I sometimes ignore dust bunnies and cobwebs; that I get ideas for writing everywhere, even when biking or weeding; that I notice smells like dill and black snakes; and that when I’m not having real guests, I’m conjuring up imaginary ones.

You know all these things and so much more about me because of one thing that I keep on doing right here in my blog post. Week after week after week, I take my bony index finger, hook the side of my metaphorical homespun curtains, and pull them back gently so that you can see through the fragile glass pane and catch glimpses of my world–past, present, and future. Creation. Faith. Survival. Authenticity. Perseverance. Grace. Transcendence. Love. Imagination.

From that perspective, it occurs to me that maybe memoir writers like me aren’t shamelessly selfish after all. Maybe we take our triumphs, trials, quirks, and quiet moments and try to shape them into a narrative that not only reflects our truths as we know them but also connects with your own truths as you glimpse into your world–past, present, and future.

Maybe memoir writers like me aren’t shamelessly selfish at all. Instead, maybe, just maybe, we’re shamelessly selfless—willing to sacrifice our private selves so that something universal can emerge from the personal. Even if the greater good is one solitary soul, needing an oar to stay afloat, it’s in the act of revealing our individual stories that we reflect something far larger than ourselves.

Maybe that’s our truest calling—not selfishness, but selflessness. And perhaps that’s the best defense I can offer for memoir writers like me.

15,000 Views and Counting: A Symphony of Words and Readers

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“To toot one’s own horn is to sound the music of one’s journey. And today, my friends, the notes are jubilant, triumphant, unmistakably heartfelt, and wrapped in a little holiday cheer!”

–TheWiredResearcher (b. 1947; self-effacing educator, essayist, Green Mountain scholar, and Humourist—patiently awaiting long-overdue New York Times recognition.)

Beloved readers–of all ages and from all corners of the globe–I’m going to toot my horn proudly today!

At 11:22am today, my blog hit 15,000 views in 2024! Is that a special Christmas gift or what!

Let me pause and let that sink in: FIFTEEN. THOUSAND. VIEWS.

Can you hear the confetti cannons? Feel the glitter raining down? That’s the energy I’m channeling today. Because let’s be honest—this doesn’t happen by accident. It’s the result of showing up week after week, pouring my heart and soul into every post, and, most importantly, connecting with YOU, my remarkable readers.

If you’re like me, you know that milestones mean more when you see where they began. Let’s rewind:

● 2021: 3,940 views. A small but solid readership.

● 2022: 6,655 views. Growth doubling and momentum building.

● 2023: 7,313 views. Steady, heartfelt engagement.

● 2024: 15,000 views… and the year isn’t over yet!

From 3,940 to 15,000 in just a few years—this isn’t just growth. It’s a story of connection. It’s a story of us.

What Does 15,000 Look Like?

It looks like 140 countries—stretching from the United States’ plains and mountain ranges to Afghanistan’s rugged peaks, India’s vibrant deserts and Himalayas, and France’s vineyards, all the way to Zimbabwe’s sweeping savannahs. It looks like comments from faithful followers. It looks like early risers sipping coffee as they dive into my Monday morning musings. It looks like connections that transcend borders, reminding us all of the power of words.

The Greatest Hits (According to You!)

As we bask in this milestone, let’s revisit the top-ten posts that you’ve loved the most this year:

● “Glimpses of My Mother’s Hands.” A tribute to the tender, industrious, and spiritual hands that shaped my life and my memories.

● “Vermont’s Literary Daughter.” An exploration of the legacy of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman and my ongoing mission to keep her voice alive.

● “Confessions of an Editor.” A revealing journey of editing Freeman’s collected letters, complete with a never-before-shared self-review.

● “When Lilacs Meet Algorithms.” A dance between the timeless poetry of Walt Whitman and the cutting-edge potential of AI.

● “From Dusty Folder to Digital Ink.” A scholarly tale of rediscovery, dedication, and the joy of research.

● “From Stars to Soil.” A nostalgic return to childhood gardening and the realization that it gave me a profound appreciation for the interconnectedness and sacredness of all life.

● “My Mother’s Dress.” A story exploring how a dress that my mother made for herself included her hopes, her visions, her aspirations, and her dreams for her family and her world.

● “Sister’s Hands.” A celebration of decades of selfless love, compassion, and service.

● “My Taxing Review.” A humorous exploration of opening personal archives as a way to create a rich personal narrative.

● “Not Alone.” A triumphant tale of my own Coming Out.

A Milestone Worth Celebrating

Fifteen thousand views aren’t just numbers—they’re stories, connections, and a shared love of learning. Each one represents someone who paused in their day to engage with my words. Together, we’ve created a space where ideas flourish, where history meets memoir, where research mingles with creativity, and where we never stop asking the big questions.

The Future Is Bright

What’s next? More posts that inspire, challenge, and delight. More glimpses into the magic of the everyday. More stories that remind us why we love the written word.

To everyone who has ever clicked, read, commented, or shared—THANK YOU. You are the symphony that makes this blog sing. And as the music swells, I can’t help but toot my own horn just a little louder.

Because today, it’s not just my achievement—it’s ours.

Here’s to 15,000 views—and the countless stories and connections that brought us here.

Circling Back (Again, Again, and Again)

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“I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means.”

–Joan Didion (1934-2021; renowned American Essayist and novelist whose distinctive writing style and introspective approach earned her a lasting place in contemporary literature).

Maintaining friendships can be a delicate dance, and I’ve learned that silence is golden when it comes to my own writing. My friends–especially those who are writers–know that I abide by Robert Frost’s sage counsel:

“Talking is a hydrant in the yard and writing is a faucet upstairs in the house. Opening the first takes the pressure off the second ” (Letter to Sydney Cox, 3January 1937; quoted in Robert Frost and Sidney Cox: Forty Years of Friendship. By William Richard Evans. 1981).

Rarely, then, do I talk with friends about what I’m writing in my weekly blog posts. Talking about it diminishes my focus and my belief. Oh, to be certain, I may tease by divulging a topic or a working title. I love teasing. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again right now by telling you the working titles of some future posts:

● “What My Father Saw.”

● “Packin’ Up. Gettin’ Ready to Go.”

● “My Right to Know.”

● “Somewhere Called Home.”

● “What If Artificial Intelligence (AI) Makes Us Even Better than We Are?”

● “Grappling with Unknowns.”

● “The Cake Stops Here.”

● “When Did Tomorrow Begin?”

See there. I didn’t mind sharing those titles at all. Like I said, I’m a tease.

Truth be told, though, that’s all that I can share in advance because I’m clueless as to how those tentative titles will play out. I never know the end of a post until it leads me to its ending.

Clearly, I am not one of those writers–of whom there are many–who align themselves with Edgar Allan Poe. I’m thinking now about his focus on “unity of effect” and that a writer must know the intended effect from the beginning:

[…] in almost all classes of composition, the unity of effect or impression is a point of the greatest importance. […] If his very initial sentence tend not to the outbringing of this effect, then he has failed in his first step. In the whole composition there should be no word written, of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is not to the one pre-established design (Poe’s review of Hawthorne’s Twice-Told Tales, Graham’s Magazine, May 1842).

A few years later, he reiterated that point:

Nothing is more clear than that every plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its dénouement before anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with the dénouement constantly in view that we can give a plot its indispensable air of consequence, or causation, by making the incidents, and especially the tone at all points, tend to the development of the intention (“The Philosophy of Composition,” Graham’s American Monthly Magazine, April 1846).

Poe’s way of writing is not my way of writing.  Mine is just the opposite. Mine is the Frostian way:

Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting. A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not be worried into being. Its most precious quality will remain its having run itself and carried away the poet with it (“The Figure a Poem Makes,” Atlantic Monthly, June 1939).

I am not trying to compare my writing to Frost or to Poe. Yet, as a writer, I have every right to align my methods with someone. I choose Frost for alignment, and I choose Frost for ally.

Like Frost, I am unwilling to talk about the content of what I am writing: opening the hydrant [talking] lessens the pressure on the upstairs faucet [writing]. At the same time, I am more than willing to talk about my writing methods: melting like a piece of ice on a hot stove, carrying me away with it.

Actually, I have talked about my writing process extensively in several blog posts. I’m tempted to suggest that you browse my posts and find them for yourself. But that would be mean spirited. So let me recap the main points here.

1. I write my posts in bed–every day, seven days a week–starting at 8:00 pm and continuing until I decide to stop, usually around 9:30 pm or so. Sometimes, I ignore my body’s call for rest, and I write until 11:00 pm. I don’t think that I’ve ever written past 11:30 pm. (However, I do recall writing until 12:30 am once, just to prove to a friend that I could stay up that late.)

2. I write my blog posts exclusively on my smartphone. Yes. On my smartphone. I hold it in my left hand (as I am doing now), and I touch type my text, letter by letter, with the index finger of my right hand (as I am doing now). I know: it’s slow. I know: it’s tedious. But guess what? It works.

3. I write my blog posts while sipping on a Bunnahabhain Scotch, neat.

4. I have a large number of drafts in progress at any given time: everything that I experience is copy. Right now, for example, I have 29 drafts in various stages of development.

5. Whenever I have an idea and start a draft, I develop it enough so that I can leap back into the idea whenever I return to it, even if it’s weeks or months after the idea leapt into my head.

6. Usually, one draft among all the others calls to me and demands my attention. I listen. I focus on it for seven nights, hanging on tight and never letting go.

7. On Sunday of each week–the day before publishing a post–I read it out loud by telephone to my oldest sister, Audrey. Reading it aloud gives me the opportunity to find any remaining mistakes. (Inevitably, I still miss a few.) More importantly, however, it gives me the opportunity to hear the rhythm, and if I have an off-key passage, my ear speaks to me. Sometimes, I pick up on a rhythm, and I decide to play it more fully in one final revision before going to bed. But here’s the important thing: it’s the hearing aloud–what Frost would call the “sound of sense–that allows me to know my degree of accomplishment.

Those are the main steps that I follow in writing my posts.

Recently, however, I noticed a recurring practice that I’ve been unintentionally following. Let me share it with you.

As I open a draft, I revisit the beginning instead of scrolling down to where I left off the night before. This practice offers a fresh perspective on my words and ideas.

I circle back to the beginning, I start from there, and the Frostian melt starts anew.

As I circle back, I take my time. I savor every word. I savor every nuance. I savor all the possibilities, including the white space between words where so many meanings live–and hide. And, as I circle back, I change whatever it is that calls to be changed.

To be sure, circling back flies in the face of the process that I and other English professors are hell-bent on teaching our students. Generally, we teach a straightforward, linear process without much room for deviation, except for an occasional reminder that writing can be recursive, especially when we need to do additional research to strengthen content. The process that we teach goes something like this:

First. Prewriting (Topic, Audience, Brainstorming, Research, Thesis, and Outlining).

Second. Drafting (Creating an initial version).

Third. Revising (Reconsidering content and context).

Fourth. Editing (Looking at grammar and mechanics).

Fifth. Proofreading (Taking a final look to discover mistakes, including formatting).

Undoubtedly, the 5-step method works, especially for beginning writers who often have no method.

It works for seasoned writers, too, but as we gain more and more writing experience, we follow that method subconsciously. For example, even though I write my posts in bed, I’m well aware that whatever I’m working on is simmering on my writer’s back burner throughout the day and throughout the night as I sleep. My ideas and insights come unexpectedly and without invitation.

For me, then, as a writer–especially a writer of Creative Nonfiction Essays like my blog posts–I’m tapping into the tried and tested steps of the writing process, but I’m really unaware that I’m doing so.

Yet, I am exceedingly aware of my circling back, and I find that keen awareness fascinating. It’s a conscious choice that I make every night when I open my WordPress draft to pick up where I left off. The starting point is always same: I circle back to the beginning. Most nights, I spend half of my writing time revisiting, rethinking, and modifying what I’ve written already.

I’m not suggesting that the “circling back” part of my writing strategy is revolutionary or unique. Perhaps lots of writers circle back in like manner.

What I am suggesting, however, is this: Circling back becomes a dance of words, a waltz with sentences that have already found their footing. It’s a writer’s serenade to their own creation, a harmonious echo of ideas that resonates and refines. Circling back is an invitation to linger in the labyrinth of language, to savor the richness of thinking, and to let the journey unfold in its own enchanting way. In the quiet act of returning to the starting point, I find my path illuminated by the wisdom of Frost and by the freedom of my narrative.