Writing about what matters
Join me on the trail, both metaphorical and literal, as I blaze a way through my next phase of life, as a writer, as an activist, as a person of faith, as a traveler, and whatever else I prove to be.
In the living room of the house in which I grew up there was a wood-burning fireplace surrounded by white bricks. Every December it was the center of all things Christmas. The armchair that stood year-round to the right of the fireplace was moved to make room for the Christmas tree, usually a six-footer with the pine aroma of the holiday.
On a visit to the Houston Holocaust Museum I learned that had I lived in Nazi-ruled Germany I would have been classified as a “first-degree mischling.”
Call me a snowflake. I own it. At some point in the latter days of the 2016 election, some right-wing Twitter users created an artificial
My mother passed away last Friday, February 3. I don’t have a living mother anymore. I don’t know if that will ever feel like a normal statement.
I have decided to approach writing not as a profession, but as a tool.
