“Don’t feel sorry for The Teaser,” our guide told us, though it seemed to me more likely we might feel sorry for the mares.
Writers have never been paid a living wage… never a princely—or princessly sum—our incomes are now not equal to sustaining even a modest life.
Pip and I were on to adventure, on the edge of danger, full of life and energy—the way I want to live.
Our spring comes with a roar of wind and startling blasts of cold air, but it is spring, nonetheless, and Pip and I rejoice.
I think we women writers sometimes scant the snow, and the weather in general, in favor of the human characters that obsess us.
The snowfall heralds real winter, even though our aspens are still golden, leading me to plan the season’s reading in the hope of more evenings spent quietly by the fire.
I call him “The ambassador for Pit Bulls” since he is so gentle, and even walkers who have a prejudice against his kind sometimes let him approach.
It has taken me all these years to begin to spare myself from battling reality, to begin to admit that certain human beings whom I love cannot love me, and that the leash around my neck is made out of links forged every time I battle this fact.
He let me know he feels leashes are an indignity by chewing up two of them and making good progress on the third.
Dillen ends with her arms raised high above her head, exhorting her audience, and particularly the women in her audience, to be shining stars, rising to shed our light on the parched and desolate landscape that surrounds us.