As I prepare to enjoy Christmas in blissful solitude, I’m particularly grateful for having learned during the past ten years how to love myself alone.
Next Comes
I like to write about risk… and risk, by its very nature, seems best suited to shorter forms.
I Didn’t Sing for a Year
I remember being amazed when my young granddaughters and their friends listened, apparently unperturbed, to hip hop verses that demonize or degrade women.
Lunch with Teri / Dinner with Alice / Weekends with Sarah
These are the women I know I can call on in times of need…who will understand what I want, oversee my progress toward some form of wisdom with courage, humor and compassion—and, above all, tell me the truth.
On The Blue Box
The Blue Box does not share the soft glow that softens the details of so many family histories; its light approaches a glare.
Sallie’s Two Fans — The Blue Box: Three Lives In Letters
Now that my next book, my thirteenth or fourteenth—I’ve lost track—is only a month away from publication by Sarabande Books, I’m thinking of the three women whose lives my book attempts to encompass: my great-grandmother, my grandmother and my mother.
Coming Soon: The Blue Box, Three Lives in Letters
The long waits publishing entrails always make me wonder why writers sometimes refer to their new books as their children; surely no pregnancy lasts two years or more, and few professional writers wait to see their next book launched before laboring mightily to begin the next one.
A Tale of Two Pincushins
Curtie would never have imagined that her handiwork, perhaps not appropriately valued during her life time, could inspire such awe and pleasure in a group that knows their textiles and their important role in interpreting our history.
Ten Favorites: On To The Next
Now that my newest book, Mending: New and Selected Short Stories is reaching its readers, I find myself in a rather delightful quandary.
The Last Rose of Summer
These sisters, my father remembered, always sang and accompanied themselves on the piano at this time of year in a duet to the dying of summer, called “The Last Rose of Summer”