What if I took my toes as my own. My feet. My hands. What if all of me is me?

What did I benefit from being such a harsh critic about my mother?

The other day I went to Mac’s Provincetown Market, and I bought a bag of steamers and four Wellfleet oysters.

I like to get jacked up in the morning before I write. If I have to sit on my butt and stare at a screen, at least I can get shot out of a canon first. An iced Americano, my new dose of Wellbutrin, and a walk in the windy cold by the ocean is doing the trick these days.

I have been in Provincetown for almost six weeks now and instead of the head of the book I came here to write crowning, it seems to be in full embryo mode, and I feel roughly three months pregnant.

I had such a nice time thing morning being a dust mote. I thought I would share what I imagined with you so you could be a dust mote, too, if that feels like a good idea.

Sherry does not write using pen and paper or a computer because that is too hard on her hands. She speaks her writing, and it’s some of my favorite work around.

For the last few years I’ve felt as if I was in some new stage of adoptee life, only I didn’t know what it was. It felt a little like aging woman driving towards a wall with not much hope in her heart. No wonder I wasn’t dating!

I had dinner the other night with an adoptive mom, and when she talked about talking her kids back to their country of origin and spoke of their first moms, I tried to check out as much as possible.

When I was near the end of my time teaching writing at San José State, I had my students, Spartans all, memorize a paragraph from Thoreau’s Walden

If you create space for blessings in your life, what then is not possible?

I invented Write or Die almost ten years ago when I needed money for food.