Betcha thought I dropped off the face of the earth. No such luck. I’m still here. I’ve just been busy writing. I’ve had a bit of an epiphany about writing. Namely, it’s hard work. I used to write for me. It was an escape. A way of putting myself into a different world and letting my characters do stuff I’d never do in a million years. It was fun. Now that I’m “on the cusp” of being ready for publication (That’s not my phrase. Three different people have told me I’m “on the cusp.” Whatever that means.) I have to think more about my potential readers and what THEY want. Apparently, in today’s market, it’s not necessarily the same thing. But my goal is to make some money at this writing gig. I’m realistic. I’m not expecting riches. I’m not even expecting a self-supporting living wage. Just some money . And to do that, I have to give the reader more consideration than I give my own corny tastes. So I’m working . Really, really hard. Which is why I haven’t been blogging as much as...

My friend Ramona Long and I have teamed up for today's blog post over at Working Stiffs to talk about the Outlaws of Love...our name for those illiterate and grammar-challenged guys on Facebook who keep propositioning us.

Like everyone else, I’ve spent the last couple of days thinking back ten years. Not only about September 11, 2001, but about September 10, 2001. About how different our world was on the 10 th when compared to the 11 th . And every day since. The United States lost its innocence on that Tuesday morning ten years ago. I was blissfully unaware of the events as they unfolded. I was in the basement of the Milsop Community Center in Weirton , West Virginia , teaching my regular yoga class. When class ended at 10AM, I stopped at the front desk on my way out and the lady behind the counter told me a plane had hit the World Trade Center . I grinned stupidly at her, waiting for the punch line to what I was certain was a very bad joke. Even when I realized it was true, I believed it was a horrible accident. Until I was told a second plane had hit the other tower. I listened to the events unfold on my radio as I drove home. I don’t have a true sense of the order of things happening...

Yesterday morning as I walked home from a visit with my mom, I heard pounding from across the road. The reason this got my attention is the only things across the road are empty fields and my grandfather’s long-vacant farmhouse. The pounding was followed by a crash, which helped me locate the source of the sound. Someone was on the roof, tearing off the sheeting, and tossing it to the ground below. I grew up in that house. I’ve written about it here before. My grandparents have been dead for over 30 years and the house has gone through several owners since it passed out of the family’s hands. The current owner let it fall into such a state of disrepair that it’s now hopeless. The roof was already half gone, thanks to windstorms. The foundation is collapsing. Most of the windows are broken, their shutters hanging askew. The back door stands open. The front porch has crumbled to a heap. I used to dread the day that the place finally met its end. Now, since I have to look at...