Old socks, comfortably worn with threadbare jeans. The favorite shirt, stained and faded, hiding the bra that refuses to die with the poked out underwire. Too soft, too well worn, like part of my skin sown inside out with red thread. Stretched out elastic, tiny holes, unraveling strings, popped buttons, weaved cotton, rayon, polyester blend, frayed and abraded from contact sports and sliding seats. The snagged silk, dry-clean only. The hand wash fiasco, dry flat sweater, shrinking and warping with each go round in washer and dryer. All, beloved items yet the closet is full, it needs to be purged.
Readers are not complicated beings. We want one thing – a good story. Something that grabs us, makes us want to turn the page. I’ll suspend belief if you ask me to, I’ll even roll my eyes and pretend not to notice mistakes if you keep that whispered window of magic flowing on the page. Put me firmly in your world and I might follow you until the ends of the earth. That is the joy of readership. Writing, on the other hand, can be complicated. You have to spin multiple plates in the air, keep them spinning and let Continue Reading →