Welcome home
Are we there yet?
It’s the wailing lament of backseat-bound children everywhere, but in this instance it’s simply a rhetorical question. I ask myself it sometimes when I’m trying to figure out the direction in which I’m moving, be it professionally, emotionally or creatively.
Often the act of writing figures into that question.
I’ve been writing since I was a kid. My mother used to like to remind me of the first story I ever wrote when I was four. I think it was about a brown cow and a red barn.
Writing is in my bones. Writing is home to me.
Although I haven’t published a book, sold a screenplay or appeared in a lot of big magazines, I have made a living as a writer.
Previously, I worked full-time as a journalist and editor; now I teach and freelance. I also write fiction, essays and poetry.
Sometimes, though, I find myself with a craving to bust out 600 or so words on Nicole Cliffe’s mostly absent Twitter presence, Matt Damon’s espresso-making talents, or the link between 1980s-era Texas fashion and Princess Diana’s bangs in The Crown.
I find myself wanting to talk to someone about my mother—both of them, biological and adoptive—and how the albums in their very different record collections could be laid out side-by-side to construct my family tree.
I want to tell you about the title for this newsletter, Lefty and the last time I drove past him, zipping north on US-287 toward Wichita Falls.
I want to write, but I don’t want to worry about finding a home for these words.
That’s where this newsletter comes in.
Here’s how it will work
As a way of holding myself accountable I plan on posting at least one essay-ish type thing a month. Eventually, I may add a micro-level payment option that will get paid subscribers embarrassing childhood photos, high school notes, or report cards or the like. Maybe.
Subscribe to get full access to the newsletter and website. Every new edition of the newsletter goes directly to your inbox—or so they tell me.
If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading! Honest and truly.
