When we lost our mom, I felt like a tub of ice cream. I know it's a lame metaphor. But I exactly felt this way: the universe scooped a part of me and left there a gaping hole. That scoop can never be replaced, and thus that hole will forever be there. The days after... Continue Reading →
You are probably aware of memoir's dark reputation in literature. For a long time--stretching to today--the mind of some readers and non-readers has been tainted by stereotypical beliefs such as: "Memoirs are written by narcissists.""Memoirs tell really sad, ugly, traumatizing stories.""There are obscene and illegal truths exposed in memoirs."Although the ditto beliefs may be true... Continue Reading →
It feels like an impossible task to write good stuff when you're mad, sad, or tomorrow's concerns eat you away. "No good fruit comes out of a bad tree," the Big Book says. Sometimes, you force the words out of you, not minding if you're being hypocrite at the moment. "They won't notice it, anyway,"... Continue Reading →
