What I Did Instead of the Breadloaf Conference (I didn’t apply to)…

  • Picked 400 avocados
  • Wrote a micro fiction piece
  • Read Claire-Louise Bennett’s Pond
  • Met with fellow-teachers in academy on campus
  • Ate 35 gummi candies
  • Walked dog in the darkness
  • Drank Third Window Brewery’s “James Blond” Belgian blond beer
  • Cooked pork chops on the barbeque
  • Wrote daily pages
  • Took recycling to trash can
  • Made peach tea for wife
  • Watched 4-yr-old’s dance camp performance
  • Almost got run over by a careless motorist
  • Received recent issue of Thrice Magazine in the mail
  • Received check for $500 in mail
  • Drank 5 cups of coffee


Sliceofwritinglifeday’s Childe

2004: “We solved the world’s problems, including our own.”

2005: “This has been a week of deaths: The Pope, King Rainier of Monaco, Saul Bellow…”

2006: “Today, up at 5:15am to write daily pages.”

2007: “Herzog introduced Nosferatu and held a Q&A afterwards.”

2008: “Taos at last. My room is perched at the top of the building, a windowed space up a steep set of stairs.”

2009: “The smell of magnolia blossoms on the way home last night. The flower, a closed cupcake.”

2010: “Jeanne died yesterday. She was driving to Lafayette. Overcorrected and lost control. Ejected…”

2011: “William Gay dead at 68.”

2012: “Ireland. Home. An emotional mortar and pestle.”

2013: “A sallow man surviving on a diet of nuts and berries.”

2014: “I don’t know if he ever said he loved me.”

2015: “Let out the demons. A spiritual matter. Decline the irregular verbs. Thirteen of them.”

2016: “Without words a bargain is struck, your position changed, closer now.”



(Lloyd Cole & the Commotions, “Are Your Ready to be Heartbroken,” and The Gloaming’s “Samhradh, Samhradh.)

For Jeanne Leiby on this the Fifth Anniversary of her Death.

On the road to Lafayette, LA, my mentor and friend, Jeanne Leiby lost her life five years ago today. Sadness, pain, loss and a complete failure to comprehend the gaping hole she left in this world are some of the thoughts churning about my head on this spring morning in Carpinteria, the sun rising red in the eastern sky behind the foothills. I’ll never know her final thoughts, nor her plans for her writing, or life going forward as she drove the two-lane highway in her convertible. We are not privy to the thoughts of others, given only the sometimes difficult charge of marshaling our own ideas and contemplations. Her book is on the shelf and I’ll read from it again today, as I always do on this dark day. Viking Burial.” No more perfect a piece of flash fiction is more appropriate. Later, I’ll raise a glass of Writer’s Tears to her memory and get on with the living of life and the mourning of those gone too soon.