My inner critic and persistent threat to my worth as a writer has been working overtime lately. She comes from within, an opinionated know-it-all, presumed to be much smarter than I. She nags at my blather of wasted words demanding that I hit the delete key. I block this ultracrepidarian critic and finish my sixty-seven words for the day. I hit the send key before she returns.

This will be a rioT
When I’m feeling sorry for myself, I think I am the only one living such a complex life. Nobody else has family with a homeless son, addicts, and prisoners. They aren’t raising a grandchild. In my writing groups, especially in
I started this blog to focus on writing – mostly as accountability for my memoir process. Leaving the old blog behind makes me feel disconnected, scattered and thinking maybe I should have revived the old