Other people tell my stories differently from me. In fact, sometimes I don’t even recognize them as my own stories. I recently discovered that some of my extended family members think my first marriage was to a man who may have been mentally unstable and that I married him in order to leave home. 477 more words
Tags » Being Remembered
Years ago—decades ago—there was a poor farm family eking out a living on a government-regulated tobacco farm in the Appalachian foothills of Kentucky. The amount of tobacco raised on any given farm was government controlled, and there were frequent flights by small government aircraft over these farms, taking photos of the land being tilled, to certify that the regulations regarding land under tillage were being honored. 649 more words
How does history pick whom to remember?
Can someone end up ‘going down in history’ just by happenstance?
Increasingly I think that somebody has to make an effort to get the mass of humanity looking up from their self-absorbed (rightly-so) lives of daily trials and tribulations, to be interested in the story of a distant other who they do not know. 328 more words
So, I have ABE exams tomorrow; my guinea pig died this morning and I’ve got writers block.
On the plus side, I hit writers block after having finished another story so I at least have something to submit should I wish to go through the humiliating process of being rejected by publishers again. 211 more words