Edna, Flicka
and Me
It took me close to ten years to unlearn what I had learned about what makes a story and how to write it.
And I’m still learning. I’m here at my desk, at my “loom” (okay, so it’s a Dell laptop), in my room that faces out to a small weedy meadow, and I’m weaving. Some days the fabric is rich and colorful, soft to the touch but sturdy as hell. Other days it’s thin and scratchy and the color of old running socks. But I persevere. On the days that I’m satisfied, I take a breath and smile. And then I raise the bar a little higher.