Yesterday I mentioned Joy Castro’s Island of Bones, a slim, magnificent book of essays, where not a word is wasted. These pieces are so brillianty crafted, each one shimmers. And the sentences sing. “She could lean toward him, inclining like a tautened bow. Her hand could laugh across his cheek, grazing away crumbs that were not there.” The music of words strung just so. I live for sentences like that. I read them again and again for the pleasure of hearing the sound and think, what a voice.

(Post 124 of 365)


Do-over: 23/365

I get pulled back into dreams. Wish I could rewrite the past. Get a do-over for certain years. Today I actually thought, time machine. And I have to keep going back to the Joy Castro quote I first saw here, “There is no way back. We can only dream our way forward.”

I think I’m pretty freaked out about turning forty.