WRITE HOME was one of the joys of my year. Together we explored prompts, read drafts aloud, laughed, cried, and discovered that writing can become something much larger than words on a page. You were vulnerable, specific, and generous with one another. When the anthology was published, I realized that what we had created wasn’t only a book. It was a community.

I’ve been wondering: What should we write next?

The answer, it turns out, has been waiting inside me for years.

For more than two decades, I’ve found myself returning to stories about the body. I’ve written about my own young experiences, like being unprepared for many things and wishing my mother had spoken more openly. In January 2022, while I thought I was gathering material for a middle-grade novel, I invited women on Facebook to share memories of buying their first bra, shaving their legs for the first time, and getting their first period.

One hundred eighty-four women responded.

Teenagers. Mothers. Grandmothers. (The same cross generational response happened with our WRITE HOME call.) Women seemed hungry to share what I’d considered intimate, hush-hush topics. By then, I had crossed into another stage and was trying to shun the silence of my youth and use words to write about the ways my body was morphing in middle age.

Recently, I’ve come to believe that I was not telling, or collecting, two different stories. I was tracing the same thread from opposite directions.

Puberty and menopause.

Over the past two weeks, I’ve shared ten images on social media. Each carried a line from an essay I wrote. I began with one of the great delights of my girlhood, getting to go barefoot on the first day of May. I followed the summers, until I first wore a bra in one and started my period in the next. I shared a few things I learned along the way and finally reveled in the heat that still swirls in me now.

You glow and beckon, too.

This fall, in partnership with Liberation Is Lit, I’m inviting women to join me for The Red Thread.

We’ll gather online and around tables here in Columbia to write about the seasons of our lives. Letters are still welcome, but this time in addition to your younger self, you might write to another. Your older self. Your mother. Your daughter. Or even to a part of your own body. Together we’ll explore the silences that marked us, the conversations that shaped us, and the wisdom we’ve gathered along the way.

You may choose to submit to The Red Thread, an anthology that will mirror two thresholds—puberty and menopause—and all the unexpected seasons between. I don’t know yet what that will look like. I’ll have to wait to see. (Submissions will be open through November 1. Publication Spring 2027.)

I’d be honored if you would join me. The first online generative writing circle happens Wednesday, August 12. Register on eventbrite and invite a friend.

I am tugging at Easter, begging it to stay awhile.

Like a frantic child, grasping a kite string in a windstorm. Or an empty-nesting mom, watching all she poured into go its own way. I am mourning a faith that disappointed. I am grasping at Jesus, desperate for him to remain. And I have come to this dichotomy. On the one hand, I believe we have made too much of sin. On the other hand, I think we have not made nearly enough of it.

When Lent became too much this year. When I could not make sense of others’ ideas about the crucifixion. When the phrases I’d heard and quoted from childhood brought angst, not comfort. I listened to the children.

One asked me during a Sunday morning crafting time, “Who is Satan?” Now, mind you, we had not been talking about him. But I take questions seriously, neither dismissing nor ignoring. I took a stab at answering, and it went sort of like this:

He—well, I wouldn’t say that Satan is a He. We don’t believe that Satan is something that you can see, do we? We might think about Satan being a spirit, like we say that God is a spirit. But that gets so confusing, doesn’t it? I think the Bible says less about Satan than we think. (THERE WAS THAT SNAKE IN THE GARDEN, one child says.) Yes, there was that snake, a serpent, I think our translations call it. And he talked and convinced Eve to do what God had said not to do. (THAT IS WHAT SATAN DOES NOW, another child says.) I suppose that is what we usually say. But, I’m not sure I want us to think like that. Sometimes, it’s just me that doesn’t choose the right thing to do or say. When you’re at home and you don’t want to share the video game or something with your brother or sister—well, I just don’t think that Satan is in you trying to convince you. I kinda think—it’s just you. I don’t see the need to blame Satan. Sometimes it’s just me and you, being selfish, being normal, being impatient.

Another asked me during mass, “Why do we come to church?”

It deserved an answer, and I saw no need to make her wait. So I leaned over and began whispering in her ear, all while the choir was singing. I posed a lot of questions, and she was real good, answering not with loud words, but with a few simple nods of her head.

Do you have a story that you like to read over and over? Or a show on tv or a movie that you like to rewatch? You know it, but you like to read it or see it again. People come to church for different reasons. I come for different reasons depending on what Sunday it is and how I’m feeling. Today I just need to hear the story again. That God made a big beautiful world. That’s all I need today. Being here reminds me that God made all of it—and me. I just sit sometimes and watch and listen. Makes me remember stuff.

I talked enough that she was satisfied. Either that, or it was time for prayers, and the sanctuary was too quiet for me to keep whispering.

I’ve been quieter on here and social media lately. Just searching for Jesus a bit. Searching for life. A few weeks ago, I sat down at the piano—well, one of our pianos, Andy would remind me that we have two, that’s another story—and I just opened up a hymnbook. I took my unpracticed hands and began playing that random song printed on the left-hand side page, and I smiled because in my head I could hear my Daddy singing it. It starts, “I am satisfied. I am satisfied. I am satisfied with Jesus.”

Oh, that I can be. Oh, that I want to be. Satisfied with Jesus.

I felt soothed singing those sentences. But I’m afraid that the song kept on, and I wish it had just stopped. The chorus finishes, every verse ending with it, “But the question comes to me, as I think of Calvary—is my Master satisfied with me?”

My smile turned into a scowl. This is the faith that has disappointed. A culture that asks me over and over if I am good enough. If I have done enough. If I have been grateful enough. If I have—dare I describe it the way it has felt—groveled enough.

Dear Child of God, He is satisfied.

Oh, how many need to hear this message. He is satisfied with you. You’ve got your stuff. You’re just like me. Selfish and downright lazy sometimes. But if he is a good King and a good Father, then I feel pretty certain that the last thing he wants you to hear is not the damning-sounding refrain of that hymn’s chorus. It is not up for debate. His love is big enough for all of us.

To get a fresh sense of the wonder of creation, life, and the power of nature, I took to the back patio for the first time ever. This spring, I took a few lessons from my friend Gretchen, who gave me the link to buy this raised bed and met me at the garden shop to choose vegetables, flowers, and herbs to go in it. She never tires of getting photos of the growth going on over here. Tracy and JoJo and Shannon have also been gardening inspirations.

I’m gonna leave you with these photos. Because I’m quite satisfied with it all.

BONUS: IF YOU HAVE READ THIS FAR, then you deserve something. Do you know what those things are on our patio ground in the very first photo of this post? There’s a close-up of these same things in a later photo. They are on the metal table.

Send me a private message here on substack telling me what they are. On Monday morning at 9am, I’ll take a look at my messages and do a random pick. You don’t have to even be correct :)

One person will get a copy of this book that came out this week that I love. Yes, I have one poem in it :)

(with thanks to Ian McGehee for this photo)

I DID IT.

Twice (three times, maybe), I have paid for a website and never finished setting it up. The cost was reasonable, but I do hate to waste. This is a confession. I suffer from decision fatigue. And I definitely let the best be the enemy of the good. So, can we celebrate today that I did the thing? I hit publish on this!

It’s scary. I’m retreating now.

Every writer that I have met has these feelings. We believe in our story. We think our words might have value. Yet we cringe when we hit submit. We still cringe sometimes when we get that long-awaited acceptance. I’m going to tell you—I’ve been thankful for a rejection or two.

Lately, I have changed my mind so often. But I started revising instead of throwing out. And I love where I am headed. I’m finding my lane, my niche, my voice in all of this. And I’ll be 56 years old this month. So it’s not too late for anyone.

If you’re looking for a small, supportive workshop group for a short three-month commitment as you put your toes in the water with this writing thing, I welcome you to reach out about my spring cohort. I have two spots left and we begin next week.

MY NEW GOAL FOR 2026

I’m not going for one hundred rejections this year—though I do already have four for 2026. Instead, I’m gonna try to submit to FIFTY different lit mags this year. Because it’s a big literary world out there!

January has accomplished its fair share. I’ve submitted to:

Full House, In a Flash, Brevity, South 85, Split Lip, Riverteeth, Porkbelly Press, Alternating Current Press, Quartet Lit Magazine, Bottlecap Press, and THREE workshop/fellowship opportunities.

GUESS WHAT I’M DOING FOR FUN

I’m at an annual writing retreat and pushing against the heaviness of the world. Today I wrote two micro (250 words or less) pieces about dreams. I’d very much love to know what you are doing. Being brave? Daring to have some fun? The world feels so harsh right now. I hope you are being gentle with yourself and your people. This isn’t my typical Substack newsletter. But hello, and I hope that you are managing well. I saw the monks walking for peace a couple of weeks ago. If you are near their path, I hope you experience them. May we, all of us, have a peaceful day. And do our part to spread it.

I’m not tech-savvy on this platform (or any other), and I’m tired tonight. Not even going to try to make this pretty. But Shannon just released this conversation that she and I shared last Friday morning, and I thought one of you out there might want to take a listen. It might make you giggle, it might make you think, it might put you to sleep.

PODCAST

What I wanted to say

I was excited to be on the back end of this thing called Submittable, a platform for writers and publishers, earlier in the fall. I crafted what I considered to be the best of the “we received your submission” auto emails. It read something like “Dear Precious Author” and included a timeline of exactly when to expect a response. I was proud of it. What I didn’t prepare myself for was the difficult task of crafting the rejection letter.

It’s not officially called that in Submittable. Status moves from IN PROCESS to either ACCEPTED or DENIED. But DENIED is much too nice a word. It’s like the break-up that tries to play the it’s not you, it’s me card. When you receive the email, you call it what it is. No matter how it is worded. You feel dumped.

I was in denial that I would ever be on this side of the dumping. During WRITE HOME’s four (oops, we added an extra, so five) workshops, I said more than once, “My hope is that we can accept every one of you. EVERY ONE OF YOUR SUBMISSIONS.” But that wasn’t reality.

Reality was that when Shannon and I woke up on December 1st, we had a LOT of letters to my younger self. Reality was that we had to take those letters and create some sort of structure to make the most interesting anthology for a READER. The focus had moved. For weeks, we’d been thinking about the WRITER.

I don’t know what this book is going to look like…

I said that in every workshop we led. We had no parameters in mind when we made this callout. We knew that we had to wait to see what we received and then make something of it. What we made is a collection that we believe in. With a structure we fell in love with. With forty writers from around the world. (Thank you, Quebec and Bangladesh!)

Our structure, however, determined to a large extent which pieces made the cut. It did become, in many cases, an it’s not you, it’s us situation.

We sent rejection letters to friends, to people we admire, to (multiple) folks with MFA degrees.

It was one of the more grueling things I’ve done. And I wanted to say a lot. But, the more I thought about my own rejection experiences—and the more I asked chatGPT for advice—I settled on the less is better route. I remembered not feeling good at all when a rejection indicated that I’d come close. Who wants to come close? It’s like getting the I wanna be friends talk.

I even asked a fellow writer if they would rather receive a rejection on a late morning Friday OR a late morning Monday. Friday won out.

WHAT I WANTED TO SAY is that I’m so sorry. And I know how it feels. I’ve been rejected fifty-one times this year. SO, if you, too, have one of those crazy trying to get a certain number of rejection this year goals—then, I hope this at least helps that (?)

WHAT I WANTED TO SAY is that in some small way, I wish that I could assure you that you are worthy and that your work is good. That I hope that the thing you wrote was an amazing experience that brought light and warmth to your heart. That perhaps it will find its life in another published place soon.

Last night I fed the neighbor’s cat, and she let me hold her.

This isn’t common. She can be quite aloof. Quite a lot. But, the past two days, she has been waiting and looking into my eyes. And I have sensed that she was ready for me to stay awhile, to even pick her up. I don’t know what is going on that she seemed ready for love, the kind that requires touches. But I was so ready to give. And when I gave, I sat there wondering which of us it was who was really being soothed.

What I want to say is that my heart for you, precious writer who has been rejected, is that you will feel this kind of safe place. The kind that Gracie and I shared just yesterday.

A SAFE PLACE.

Thursday night, I enjoyed an evening with the SC Philharmonic. I anticipated the song that had mesmerized me to tears last year. It did the same for me this year. It’s better in person, with a crowd, but here is a bit of it from 2024. The Prayer. My holiday wish for each of you, dear readers. I pray that we find our safe space—and do the work we can to make it so for those around us.

When a (local) friend both emails AND texts in September about an upcoming author reading and workshop at a (local) bookstore, you put it on your calendar. You do this because you have somehow missed a few coffee dates with said friend. You do not ask who the author is or what they have written. You just know that you must go.

You miss the Thursday evening reading. The monthly church vestry meeting takes precedence over most anything. (And you missed October’s.) You are, though, a definite show for the Friday morning workshop. It helps that it is taking place at the same location and the same time as a usual standing event on your calendar. (Hi, #shutupandwrite group!)

You arrive on time but sit in your car, replying to texts. You have little (low) expectations for the morning. Not because you do not admire your friend and her judgment, but because you are tired and you have done too many writerly group things as of late. You are—uninspired.

You discover that the long wooden table in the backroom of All Good Books is not full—only a handful of people, and you know all but the author herself and one attendee. You are gently called out, chastised for your tardiness. You wonder if they (your friend and the author) are disappointed in the turnout. You take a seat and pull a small notepad from your bookbag. It turns out to be the perfect size for the assignment that is to come.

You listen to a wiser (than you, most seemingly) woman read from several sheets of printed copy paper that she holds in her hands, her lesson plan. “I don’t do many of these workshops,” she states. “So I will be reading to you.” You think it is a confession. Until you listen. Her voice is not apologetic. It is confident.

You ready yourself to do as she describes that she did for many mornings—to handwrite one page in that early state between sleep and wakefulness. And not a large page. She shows her own decade-old journal that holds the beginnings of what became her poetry book of potions, a word she describes as the combination of poetry and fiction. You smile, looking at your own little 5x7ish pad, almost identical in size.

We will strive for urgent unintentions, Lauren K. Watel explains, promising that writing uncensored will surprise us. If we refuse to stop the pen, then we will find a certain propulsion. 

You find it easy to enter this mental space that she describes. After all, you have been walking in a fog for days. You close your eyes as directed and imagine your snooze alarm has gone off for the second time. When she says that we may begin, she gives this prompt.

More than anything, I wish I’d never…

You write until time is called, barely finishing the one page. You exhaust yourself with raw confessions. You end the exercise feeling both empty, depleted—and yet very much inspired.

You are glad for this stranger turned (temporary) mentor, Lauren k. Watel. You are glad for your friend Delia Corrigan, who arranged it all. “That was a lot,” you tell them, borrowing a phrase you and your dear friend Becci share when there is too much to say. “It was a lot.”

You buy the book before you leave. You do not fangirl and ask for a photograph with the author. What’s a selfie when you have already shared such deep moments… (You do ask and wait for her to sign the book, though.)

This is the power of writing.

I believe in it. I’ve experienced it. For some of you, I have recently read your letter to your younger self. I’ve felt your pain and your joy as you wrote of your life, experiences, and values. And some of you have written me personally to say what our project WRITE HOME did for you when you sat down to craft that letter. (There’s still time to submit to that project!)

I believe in Watel’s practice of writing quickly. (She did edit to get to her final products. I’m in no way, nor is she, saying that this is all that we do. And I understand her to have said that this was her process of healing from bitterness at life.) I believe writing freehand without restraint (constraint?) is helpful.

But for this next season, I’m going to do just the opposite. Kind of like my idea of love that goes both deep and wide. Maybe. I have sometimes tried to say here in very indirect ways that we can love very deeply, the way I am able to love only a few people in my life. But we can also spread our love widely, being kind to individuals, the general public, as we move about our day-to-day. There is time and space and need for both.

I loved the thing that happened when I wrote quickly to Lauren k. Watel’s timed prompts last Friday morning. But my soul needs something different right now. This week, I told my creative partner, Shannon Ivey, what I wanted to do for Advent. That night, I woke up with the title, and I love it.

How to write slow.

You might want to come. Shannon will start with some simple grounding, I’ll read from my very favorite Advent book, and we will have time for a couple of writing prompts.

(Want to know what that book is? Afraid when I use the word Advent that this isn’t for you? Scroll down on last November’s newsletter to see the book.)

We’ll be on ZOOM.

I know. I know. The irony of “How to write SLOW” on a thing named for that sound of going fast. Just come. To one OR all three. But, quick, because we’re capping this at fifteen participants. Tickets here.

Whether you come or not, I am thankful for YOU. And I hope you have the best, coziest, slow holiday week ever.

PS: In a week filled with rejection emails, I got an essay accepted! Can’t wait to share it with you when it’s out :)

PPS: Buy BOOK OF POTIONS by Lauren k. Watel! Books make great gifts.

I love a good rejection.

Last night was history-making. I’m lying in bed, scratching Andy’s back while scrolling on my phone, and BAM, at 9:50 PM—The Yale Review reaches out. It’s America’s oldest little magazine, letting me know that they are unable to find a place for my piece this submission period. Also, they are grateful to have had the opportunity to consider it.

I’m honored. Really. You may read this as tongue-in-cheek, but I’m being quite genuine. I can read between the lines. Or, most importantly, the time-date stamp. Some Yalie out there, likely not making a penny for their time, was reading through the slush pile late on a Monday evening.

I used to rant when I received an email rejection so late in the day. But, no more. Now I think about the lit mag reader on the other side, who is out there volunteering, doing their part for this literary community of ours.

I also mark myself closer to a goal I made in my last MFA residency. This year, I vowed, I will get ONE HUNDRED REJECTIONS. Yale’s was number thirty-six. It seems I won't make the goal by the end of December, and I can’t blame it on publishers being slow to respond. To be rejected, you have to submit. And my submissions this year have barely crept past fifty.

In a time when couples struggle to get RSVPs back from their wedding invitations,

lit mags, agents, and small press publishers are doing pretty well. While it’s true that The New Yorker has left me hanging for ten months and counting, The Paris Review actually responded pretty quickly. And, let’s hear it for those two big names, neither of which charged me three bucks (or more) to tell me thanks, but no thanks.

Recently, I watched a recording of Hippocampus’s weekend conference, where a panel of representatives from small presses shared thoughts and stats. I was encouraged to hear that the mags I was submitting to had a typical acceptance rate of 1-2%. WOW. (Also, OMG, did I even tell you all that Hippocampus accepted my short essay EMPTY NESTING?!)

What I really want you to know

is that I am working on some sweet auto-replies for the current submission call for WRITE HOME, the anthology to be published next spring by The Athenaeum Press. I would absolutely love to get a submission from you, and I think you’ll like the email reply you receive right after hitting the send button. It’s worth submitting for that alone. Our free workshops geared towards this collection are almost sold out, but here’s a little blurb to get you started thinking about your letter to your younger self!

GUIDELINES AND SUBMISSION HERE

AND NOW, WE RETURN TO OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING

with WHAT I’M READING…

I’ve been reading books by people I know, and I have three outstanding shares for you.

AVAILABLE TODAY! It’s Tuesday. It’s PUB DAY for THE MYTH OF GOOD CHRISTIAN PARENTING. I am on the launch team for this ground-breaker written by my friend Marissa. USPS tells me my hard copy is out for delivery, and I’ve already read the NetGalley version. If you grew up in the evangelical culture, then I encourage (and challenge) you to grab this book and consider what it says, no matter your age.

I met Susan in early 2024 and count her as a precious writing friend. We share an hour every other Tuesday with two other poets, Dory and Sarah, over ZOOM. It was an honor to review IN THE NEEDLE, A WOMAN for MER, and I hope my words about this mesmerizing poetry collection will be up on their site soon. Memoir-esque and magical.

AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER. By my partner in so many creative ventures, including our WRITE HOME anthology project (that you’ll be submitting to, remember…), this book is a powerful TRUE story. And I got to read a near-final proof this week. Check out all things Shannon Ivey, especially if you’re looking for creative coaching.

Thanks for sticking around! What are you reading…and writing…

AND, if you can, let us know how to pronounce this word: ATHENAEUM.

My friend had a baby since I last posted here. He does not yet live in the world of words. He lives in the world of sounds, those things that words are made of. And even the sounds do not all make sense to him. I hover then in tones, hopeful that they convey what words cannot. I am soft, gentle, and liltingly positive. Mostly.

Though sometimes, especially when I want him to settle, I resort to a more commanding air, still whisper-like, but stern. I tell myself that it is for his own good, this thing that I am attempting. But really, at the heart of it all, there are times when I want him to obey, to stop his incessant crying, just as much for my own good as for his.

As you continue reading, you may find yourself in a similar predicament, wanting to offer words to assuage my confession. To fix and hush me. But don’t rush to words. Just sit with this a moment. In the picture above, I am not only holding this baby, whom I deeply love, but I am also holding sadness. Those who know me may see it in my eyes.

I snatched this selfie and sent it to my husband after he texted to ask me how I was holding up.

“Hanging on.” I texted back and he hearted the image, knowing that there are days when simply hanging on is a good, even hopeful, place to be. Along with the photo, those two words conveyed enough to Andy. Together, they told him that holding on was taking a bit less work from me than it had been taking.

This social media post, which I made the day before, tells a fuller story. It seemed to resonate with many people, receiving fifty-two comments and over 150 reactions.

This is a truth that I wish I had accepted sooner in my life: that some things deserve a day to be sad about.

I wrote a book-length manuscript about the things I wish I had known earlier in my life. In much of it, I blamed my parents for not teaching me. In some of it, I blamed my church for teaching me. When I was done writing, I put the pages away and slowly began to take back responsibility for myself. The rewritten pages that followed were more gracious towards others. The effect, though, was still kindness —a wide breadth of kindness —for Melanie.

Yet after all of this, I often fail at proper self-talk.

I bet you do, too. That’s why I’m excited about my next project, WRITE HOME: Letters to a younger me, an anthology that YOU CAN BE A PART OF!

In partnership with The Athaeneum Press at Coastal Carolina, the #whatshesaidproject (Shannon Ivey and me!) is hosting four FREE generative writing workshops in conjunction with our submission call. I’d love for you to check out our EVENT LINKS and our SUBMITTABLE CALL OUT.

And if you’re worried for me and my sadness. Or, if you’re wondering how to start a letter. I’ll give it a quick try for you…

What would I tell younger Melanie if I could? What sounds would I coo over infant Melanie…

If the baby scientists are correct, then my friend’s precious baby is just now entering the world of colors. In the months to come, he will enter the world of coordinated movement. My own summer was bookended with experiences that he will soon encounter for the first time. They were experiences that reminded me that words themselves are not enough. But I will try a few.

Dearest Melanie - Do not fear. You will never lose your joy over the brightest of colors. In your 55th summer, or no, your 56th, because experience years come ahead of birthday counts, you will paint an icon of Jesus, the Good Shepherd. Yes, I know. Art class is not your thing. It intimidates you. Just trust me. A beautiful soul will guide you. You will marvel at the background of gold that shimmers more and more as you add layer upon layer. You will gasp at the deep blood-red border, the sharp line of it, which you achieve by using the painter’s tape, laid down just so, then pulled away. Others will not understand it. But fellow workshoppers will smile and giggle at your exuberance.

Later that 56th summer, you will gasp this same way as you walk into a room of the deepest blue while at an art museum. You will let it do its thing, envelope you, as only this particular hue of blue could do.

You will end that same summer, sitting speechless during a dance show intermission, feeling something that you have never felt before. Two seats over, a lady will lean towards you and ask, “Are you OK?” and you will not be able to say it, but you will most definitely be OK. You will be transported, not really present enough to answer her sufficiently.

All of this to say that it is OK to ask for the boxes of crayons, always a new box of crayons, the largest box of crayons that you can get away with asking for. It is OK if you do not use them, if you do not love the coloring books. It is OK to simply enjoy the crayons, to take them from the box and hold your favorites in your hand and stare at the beauty of them.

It is also OK to play the music loud in your bedroom. Play the music loud. As loud as you play the piano. Play the radio and the cassette tapes. Do not ever hold back, pretending that music and movement is not a thing. Live in it.

With much love, 55 year old you

Do justly. Love mercy.

I have started this post multiple times. I usually post on the first or second day of the month, using this space to connect with others and reflect on my previous month. Instead, I missed all of April and am just now posting about events from March.

It was (college) Spring Break, and Ian was ready to try again. Last year, we stood in line for five-plus hours on the sidewalk pictured above, waiting to see if we would get in to hear a US Supreme Court case. The photo in April 2024’s post was taken late morning. I remember the cold. The sky was a crisp blue, a brightness that seemed to taunt us later in our disappointment. In contrast, the photo here from this trip was taken around 5:00 am, and the drizzle that would last the entire day was about to begin. While they aren’t in the photo, a group of folks were already camped out in folding chairs, sipping coffee and chatting.

“We’re too late, aren’t we?” I called out to them as we approached.

No one wanted to say it, but Ian and I were well-versed in the procedure this second go around. We mentally counted the faces in line and quickly abandoned PLAN A before sunrise. PLAN B was to get into the DC District Court of Appeals that afternoon. That turned out to be pretty simple. Thanks for the suggestion, Terry!

Ian had done the research, and we were both excited about the appeal case. Would this court overturn Judge Boasberg’s ruling to stop Trump’s deportations? “We might’ve missed the Supreme Court,” Ian said, “but this case will end up there.”

And it already has. The decision those three judges made after those arguments we heard on Monday, March 24, 2025, has already been overturned. But it isn’t over. The debates and legal cases surrounding deportations under the Alien Enemies Act are ongoing.

I do not know if the men who were sent to an El Salvadoran prison will ever return to the US, and I do not know if more have been sent since or will be sent soon. But when I came home from our nation’s capital in March, I had renewed hope in our system of checks and balances. I was there when Judge Patricia Millett drilled the attorney representing the government.

I was stunned when she said it, and I felt uneasy. I held my breath as my eyes darted to and fro. I am not fond of conflict and was two rows from it, but I was also incredibly pleased. She was relentless in her questioning and, in doing so, became a hero to me. In those moments, I craved justice. She seemed to demand it.

And it felt good.

But one Tuesday morning, during a different week in March, I was taken to court, and it did not feel good.

I’m being a bit dramatic. It was not an actual court, though it was not completely private. There was the aggrieved, the one I had hurt, who was confronting me quite unexpectantly, and there was an innocent bystander, a witness, you might say. The deliberation was held over Zoom during a routine gathering we’ve had biweekly for over a year now.

I was remorseful. She forgave. Weeks later, I still remember the feeling of being caught. I’d been careless and inconsiderate. Some might categorize it as a relational misdemeanor, hopefully not a felony, but I felt dirty and ugly. During that uncomfortable conversation, I longed for one thing, and it was not justice. I longed for mercy.

I say that I follow - want to follow, hope to follow - a rule of life that calls for both. The attempt to do the work of either, justice or mercy, and certainly the attempt to do both, will surely make one humble. I have been frustrated by so much of it all. These times call for opened eyes and honest introspection if we are to think deeply, love widely.

Do you want to work with me in MAY? I’ve restarted generative writing workshops on Zoom and YOU’RE INVITED.

It's self-care, it's self-indulgent. It's therapeutic and playful.

Call it journaling, doodling, family history keeping, or the next best-seller. Just come! I'll prompt. You just show up. The sessions are stand-alone in nature, so you can join anytime, but the community builds. We already have something sweet.

Thanks for reading. What I’ve been reading, writing, and listening to returns “next month.”

This week was my twentieth Ash Wednesday observance.

I went to the noon service at our current home, Church of the Good Shepherd in Columbia, SC, and prayed, listened, and read aloud from the Book of Common Prayer with a crowd of others.

In my church journeys, I have moved from faith tradition to faith tradition. While each one has rubbed itself against and inside of me, doing its part to uncover truths about God, the world, and myself, and while I am trying to appreciate the good in all of them, I am struggling to trust the one that first told me about the love of God. I am struggling because, whether intentionally or unintentionally, it also taught me to judge. Today, I want to confess to you that for a very long time, I looked at what was unknown to me and I threw stones with my thoughts.

It started innocently when I scoffed at the ashes.

I was a young teenager when I first heard of this thing called Ash Wednesday. I questioned friends who came to school with stuff smudged on their foreheads. “What is on your head?” I asked the first time I saw it. “Hold on, let me get that for you,” I offered to someone the second year, not remembering and not realizing that I was about to mama spit clean their holy marking.

But my innocent ignorance moved to something more pharisaical by my early 20s. I muttered downright condemnations when I saw them come into work with their dirtied foreheads. Not aloud, but in my mind. I’d think to myself all sorts of things. Equating something about the day to fasting, which somewhere in the scriptures said should be done in secret, I’d begin with - Why is he showing us what he did before breakfast today? And couldn’t she wash her face? My inner critic would go on a tear. You needed that after your rousing Mardi Gras last night, didn’t you? The reprimands would continue. Why bother? You haven’t been to church since Christmas. Eventually, I’d land on this final declaration. Real Christians don’t have to do that stuff.

I have come to embrace the idea that while Christians don’t have to do this thing, many sometimes find ritual acts like Ash Wednesday meaningful. Some years have been more meaningful for me than others. I will wait to see what this year brings.

This Wednesday, I was struck by one particular word during our service. I considered it before Father Lyon uttered it. Such is the beauty of repetition. I can now anticipate what is to come. This week I fell in love with the word invite.

I invite you, therefore, to the observance of a holy Lent.

This liturgical season that many of us have entered into is neither a command nor a requirement. It is an invitation. My upbringing taught me that Christ invites us to join our lives with his and I welcomed that invitation. I now welcome this chance to observe a holy Lent.

These forty days, I am going to consider my own practice of invitation. I’m not about to fill my calendar hosting events. Instead, I hope to adopt a daily habit of warmth and welcoming. May I smile more often. May I hold open more doors. May I let more folks in front of me (in the grocery line if they have just a couple items, not in the interstate merge due to construction lane at the last moment! I am not trying to change that much.)

May I look more people in they eye when I am out and about doing errands. May I say “thank you” to customer service workers. May I listen more fully when others are speaking to me. (Especially when Andy is speaking to me.)

May I consider what habits and rituals that others find meaningful in their lives - and not judge them.

We are so divided. I invite us to be different.

Baptists. Catholics. Reformeds. Presbyterians. Methodists. Lutherans. Anglicans. Episcopalians. Agnostics. Buddhists. Muslims. Universalists. Mystics.

I invite us to a season of warmth and welcome. I’m convinced it’s what the real Christ would do.

I’ve been reading

Some books deserve a second read. Clearly I just wasn’t ready when I first met Melissa Febos in her book BODY WORK. This time around, I’m convinced I need my own - not a library - copy. I need to highlight so many quotes! If you’re a writer working on personal narrative, then this one’s for you.

And if you’re looking for a compelling story, more along the lines of the great American novel, I have just started JAMES by Percival Everett. I’m slow to get on the book award winners bandwagon and did so with this one because he’s coming to Columbia, SC, for USC’S THE OPEN BOOK. (He grew up here!) Come visit, won’t you…

I’m not sure that I ever actually read Huck Finn’s story, but I’m definitely gonna finish Jim’s.

I’ve been watching

I missed awards night, but I did go to The Nick and see all the oscar-nominated animated shorts! Neither of my two faves won. But, each is sure to win a piece of your heart.

I’ve been listening to

I danced the night away (chair dance, you know) when Shannon Ivey invited me last minute to see our Trustus Theater locals perform Ain’t Misbehavin’. If you are local, then there’s still time for you to enjoy it.

And, after asking y’all for listening recs, my real dancer friend Stephanie Wilkins texted me a play list. I’d never heard of Teddy Swims. Here’s hoping Cola Rep Dance uses one of his songs in their summer show.

-Do you want to work with me in APRIL? I’m restarting zoom generative writing workshops and YOU’RE INVITED.

Last fall, I had the best time with a small group of writers in The Powerful Essay Workshop, and I’m ready to offer it again, with just a few tweaks. In my hometown/state, people are rallying to tell their stories at school board and state house committee meetings. And friends are asking, “How do I convey my thoughts to family members who seem to be on the opposite side of the aisle from me now in every way?”

One answer is to give testimony to what you’ve lived and learned. TESTIMONY. That’s a word from my youth, if there ever was one. I grew up being encouraged and challenged to give my testimony—my Jesus story. I’m not sure the church showed me how to do that most effectively, but graduate school helped. And reading the life stories of others is a continual practice in understanding my own.

Whether you want to be an activist or simply want to spend some quality time alone with your story, I invite you to join me. Come practice using your strong voice. I’m again partnering with Shannon Ivey of the #whatshesaidproject. Shannon and I work well together to create small spaces where folks feel free to create and share. It’s on Zoom and we promise to keep it small, with no more than eight participants.

Shannon has combined her public speaking expertise in this package workshop deal (in case you want to attend that school board or statehouse committee meeting!) and even convinced Tayler Simon to share her self-publishing expertise. You can sign up for this TRIO OF OFFERINGS here.

THE POWERFUL ESSAY returns for four sessions focused specifically on crafting a persuasive op-ed. Your story. Uniquely positioned to change cultural perceptions. We’ll explore writing that identifies a particular reality and calls for community action each week. Then, we’ll brainstorm, write, and revise our own personal essays. You’ll end March with one 500-800 word piece that’s ready to submit. We'll even make suggestions where.

WEEK ONE: STRUCTURE

Explore current structures in op-eds. This is not the five-paragraph essay of your youth!

WEEK TWO: IMAGE

Build a scene the reader can live in. Using all the senses - there are more than five!

WEEK THREE: RESEARCH

Gather pertinent data and insert your particular expertise.

WEEK FOUR: REVISION CHECK-LIST

Refine point of view, reliability, tone, and those all-important transitional phrases.

So, it’s time to start over. Or, start again. Or, start something else. I’m continuing this once-a-month newsletter, but I’m starting an additional one for my book club. It’s totally a drop-in and drop-out kind of thing if you can’t commit. Perhaps I’ll figure out how to change the titles to distinguish DEEP AND WIDE from THIS IS THE BOOK by next month. Until then, they’ll both show “Melanie’s Substack.”

Melanie’s Substack

A BOOK CLUB FOR GOOD CITIZENS

I’m starting a book club, and you’re invited. We’ll be reading books that make me say - IF ONLY EVERYONE READ THIS, THEN THE WORLD WOULD BE BETTER - and I’ll begin by highlighting memoir-type books that invited me to see the life experience of an other…

Read more

2 years ago · Melanie McGehee

Speaking of DEEP AND WIDE, I feel like my love has been stretched too wide lately. I’ve wanted to give more deeply to several special people and haven’t found the time or energy. January seemed like a gazillion days long. I’m hoping February is a nice, slow one.

I’ve been reading

Jessica Goudeau’s substack. I’m reading lots of other timely news, too, but I trust her. She is both blunt and helpful.

Books up for banning by SC State Board of Education. I’m flash-reading those things so I can competently voice my opinion on retaining them in those emails to my county’s rep.

THE FRIDAY AFTERNOON CLUB. I’ve been reading it for a month. Things don’t usually take me this long. I wanted to not like it—it's a celebrity memoir. But as I have rechecked it out on the Libby app, I guess he’s doing a pretty good job. Try that link, and you can listen to an audio sample.

AFTER: Poetic Reflections on Hurricane Helene. Who knew haikus could be so healing? I shared one I wrote in our workshop in my newsletter a few months back. Shannon has a whole set of them here. Buy a copy!

I’ve been watching

DUNE. I never read the books—though I remember their popularity in my teenage years—so watching PART ONE was a lot to take in. Since I rarely read fantasy or sci-fi, when I do or when I watch something other-ly, I often find the world-building overwhelming. Thankfully, I found DUNE jaw-dropping—that is to say, amazeballs enough to keep me in the story. Sometimes, I fall asleep during these things, but I am ready for PART TWO. It’s family movie night!

Tomorrow, it’ll be family movie day. Surely you know which movie.

But, back to DUNE for a moment. Did you notice that I am prone to word-making, if not world-building? Grammarly declares that other-ly isn’t a word. At least it did the first time I used it in the paragraph above. Now, the second time I’ve put it here, Grammarly accepts it just fine.

As far as world-building, I told my old MFA mentor last week that every book needs to contain enough world-building. “What do you mean?” he asked. (By the way, he asks a lot. He’s a really good ask-er. I hope you have a good question asker in your life.)

“Memoir needs world-building,” I began to explain. “Every book needs to have enough information so the reader can create that home, neighborhood, or community from which the narrator lives and is speaking. Real worlds need a great set-up and ongoing descriptions, too.”

“That’s it!” he interrupted.

“That’s what?” I asked.

“Your next workshop.” He grinned. We were zooming. “World-Building for Memoirists.”

I’m pretty sure my own stab at a memoir does not yet have enough details for you to enter my little world. But we could work on this together. Are you interested?

I’ve been listening to

Not much. Not enough. I need more music in my life. Please send recommendations, even better if in the form of links.

Coming next!

I plan to reboot my writing workshop, THE POWERFUL ESSAY, in March and launch a new one about/around life changes in April. Both will be through the #whatshesaidproject once again, and we’re convinced the word PORTALS will be in the title of April’s sessions!

-So long until March. As always, I’d love for you to subscribe and share.

Join me in the post-MFA adventures.

When I applied to the Wilkes writing program, I had one goal in mind: Finish a book. Just one book. And that book was to be - my story. It was March 2022, and I was nestled away from everyone and everything I knew at a week-long writing retreat on Ossabaw , a barrier island off the coast of Savannah, GA. Being part of a small memoir cohort there, mentored by the petite, white-haired spitfire Beverly Donofrio, showed me that I needed direction, deadlines, and most of all - a writing community - if I was ever going to finish this project I’d started three decades prior. Bev promised that Wilkes would provide all those, and it did.

In the months after I was accepted, I learned how to pronounce both Ossabaw and Donofrio, which really feels like no small feat. Both took me awhile. If you’re reading, not listening, to this then you are probably toying with several pronunciations of both names yourself. I’ve added a voice-over of this post for that very reason.

I learned about something called an em dash, though I still have yet to figure out how to type one. You’ll know that if you are reading, not listening, to this post.

I read a lot of books. And I mean that I actually read them, not skimmed them, as I learned to do in my semesters at Furman University when getting that BA in History in the very early 1990s. I wrote a lot of words. Tens of thousands of words. And I don’t feel finished. Not with the book. And that’s OK.

One of the reasons I found it hard to finish the thing that took me to graduate school is that the thing - MY STORY - was ever changing. At my first residency I was surprised by what happens when one person after another reads aloud parts of their own story, whether the story is acknowledged real-life doings, like memoir, whether it is fiction, or whether it is held in the lines of poetry. I was surprised by the intimacy of it all. It terrified me.

By my second semester in grad school, I was in counseling. For almost nine months I went nearly once a week and sat in a small corner office on the second floor of a building on Forest Drive in Columbia, SC, where Caisey Hutto led me through the steps of CPT, a therapy modality that has proven effective for PTSD. I am as proud of those days as I am of my new degrees.

I’ve learned to sit through the intimate stories of hard things. My hard things and the hard things of others. I’ve learned the power of story. I’ve learned the practice of writing can bring healing. These are what I am ready to share.

THE PRACTICE OF WRITING

I’m curating some short workshops to debut in late February and will announce them soon. My practicum leading THE POWERFUL ESSAY last fall was my favorite part of the entire grad school program. This Sunday, 19 January at 1:00pm EST, I’m leading a simple fifty minute zoom session where I’ll share three generative writing prompts and create safe space to share among kindred souls. You could get a taste of what I do. I’d love to have you.

Part of a mini-retreat with two other women, it’s $49 and tickets are here.

THE POWER OF READING

I’m starting an online book club. My semester of reading medical memoirs helped me to understand some of the hard things that others experience. I think it made me more empathetic. I wondered what might happen if some of these voices were heard in my community. I’ve titled the club THIS IS THE BOOK and I’d love for you to hear my what and why and how of it.

The kick-off presentation will be Monday, 20 January, at 2:00pm EST, as part of an all day FREE SUMMIT. Go to the link to grab the free ticket through eventbrite.

a few of my (need to do) things…

1. Send in THE MFA PORTFOLIO by Friday, 24 January. It ought to be easy to compile. I know. I know. I still want to fix all the things.

2. Compile the annotated bibliography for THE MFA PORTFOLIO.

3. Write the self-reflection for THE MFA PORTFOLIO.

4. Write a long-term writing life plan for THE MFA PORTFOLIO.

5. Celebrate and sleep after I send in THE MFA PORTFOLIO.

then next month I’ll return to sharing my reads, watches, and listens

-As always, I’d love for you to subscribe and share.

Catch it. Catch it. The sun is falling.

I love sunsets. During Thanksgiving week, I shared that photo and my attempt at being cute on Facebook, and a few of you commented. I say these sorts of silly things too often for some, so when you liked it, I smiled. For each of your likes, I smiled at our kinship. Oh, they get me. That one, she gets me.

Isn’t that the deepest desire in all of us? To share moments with another. To be understood.

It’s Christmas, and I wish that I could give you each a perfect moment. I haven’t grabbed mine yet today. Perhaps it’s still to come. But I thought I’d give one last round-up of things I’m loving (in lieu of the usual reading, listening, and watching) before the sun sets on this newsletter for the year.

a few of my (latest) favorite things…

1. This song. So many thanks to the SC Philharmonic’s HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS and their concert last Thursday night. Cat Galan and Johnnie Felder singing The Prayer was as powerful as anything I’d heard this year. You might enjoy Andrea and Celine …

2. This picture book. I discovered it not too many years ago and fell in love with the illustrations. They’re a bit unexpected. In fact, if you scroll down on the Amazon listing, you’ll see one video reviewer who wasn’t a fan (but does page through the entire book for you!) It’s the only book I read today.

3. This “side dish” that Ms. Christy brought for Christmas Eve dinner last night. No, it was not dessert. Yes, it will be the cranberry to my turkey and dressing next Thanksgiving. Get thee to Trader Joe’s.

   

4. The smell of the mocha Andy brought to the bedroom when I finally requested it at 11:32 am this morning.

5. The weight of Ian’s head on my shoulder while I played my “word games” this afternoon.

AND TEXTS from family and friends.

IF YOU HAVE NOT tried to catch the sun tonight…well, it’ll fall again tomorrow. And as long as we are here, then we can grab at the moment again and again.

-So long until the new year. As always, I’d love for you to subscribe and share.

I need to share this hope.

I rejoiced to see this news today. Thank you, VISIT ASHEVILLE, for the update. You’ve been busy!

I’ve been quiet here. We each have our own ways of reeling from and dealing with disasters. While Hurricane Helene made little impact on the McGehee house - one lone neighborhood tree had us holding our breath for a while - she still unsettled us, mentally and emotionally. What storms are you dealing with?

My dear creative coach and friend, Shannon Ivey, is compiling a poetry chapbook centered around disaster and recovery. The proceeds from it will go towards Helene recovery efforts in NC, and you can still submit to it! Shannon and I hosted a free community “haiku and haibun” workshop on Zoom this past Saturday morning in conjunction with this chapbook, and I want to do it again and again.

Somehow, we had a participant from the “south of France” and one from “the UK” among us. There was a clear sense of calm in our togetherness, even in online space, and I was blessed to hear from each participant. Their creativity was birthed in hard earned wisdom, and it has lingered with me. If you’re intrigued at all, then here’s a peek at what we did in this day-after update.

By the way, WATER. It’s all over this memoir revision. I can’t wait to have it ready for you.

I’ve been reading

Seriously, not joking. Look, I don’t actually purchase every book that every one I know writes. But I’m trying to keep up with the times. Grab it for sure if you work in education. Recommend it to someone else who does.

This is the book that I will begin re-reading on December first. I read it last year. I recommended it last year. I gifted it last year. Trust me. You don’t have to observe that church season of Advent to enjoy this. If you want to understand how nature’s beings ready for a winter of rest, then get this. It’s beautiful and makes me ooh and ah inside. Don’t we need more of that…

I’ve been watching

I’ve been watching this show. No spoilers, we’ve got a lot of seasons of it left to go. That’s right, WE’RE watching it together. Empty nesting has us on the couch after dinner every night. Two episodes a day. Sometimes three. I love it. Raymond. Tom. Cooper. Aram. (Elizabeth, meh, I do prefer the men.) I love my husband. I love our couch. I might start wearing hats?

When my priest tells me to see a movie - well, I go see it the next day. DO NOT WATCH ANY TRAILERS, he insisted. THEY GIVE TOO MUCH AWAY. Incredible acting. Powerful message.

I’ve been listening to

I saw that Fernando Ortega, an old favorite of mine, was releasing five new songs this month. So, I’ve been listening to some old stuff and remembering that I used to play the piano, too.

Each month I’m leaving you a poem right here at the end of this newsletter…

This month it’s a haiku - surprise :) During that haiku workshop time, I couldn’t think on the most current storm just yet.

So I let my mind instead go back in time. Way back. And I remembered the first thunderstorm that I experienced while home alone. I imagined eleven-year-old me, answering the telephone and hearing my mother, calling from her work place, frantic because there was a tornado warning.

I almost wrote of that - why my mother only encouraged my worrying, just like always, and failed to convey confident strength. But then, I heard Robin McCrary, my MFA mentor, whispering in my ear. Robin has encouraged me to NOT lean into a deficit mindset. I wonder who it was that taught you where to go and what to do when the winds were whipping around…

This one is for Robin. He’s kept me writing lately.

Winds howl, limbs crack, but -

crouched in hallway with stuffed bear,

I make a safe space.

-So long until December. As always, I’d love for you to subscribe and share.

The rain came. The winds blew. Roaring waters were unleashed and the earth crumbled. Names carved on my heart thundered in my head and when I closed my eyes, darkness engulfed them. But their spirit felt alive.

Maia. Melody. Veronica. Stephanie. Ashley.

Time full-throttled with photographs on social media. Hurricane Helene spoke danger. Everywhere. Many things happened in my September, but none seem worthy yet today. One day I’ll tell you of a wedding and new writer friends. A tv show. Two books I read. But this month, I leave this newsletter blank except for this - my favorite text and a message from one of them.

I walked downtown. I’m sitting outside the hotel. I had cash enough for peanuts and an apple. I am safe.

I’ve been reading

I’ve been watching

I’ve been listening to

Each month I’m leaving you a poem right here at the end of this newsletter…

-So long until November. As always, I’d love for you to subscribe and share.

We’re party hosts. We’re “table for two, please,” folks. We’re COMMUNITY PRODUCERS now.

The boy was launched. We all survived. One week of him away at college and one twenty-four-hour return visit home. At least two of us have cried. At least one of us is out there making new friends. I wouldn’t dare post an unauthorized (by him) current photo, but it’s these old ones that still seem fresh to me and Andy anyway. Here’s hoping that our guy will always enjoy coming home.

What’s up for the two of us? We’re continuing to plant roots here. We dined out more than typical this past week. Kinda feels like dating; we’re back to often being just a couple now. We cleaned the house (together!) prepping to host a church group this past Friday night - a thing we used to love preCovid. And we even signed on to be community producers of a local staged reading for a winning play. Producer as in dropped some money.

Columbia, SC, has a thriving arts community. Your local area might have one, too. You’ll have to look for it, leave the house a bit, and even mingle and chat. That’s a fair amount of effort for an introvert like me, but it’s been worth it. Columbia’s JASPER PROJECT holds an annual playwright competition and invites folks to join in the process of bringing the winning script to the stage. In exchange for our investment, I got to attend the first table reading, actor and playwright discussions, and a rehearsal. Until a few weeks ago, I had no idea what a DIRECTOR did. Local? I think you’ll enjoy LET IT GROW on September 14th.

I think you’ll be wowed by the actors. Their expressions and accents are fun. I think you’ll smile and giggle and maybe raise your eyebrows at some of the dialogue that playwright Chad Henderson has written. But you won’t know what moments are delivered better because of Director Marybeth Gorman Craig. I was captivated by what took place when she’d stop a scene, give her interpretation of it, and throw out a few suggestions. That’s collaboration. That’s community.

We are all a part of making our communities what they are. It’s not usually about dropping some money. Hospitality. Volunteering. Voting. I’d love to hear your ideas about being a community producer where you are.

I’ve been reading

Speaking of hospitality. When I asked Melody LeBaron to share with me about officiating weddings, she recommended this book. I’m not finished reading it yet, but I think the title sums it up. This is a how-to guide for event planners of all sizes that is both simple and deeply thought provoking. Priya Parker has done extensive work facilitating conflict resolution.

I’ve been watching

One of you recommended it. I know you did. I just can’t remember who. (I was sure it was Lorien, but she said, “NOPE, haven’t seen it. On our to-watch list, though.”) Look, I did NOT watch the trailer. I did NOT know it was based on a book. I did NOT know it had language and sex and…

I just needed a new show to binge ‘cause our boy was gone. And, I think I’ve told y’all before that I love a good voice. And, this one…well, this voice…the show has this man (who I have, yes, now googled) who does narration before some of the scenes…

…this voice has just something about it that I fell for. The whole vibe of the show is slow and calming. Ironic since the subject matter is not. But this show was instantly some kind of - familiar.

And, I figured it out. The show reminds me of THE ROCKFORD FILES.

I typed the old show that I used to watch every week with mama into the google. Now I’m reminiscing. Did you know that THE ROCKFORD FILES premiered fifty years ago this month? And it started each episode with a telephone answering machine message…

BE WARNED: The entire season of BAD MONKEY has not been released. I was unaware until that fourth episode finished up.

I’ve been listening to

I’ve been listening to myself. Ugh. Sometimes I’ll read aloud and record my own writing. Listening back helps me revise and edit. This past month I’ve been writing lesson plans for my next writing workshop. AND I was interviewed - anyone else cringe when they hear their own voice :)

THE POWERFUL ESSAY is a four-week workshop in collaboration with my favorite life coach, friend, and creator of the #whatshesaidproject. I’m so grateful to Shannon Ivey for hosting me. This one’s on Zoom and happens Monday evenings in September. Seats are limited, but registration is STILL OPEN.

Each month I’m leaving you a poem right here at the end of this newsletter…

Every other Wednesday morning, I gather on Zoom with three others who once declared they’d (try to) write a poem (or three lines) every day for a year. Many thanks to The Stafford Challenge.

But this month I’m leaving you with an old poem of mine and one revision of it. Naked was the very first poem that I wrote as a gift for Andy. We’re celebrating the 22nd anniversary of our first date this month.

Naked

I like the night -

when bare skin hides beneath bedcovers,

when nipples nestle into another’s side,

when five right fingers find a heartbeat

and a palm plays from thumps to your left thigh.

I like belonging -

with the clinging and the waiting,

when I wallow in my wisdom that chooses I am yours.

I like the parting -

with the pleasing separation that says sleep,

when I smile into the solitude, secure to still be me.

Oh, but I love the morning -

when you stand in daylight, naked, grinning,

when a towel stretches tight behind your back,

when the window opens to the outside world

and I wake to the day when you are mine.

- 2003

That one is his favorite (of all the ones I’ve written and of the revisionings of it I’ve done.) But here’s a little example for you of revising - not a story or an essay, which is what I’m doing with my own memoir this semester - but a poem. During Foundations of Poetry I began challenging myself with the sonnet structure. I’d love to hear which version you like best.

(Naked, II)

Unison

when bare skin hid beneath bed cover sheets,       

when nipples nestled in another's side,             

when my five right fingers found your heartbeat,    

and my palm played from thumps to your left thigh,  

that was the beginning of my liking    

the night: its trusting start, made of goodness  

giving in to clinging and its waiting   

while my wallowing wisdom chose your bliss  

full coming of us and still completely 

me, as our parting brought both sweet slumber   

and fresh solitude, as I dreamt in smiles 

and woke to know such life, to remember 

nakedness, to find you standing by me,

a window opened, you completely mine.

- 2022

-So long until October. As always, I’d love for you to subscribe and share.

VIDEO with Shannon Ivey and me

I am living in the in-between time.

Yesterday, my UPS guy - I like to claim him, our regular delivery man, not some substitute for the day - placed a box on the step outside our kitchen door, rang the doorbell, and then slipped away, back into his big brown box of a truck that was at the edge of our drive, parked, still running, halfway in the road, lights blinking. I saw him as I opened the door and retrieved the package and I hollered out a “THANK YOU!” but he didn’t hear me as he revved the engine to make it up our hill.

Inside the box were two sets of bedsheets, size TWIN XL. If you, too, have ever lived in this same in-between time, then you know what’s coming. Because if there is another place that houses TWIN XL beds, then I do not know of it. (Though there must be. I have just googled and you can buy these beds from both Walmart and Wayfair.)

Our son is headed off to college.

He’s been heading off to college, in my mind, for some weeks now. Maybe it started as far back as last December when he received his acceptance notice from Wofford College. If not, then it certainly started the week of high school graduation. One thing was finished and it was time to start the next thing. But first, there was this thing called summer. And I wanted to do it well, but I am not confident that I have - and there are three more weeks of this.

We will be different then. When we no longer live under the same roof all the months of the year, we will be different somehow. And I don’t know that how. And I don’t like not knowing.

But we have done this before. He and I have moved in and out of his different phases, from the very first when he was growing inside of me to when he was weaned, and all the growths after. We will be fine.

I wonder how he is feeling. I wonder if his is a similar unknowing angst as mine. In many ways, we are defined by our relationship with others. Perhaps you disagree, but my life has given me example after example of it. Whether I have been a daughter, a cousin, a friend, a neighbor, a student, a teacher, an employee…everywhere I turn has me thinking of myself in relationship with others.

The day after Andy and I got married, we drove from North Augusta, SC, his home that was now my new one, to St. Augustine, FL, where we’d begin our honeymoon. It rained the first couple hours of our trip and I was unfamiliar with the roads we were travelling. I remember staring out the passenger window for long stretches of time, thinking about how I had no idea where we were and no real sense of where we were going. At one point, I started to turn my head and look at him, my new husband, figuring I would be hit with the sensation of who is this person that I’ve committed my life to and with. Instead, a more jarring question entered my mind, one I had never experienced.

Who am I?

Changes, even ones longed for and planned, can uproot us. I believe that there are things about us that cannot be changed. But I also believe that we are given a multitude of choices, many coming during seasons of change that we experience because we live in community. In becoming a wife, I was aware deep in my subconscious that I was somehow different and this was revealed to me in the form of this question. Identity evolves.

I am excited to see what the next season of life will bring for our son. As for me, I’m choosing to become more of a writer as I add writing teacher, facilitator, coach - I’m not sure what I’ll call it - to my list of roles. Want to join my community? I’ve got two chances for you coming soon.

(1) A FACEBOOK LIVE series starts next Thursday and is geared toward moms who are in transition. Maybe she’s starting preschool. Maybe he’s starting college. Writing About Motherhood is gonna be super low-key and free. Might happen weekly for a while. Jump on as you like - or watch the replay(s) when you can.

(2) THE POWERFUL ESSAY is a four-week workshop in collaboration with my favorite life coach, friend, and creator of the #whatshesaidproject. I’m so grateful to Shannon Ivey for hosting me. This one’s on Zoom and happens Monday evenings in September. Seats are limited.

I’ve been reading

Y’all, I copied and pasted that image straight from her website and I hope that doesn’t get me in trouble. Click on it and order this one from your local independent bookseller. Or grab the audio version. Don’t you love it when the author reads her own words? I love it even more when I recognize the voice. I had Jessica Goudeau for three full semesters. Here’s proof…

NO, not a copy of my transcript! A not so good of either of us photo…

Trust me. You ought to read this book. It’s quite personal, quite Texan, and quite American. I hope it wins a Pulitzer for nonfiction this year. It’s a critical look at history and ourselves.

I’ve been watching

Is this one playing at the “regular” places? I hope so! Andy took me to The Nick, our local indie theater. It’s delightful and bittersweet. I identified with several characters who were in their own seasons of transition and in-between.

We watched this one at home. If you’re dead set on villainizing Wall Street elite, then I dare you to watch this and see if you don’t consider a bit of sympathy for one or more of these guys.

I’ve been listening to

Remember my mentor that I mentioned up there - Jessica Goudeau? Well, during one of my reading semesters with her, she suggested I read a short story collection by Deesha Philyaw and I loved it. A year later, my next mentor Robin McCrary suggested I read a memoir by Kiese Laymon and I loved it, too.

This past month I discovered that these two (Deesha and Kiese, not Jessica and Robin) started a PODCAST and it’s about my writing genre - CREATIVE NONFICTION.

RECKON TRUE STORIES is the bomb - can I say that - does it date me? The first episode I tuned in for had Roxane Gaye joining them. What can I say? It was like the Triumvirate of my grad school reading experience right there in one listen.

Each month I’m leaving you a poem right here at the end of this newsletter…

Every other Wednesday morning, I gather on Zoom with three others who once declared they’d (try to) write a poem (or three lines) every day for a year. Many thanks to The Stafford Challenge. This week we considered Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18: Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day (which I may have never read before) and took ten minutes to come up with our own poem about - SUMMER.

I share mine with you in hopes that you, too, will realize that you can play with words and be a poet. AND, to let you know how I’m feeling about the season.

LIKE A SAUNA

Like a sauna,

a southern summer demands

near naked bodies

uncover in its heated clime,

with a towel

clutching private parts

while perspiration cements

sticky limbs to seats,

assuaging you to sit

and stay a spell

until the very thing you

need to leave behind

comes from within -

surfaces in drips,

dissipates

in fiery relief.

Like a sauna,

a southern summer beckons

long sighs and soft, slow retreats.

So long until September. As always, I’d love for you to subscribe and share.