I love words. Every day, I am putting words together in speech or in writing. With words, I and my work come to life. In order to have a sufficient output of words, I have to have enough input. So I read a lot of books and articles and I listen to podcasts and music, because I cannot be a hollow writer. I have to be filled in order to offer anything. Oh, and then there’s the social media—do we all have an ambivalent relationship with it?—where I can keep up with the happenings of my friends, . . .
A few days ago, I began writing this verrrrrry heartfelt piece about [retracted, because you’ll read it soon enough]. I had no doubt I’d finish it up in time to send it out to you this week. I was wrong. I don’t often do this, but I had to push its publishing date back a week to get the piece just right. Because I hate to miss a week with you, I’ve decided, instead, to tell you about this wild thing that took place a couple of weeks ago. Here’s what happened: Not long ago, my husband . . .
Years ago, my uncle and his family were in town for the holidays. We didn’t get to see this side of the family very often, so our time together was always too short but so sweet. It still is. I’ll never forget this particular visit because I very much irritated my dad by using a “nice” bath towel, rather than letting one of our guests use it. This was wildly confusing to me, mostly because I didn’t realize we had varying levels of bath towels, some of which were intended for specific people . . .
I arrived at the restaurant first and sat down at a table that gave me a view of the door, hoping I would recognize him when he walked in. It was our first date—a blind one. We had seen photos of each other and emailed back and forth, but this was the first time I would see him in the flesh. My nerves were frayed. When he walked in, I stood up, suddenly realizing that I hadn’t planned how I would greet him. Without much thought, I opened my arms wide as I stepped towards him. I imagine I . . .
My husband and I found our new favorite chicken wings. You guys, I cannot describe to you how good these things are. They are char-grilled and perfect. We went to get them this weekend; every time we go, I think they're probably not going to be as good as I remember. And EVERY TIME THEY ARE AS GOOD AS I REMEMBER. Now, this is not a piece entirely about chicken wings, but I needed to start somewhere and what better place to start than chicken wings? The chicken wings restaurant is Pies & . . .
Friends, I'm so excited to introduce you to Leanna today. She is a force—one of strength and kindness and creativity. I admire her authenticity and perspective; I've tried to explain to Leanna how I see her but I feel at a loss for words. She's got that something, you know what I mean? Her authenticity, perspective, force, and that something are why I'm so glad she has begun this work as a photographer. I believe she is doing with her camera what I try to do with my words: Tell stories that are . . .