I am going to write/ I want to write

I want to write a romance because I am a romantic at heart.

I want to write the story of my father’s life because I want my children and grandchildren to see what a wonderful man he was.

I want to get back into writing special interest stories for the local paper because there is so much bad news out there. I want to shine a light on the good things happening in our community.

I want to write poetry about the beautiful things that surround me because they are worth sharing.

I am want to write letters to my grand nephews and niece because letter writing feels like a loss art.


I'm going to write a story about finding a lost love.

I'm going to write a biography about my father.

I am going to write a story about my nephew’s snowboarding adventures.

I am going to write descriptions of every day items as practice.

I am want to write letters to my grand nephews and niece because letter writing feels like a loss art.

The Candle

The Candle

    My sister, Sue bought the memory candle and its holder for the family after the death of our father. Our loss of him was heavy like a fog that wouldn’t lift. The candle brings us comfort. It’s a white tea light surrounded by a silver wrapping that prevents the hot melting wax from spilling out onto its silver plated base. The orange flame flickers through the pink stained glass in the shape of a heart. The light shines through the rough glass, casting it’s glow. It’s symbolic of Daddy’s presence still within our hearts. It’s a beacon of hope that reminds us that one day we will be with him again.

The Room I am In

I have a hard time saving the things that I write. Now that I am getting back into writing, I figured that I can keep my writing here.


The Room I am In.
I look to the right and see the mound of clean laundry in the old stuffed gray recliner with the dirty spotted upholstery. The chair has seen better days. We basically use it to hold the laundry until it can be folded and put away. This load is a tangled mess of black dress pants and tan towels with a stray red marled sock in the mix. Darks and lights tangled together. I personally must not have put this load in the washer. It looks like the sorting capabilities of a sixteen year old boy in a hurry to do his chores.

I really should get those clothes folded but I am feeling lazy like the big fluffy tan, white and black dog all sprawled out on the dirty wooden floor. That reminds me. I need to sweep and mop the floors. The warm sun coming through the window magnifies the dust. At this very moment. I don’t care.