I subbed at my kids’ school
today, the ghost of Macbeth reincarnated
in prose. The ancient ambition for tyranny never dies,
as if Shakespeare knew then the voices of pink-faced
youth would rise and fall and try
when the hurlyburly’s done, life
is but a walking shadow.
My kids’ school and Shakespeare are good.
What’s YOUR good?
🔎 Find the good.
📸 Snap a picture.
📲 Share it on social media.
It’s an old knock-knock joke, isn’t it?
Orange you glad I didn’t say banana, right?
I don’t know about where you live, but here in central Indiana, the cicadas are humming, rows of corn are browning near the ground, and hints of yellow spot the leaves on the trees. Autumn is definitely arriving on what’s left of receding summer breezes.
That has me thinking about orange.
Yellow-orange school buses.
Orange gourds and the orangey brown of melted caramel on apples.
And orange books.
I took a walk around all the bookshelves in our home and pulled out the ones with orange spines, just for fun. Turns out I have quite a few, and a good variety, too, which feature variations of heart-warming orange:
Have you read any of these?
Do you see any favorites?
Better yet, wanna share your orange books?
Post a picture on your twitter or Instagram, and be sure to put the hashtag #orangebooks at the end.
Tweet: Orange you glad you took at peek at my bookshelf? #orangebooks
And as always, dear reader, thanks for visiting today!
Dear Reader is a series I post on every week. If you’re a reader and have an idea or question you’d like me to write about, relating to books or writing or editing, etc., jot me a note and I’d be much obliged to take a stab at your request. Also, if you’d like to read all the Dear Reader posts, click here. If you like insider information into my books or writing life, be sure to sign up for my author newsletter by clicking here.
i used a colored pencil to mark the seam
against the same heel that 14 years before
pressed against the inside
of my belly and made me giggle with the hope of
what he will be.
I used a hot iron to stiffen the creases
and a needle to press through the fabric
tacking up the hem
tugging at my heart.
what’s a mama to do with the bittersweet seams
on one side, the world
on the other, emptying arms