I used to think about the longevity of gifts. What could be given that would be cherished for more than a handful of days or a couple of weeks? Finally, after I had a few years of teaching behind me, I figured it out: stories. Stories do not fade.
It’s been more than 10 years since I took those tentative and unwitting steps toward a part-time career as a “professional writer,” a label I never would have dared apply to myself until Margaret Renkl gave me permission.
FROM THE CHAPTER 16 ARCHIVE: I arrived in Zagreb in the evening of Thursday, April 15, 1993 — the first step of a planned three-day business trip. I expected to return home to Bosnia as soon as it was done.
“I can certainly use these for Poetry Month,” I’ll say to no one in particular, as if strangers might look askance at a person buying five books of poetry but not at a woman talking to herself.
It’s Georgia law that sex offenders register with the state each year, but in Blue Ridge, the local paper also publishes current and former offenders, with their name, age, and photo. And there was Harold, with his big, bumpy nose and kind eyes.
My museum adventure is an antidote to the emotional numbness that has set in during the pandemic, an escape from an endless Monopoly game of boxes that isolate and bankrupt emotionally.
