Month

I want to curl into pill bug formation and protect myself.  I’m sitting in a Schlotsky’s restaurant.  It used to be the best Schlotsky’s in the nation with upscale décor and classical music.  That was back when the founders of Schlotsky’s owned the place.  But then they expanded the company too quickly, got into financial trouble and sold the chain to Texas Burger.  Texas Burger sold it to … lord, I lost track.  All

Suzy remembers Liz Carpenter, Molly Ivins, and Governor Ann Richards.

Some people have to force themselves to not think about sex. I have to force myself to think about sex.

Sarah Bird lifted her right hand into the air as if she were holding a silver tray of hors d’oeurves, thrust her pelvis toward the audience, lowered her make-believe platter to hip level, and said, “May I offer you an ovary?”  The audience roared with laughter. I hate using clichés like roared with laughter, but whenever Sarah walks into a room, there’s a roar, usually a rushing roar of fawning, followed by laughter.

I wrote this in January, but I kept it to myself because I’m old school journalism who believes in keeping my politics out of my writing.  Plus, I’m not knowledgeable enough to write about this subject.  That’s why this piece is rather superficial.  But most of all, I’m too chicken to write about anything that involves political points of view for fear of ticking off and losing people I care about and who believe dif

Hear that tapping?  It’s my fingers … as I wait … and wonder … when my editor is going to call.  This is what it’s like for writers … waiting.  Even published writers.  Wondering.  Maybe it’s not that way for writers like Nelson DeMille.  But for those of us in the middle, it’s tapping fingers … anxiously waiting … maddeningly waiting. My editor was supposed to call me on February 1.  She didn’t.  I let it slide.  Pr