I planned to photograph the magnolias when the light was right and the trash cans weren't there. By the time I returned, they were bare. I've spent my whole life waiting for the perfect moment that never comes.
Personal Growth
I Used to Be
Thirty-two and sitting on my Virginia porch with red wine and a laptop, I hadn't written in two years. Not since Nashville. Not since the divorce. Tonight, the first writing tingle returned—would it be enough to reclaim what I used to be?
