The best part of sharing my blog with my children was their laughter and delighted squeals as they heard me say bad words and even talk about peeing on the sidewalk.

In Judaism, when someone dies, the family sits shiva for up to seven days.

This year will serve as a training camp or boot camp for me as a writer, just as someone might train for a marathon.

Every day as we descend the stairs out of my school building, I chant a particular call and response with my students.  

Uh oh. I fell asleep in the middle of this morning’s hour!

Reading Portia Nelson’s Autobiography in Five Short Chapters. 

Welcome to your new lives. 

I needed to ask myself whether doing this writing challenge seems selfish. . . I wondered if I might put this hour to better use.

My dad wore the scars of his experiences the only way he could — on his body for everyone to see.

A little known fact about me: I hoard pens.

How many generations does it take for trauma to work its way out of the blood stream?

So, this brings me to the elephant in this particular room: COVID.

#1. I must write 1 hour per day for the next 365 days.

#6. If I fail, I must donate big money to a cause that I hate!

I have never imagined my biological dad as anything but an absence — a void.

I aim to write for one hour per day, every day, for the next year. If that doesn’t turn me into a writer, I’m not sure what will.