Juliette Writers' Group Meeting
Juliette Writers' Group Meeting
Resurrections
Walking through our
vestibule you‘d swear the Wicked Witch of the West met her dismembering doom
via a fallen couch. Grandma's artificial leg leaned against the living room
wall wearing its black shoe, stocking, and rubber garter. Grandma's “good” leg
lay flat on the floor, sticking out from behind the couch. Her
cigarette-singed: "Who came in?" was a relief.
“Put it on my chair. I
have to burn the old one in the ashtray first.” I obeyed. Grandma cursed,
behind my back, behind the upholstery. “Hand me those studs.”
Holidays called for
sprucing up the house, but those puny studs didn't stand a chance against my
brother's furniture abuse. Masked explicatives behind the couch made it clear
the studs gave Grandma trouble.
“Why are you doing
that today Grandma?”
Her leg shifted.
"You can't expect me to sew on the Sabbath." The unfinished Easter
dresses for my sister and me must’ve been on her mind. "We don‘t use
needles on Sunday in respect for Christ being pierced." Grandma's point
confused me when she added, "Hand me that ball peen hammer.”
The left corner of the
old couch's headrest didn't flap when I leaned on it to hand her the tool.
“How'dya fix the wing tip?” I inspected her handiwork.
“I reinforced it with
nails and pulled the material taut over it.”
She pretended not to be proud. She didn’t even curse.
“The couch looks nice,
Grandma.” Uncle John, no relation, had found the material in the trash outside
a warehouse. Its color clashed even worse than the original fabric. Scraps of
it on the floor tripped my mind back to the dresses. “Where's Mommy?”
“In the kitchen.”
I moved fast, hoping
Grandma wouldn't need something else before I was far enough away to
"not" hear her.
“Mommy, where'd
Grandma get the stuff for our Easter dresses?” Sweet onions scented Mom‘s long
hands, even when she wasn’t mixing ground meat.
She tilted her head to
fix her glasses with the back of her wrist. Sunlight from the kitchen window
made her ring glimmer. I tried to remember if, lying in his coffin, Dad had
worn his wedding band.
Fatigue filtered
through Mom’s answer. “Grandma took apart those curtains we had upstairs.”
Mom didn't understand
how bad it was. “You only have to wear them for a little while. Grandma worked
hard on them.” As a kid, I didn’t know how to plead my case further.
I dreaded the
humiliation. The dresses not only itched and burned. Those sheer pink recycled
curtains barely veiled our slips. Mrs. Watson would whisper the word
'fiberglass' as we sat on either side of her waiting to say our Bible verses on
the church basement’s stage. Grandma pounded another stud into the furniture. I
cringed.
A week later I sat on
the revamped couch as Uncle John snapped a picture, finalizing my anguish. My
sister was the first to bolt upstairs and strip the abusive pink night terror
from her body. We flung the things into the bottom of our closet in exchange
for the salvation of sweat pants and t-shirts. Back downstairs, we indulged in
candy eggs and animals, renewed. The holiday endured for chocolate, love of
others and maybe real dresses next year.
Juliette Writers' Group
Barnes & Nobles
1311 Nixon Drive
Moorestown, NJ 08057
Join published writer Dawn Byrne as she leads the group in discussing:
Trends in Readership Demands
Gremlin Amore
My first time behind the wheel was in a cute two-door blue
hatchback with white stripes zipping down each side. It had been handed down
from one soon-to-be sister-in-law to another. Joe, their youngest brother,
borrowed it to take me home after our date.
“Is it okay if I stop and get gas?” Joe’s profile as he talked
to the windshield, confident and comfortably in controlling of the Gremlin, made
my armpits tingle.
“Sure,” I said.
Such a gentleman to ask. The walk or bus ride would’ve taken
longer, so we had plenty of time before I had to be home.
“My sister was nice enough to let me use her car, I can at
least put gas in it.” So thoughtful.
Joe drove when someone lent him their car. I wondered how he
could be so adept at operating different ones. He pulled up to a pump.
Before getting out to go to the cashier booth to pay for the
self-serve gas, he asked, “Um, would you mind keeping your foot on the brake?
It’ll stall if I take it out of drive.”
The guys behind a glass wall of the connecting car wash watched
us two skinny teens.
“But I don’t drive,” I whined, like a useless
sixteen-year-old.
“If it stalls, it might not start up again. All you have to
do is keep your foot on the brake while I pay the guy inside and pump the gas.”
“I don’t feel comfortable doing that.” Actually, I was super
scared, especially with those car wash men smiling at me.
He leaned towards me. His hushed words cleared reality from
my senses, enticing me to focus only on his face. ”Don’t worry, nothing’ll
happen." Shaded pilot glasses and wispy brown hair accented sharp, sexy features.
But my body shook as I rounded the car to the driver’s side.
Joe stood outside with his foot inside, on the brake. When I was in the
driver’s seat, my foot replaced his, and he closed the door. He went to step
away from the open car window. “What if something goes wrong?” I didn’t want him to
leave me.
“It’ll be alright. Just keep your foot on the pedal.”
He was still next to the car when I had the sensation of
starting forward on a carnival ride.
Shocked at the car’s movement, I pulled my foot off the
brake. The ride accelerated. Mixed up about which pedal was the brake, I
stepped on the gas. Joe’s waving figure shot backwards out of my peripheral
view through the window.
I was driving for the first time, heading for the car wash.
The red faces of laughter on the guys’ inside drained as they scrambled to back
away from the glass wall of live 3DTV coming at them in the form of a blue and
white Gremlin.
Common sense hit me before I hit the glass; I braked.
Joe caught up with me. In relief, I returned to the
passenger’s seat. He backed up to the pump again. He still planned on getting
that gas for his sister.
“I had my foot on that one but it didn’t work,” I almost
cried, when Joe gave me the same instructions as before.
“You have to press down hard.” He was getting out again.
I grabbed him. “No. I don’t want to.”
“I won’t be long, just remember it’s the middle one.”
Why trust me after almost killing him and others? Those men now
gaped at me again through the clear wall at a possible Groundhog’s Day
re-scene.
I pressed down so hard on that pedal, I feared wearing it
out.
Joe later told me that when he made it to the booth to pay
for the gas, he said to the teller, “Ten dollars for the Gremlin with a mind of
its own.”
He wasn’t angry, frustrated or embarrassed by his ditzy
girlfriend. Entertained? Not scared, that’s for sure. He was ready for the ride
of our lives down the aisle.
Juliette Writers' Group Meeting
This was great. Click for updated meeting.
Published writer, Dawn Byrne, will lead the group in discussing:
Published writer, Dawn Byrne, will lead the group in discussing:
The Importance of Critique
We meet the third Tuesday of each month.
See you February 16th at 7:30 pm
Barnes & Nobles
Eastgate Square, 1311 Nixon Dr.
Moorestown, NJ 08057
All who love the written word-Welcome!
Not So New Nova
I didn’t mind hoisting a collapsed baby coach, a baby,
diaper bag and purse on and off buses, up to and down from elevated platforms, and
in and out of trolley cars. I folded a week’s worth of dirty laundry for three to
fit in a shopping cart, and hauled the load uphill to our local laundry mat.
Losing my post-pregnancy baby fat while getting chores done at the same time
exhilarated me.
Clean clothes folded and back in their drawers and closets,
I returned to the shopping center up the hill to food shop. Steadying a huge
box of Pampers atop the jam-packed cart of survival supplies for the coming
week, I always arriving home with no broken eggs.
I put many miles on my sturdy Graco coach. With our daughter
along for the ride, I walked to local shops to buy other essentials, and to my
mom’s house for visits. If an odometer spun on that blue buggy, it would’ve
turned over.
Then we moved from the city. Almost overnight, I got a
driver’s license, drove over a bridge that opened for large boats to pass, and up
the boulevard. That same city looked different from behind a wheel than from a bus
seat, where I had safely witnessed accidents and an arrest through the bus’s
deluxe-sized windows.
I was a married mother, worked full-time and cared for our
home. So why did I shirk from the responsibilities of driving? Driving’s a must
for busy mothers and makes life easier. Right?
Not in 1988 when operating a green 1970 Chevy Nova. The
thing crapped out on me in parking lots, on the bridge, just over the bridge
and starting out from any Point A. Each time, after a push from another driver,
including the police once, or some magic my husband did underneath it, I
chugged on.
While driving to my second shift job, most vehicles headed
in the opposite direction, on their way home from day shifts. Traffic was even
lighter when I left work, driving home through sleeping neighborhoods. These
lucky facts lessened my odds of being in someone’s way and backing up traffic
when the testy Nova broke down.
I didn’t believe that the cost of insurance and the upkeep
of an automobile was money well spent. Maybe if we could’ve afforded a car that
wasn’t almost as old as I was, I’d have felt differently. But for our child to
escape the mire of the same city schools I crawled out of, we had to move to an
area with limited public transit. I guessed those late shifters without cars
swam across the river, and under the bridge that was closed to foot traffic at
night, to get home.
My confidence as a driver budded a few weeks after my latest
incident. Would I actually experience transporting myself to work and home each
night without fear of a breakdown? I started to feel empowered inside the
fading green Chevy with its stinky fumes.
Until a cloud hissed in front of me from under the hood. I
was near the turn off for the bridge. If I could only get over it, I’d at least
be in my new home state for damage assessment.
The few cars that passed me, waved and pointed. But I didn’t
stop. Not in the middle of the boulevard!
The white smoke thickened and my visibility dropped. I
missed the tricky left turn to the bridge and kept going, afraid to stop in
case the car wouldn’t start again. I finally found a gas station and pulled
into it. Somehow I had exited the boulevard and was in an unfamiliar
neighborhood. I couldn’t call my husband to come get me because our 4-year-old
daughter was asleep. He’d have to wake her and bring her with him.
Making sure my official-looking badge was still clipped to
my blouse, I approached the gas station hut on its island surrounded by pumps,
and asked if they had a phone. The attendant didn’t speak English, but pointed
to my left.
I scanned the gray, empty, non-residential streets. A public
phone hung inside its extended, tri-sided frame across the intersection.
Adrenaline still at high pumping power, I power walked to the pay phone.
The dial tone in my ear answered my rushed prayer. I noted
the cross streets as I punched in Mom’s number that I had memorized as a child.
She was sending my brother to save me. I got back in my car that had stopped
streaming smoke and locked myself in as Mom had instructed.
A man knocked on my window a minute later. I lowered the
window half an inch to hear what he asked.
“What’s wrong with the car?”
I willed my voice not to shake but sound as official as my
badge appeared. “I don’t know. It was smoking. My brother’s on his way.”
He ducked under the hood and then came back to the window.
“A hose is cracked. I can clamp it so you can get home.”
My spider senses tingled as he scanned the inside of my car
through the window. His too sweet smile and prowling eyes lingered seconds on
me. He clearly didn’t work at the station because he hadn’t come from the hut
or pumps.
“That’s okay. My brother’ll be here soon,” I said, and wound
up the window, staring straight ahead at my open hood.
I thought he'd left, but he reappeared and stared working on my car.
I cracked the window again and said, “I don’t want you to get hurt working under there. It might still be hot.”
I thought he'd left, but he reappeared and stared working on my car.
I cracked the window again and said, “I don’t want you to get hurt working under there. It might still be hot.”
He came back to my window and said, “It’s fixed. I clamped it.”
“Oh, thank you.” Could he really have repaired my car? “I’m
sorry I don’t have any money to pay you for your help.”
“Well.” He grinned and again his eyes swaggered to the interior
of my car. “That’s okay.”
He walked away. Time tick inside me as I breathed; one, two, three minutes maybe.
Movement reflected in my side view mirror. That same man led a group of men. I heard their course
language as they headed towards me.
I hoped the man in the hut wasn’t a friend of theirs and
would call the police if needed.
You may have guessed that my lone cavalry arrived. My
brother screeched into the station. I became hysterical, not improving the
situation in which my brother was now involved. He shut the Nova’s hood and I
followed him to the bridge.
“Yes, he’s home now, honey. Are you alright?” Mom asked when
I called her from my side of the bridge. We continued to chat until we both had
settled our nerves, then said good-night.
My husband was impressed the next day with the stranger’s
handiwork. But he told me not to advertise my disability next time by keeping
the hood opened while waiting for assistance. I entertained the thought that
the man who helped was a good Samaritan. But in my husband’s strained face
staring back at me, I knew the stranger probably fixed the car because he and
his friends didn’t have one, or they wouldn’t have walked to the station. This
is where my story ends, and I thank God and brother.
New Year's Eve in Eden
Enjoying the final calendar day at Longwood Gardens
in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania whetted my appetite for March when the
Philadelphia Flower Show is due to arrive. Meandering the Garden’s conservatory
and its connecting buildings of flora, oxidized my eyes as I visually breathed in
beauty, digesting it to energize my novel in progress.
A florist’s business is key to my book, and may wind
up taking on a character role in itself. Those botanical displays I ogled at
Longwood tripped ideas to realistically depict the fictitious shop’s setting.
A living wreath made of succulents might advertise a
southwestern holiday take for the florist shop’s non-traditional customer who
is nostalgic for warmer weather. That unorthodox item could also attract the
upscale clientele who walk into Black-Eyed Sioux’s Florist Shop in my fictional
city neighborhood that is making a turn for the better.
My main character, Aubrie, might notice powder puff
trees on a poster that Sioux has hung in the back of the shop. Those trees will
probably ignite Aubrie’s childhood love of stories by bringing to mind “The
Lorax” by Dr. Seuss with its fuzzy Truffula Trees. Maybe the real blooming tufts
are what inspired Theodore Geisel’s creativity.
Of course, to educate Aubrie in botany, I must
educate myself. Longwood and PFS are fun ways to do this. I’m sure the many
visitors to these gardening extravaganzas, like myself, bring their individual
imaginations to these heavenly visions, and go home inspired too.
Subscribe to:
Posts
(
Atom
)
About Me
- Dawn Byrne
- I write children's picture books. It's important for me to leave a teeny carbon footprint and do the least harm in my garden. I live with my husband and a red-eared slider turtle. I continue to apologize to them both.
Popular Posts
-
Minutes after 4, I rushed through the front door. I started dinner, added fresh water to the dog's bowl and threw laun... -
Alien or Allergic to Earth I'm reaching into cyber space to hear from fellow earth dwellers. I'm begging f... -
My socks only touched the even number steps. After 14, I landed on the living room carpet in front of Grandma's cera... -
Two years into receiving shots at my Ear, Nose and Throat specialist’s allergy department, I was asked to wait half an hour after ge... -
I don't remember Grandma moving in. She must've gotten as far as the living room and plopped down her recliner. She di... -
Isn't Mortimer T. Turtle Byrne handsome? He's a perfectly painted slider who's social and not camera shy. M.T.T.B. joined... -
Our four children had become young adults. Our busy life of running to schools, games and practices, church activities and play... -
Enjoying the final calendar day at Longwood Gardens in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania whetted my appetite for March when the Phi... -
Taurus Taps Not just a tap, as you can see, the car never had a chance. A truck hit it, but I suffered no alignment ... -
"Oh, for heaven's sake Miranda, just put them on. ” She was talking to herself again. “ It's not like you ne...
Search This Blog
Tweet Tweet
Like us
Blog Archive
Labels
Dawn Byrne
Barnes & Nobles
Juliette Writers' Group
writing
local writers
writing group
family
writers
writing community
writing discussion
writer's group
writer's meeting
humor
love
writer's discussion
grandma
nostalgia
creative writing
established writing group
writers group
Maple Shade Library
Moorestown
Philadelphia
fun
marriage
ENT
NJ
South Jersey Writers' Group
inspiration
Friendly writers
allergies
allergy shots
books
childhood
mother
polyps
writer
Chicken Soup for the Soul
Christmas
Immunotherapy
NaNoWriMo
children
heroes
home
local writing group
row house
sinus
support
America
COVID-19
Flonase
Maple Shade
Marie Gilbert
Moorestown NJ
National Novel Writing Month
New Jersey
Poetry
The Treehouse Coffee Shop and Café
Wegmans
allergens
bias
car
city
critique
discussion
discussion topics for writers
ear infections
editing
empowerment
entertainment
fiction
games
grandchild
grandmother
handyman's special
inspirational
neti pot
pandemic
publishing
relationship
seasoned writers
shelter in place
siblings
single mother
sinus pressure
story
supportive community
wedding ring
working mother
writers helping writers
writing craft
writing process
writing topic
writing topics
Chevy Nova
Goodwill
Grandma's house
Habitat for Humanity ReStore
Home renovation
Horror Writing
IGS Solar
Juliette Haynes
Neighborhood
Pennsylvania
Sudafed
Thanksgiving
Trinity Solar
USA
Writing for Special Occasions
Zoom
adenoids
alcohol
author
carpeting
childhood memories
children's author
cigarettes
city life
city neighborhood
colon cancer
colonoscopy
deadlines
depression
discussions
driving
engagement ring
equality
family life
fifty-years-old
finishing a project
flowers
free writing
friends
generations
genre
gifts
going green
grandparents
holiday
home repair
hyggeligt
journal writing
kindred spirits
local artists
love nest
lower endoscopy
marbles
memoir
memories
motherhood
moving
neighborhoods
new writer
old school
open mic
peace
physical disability
poet
political humor
political writing
poor family
poverty
pretend
public reading
published writer
recycling
respect
revision
romance
roof panels
scene
second-hand
self-help
self-improvement
shopping
sinus infections
solar energy
solar panels
support group for writers
surgical center
tradition
upper endoscopy
vacation
visiting Grandma
widow
women
writing group discussion
writing support
#FallWritingFrenzy
1970
1977
1988
1995
3rd grade
A Day at the Office
AAUW
ALA
Ace
All in the family
Allstate
American Red Cross
American author
Americans
Amy Hollinger
Amy Newmark
Ancestry DNA Kit
Antiheroes
Archie Bunker
AssetRecovery Solutions
Aubrie
Aubrie novel
Audubon
Banned Books
Barbara Walker Capoferri
Beach Town series
Believable Settings
Berman Jewelers
Best Furniture Upholstery
Bette Greene
Bible verse
Biff Bam Pop
Buddha
Building word count
Burlington County Times
Cancer
Chevette
Chevy
Chris Eilenstine
Christmas movie
Christmas village
Collingswood Book Festival
Corrie ten Boom
Cosmos
Covid 19
Coziness
Cricket Magazine
Danish
David Corbett
David L. Steinberg
Dawn Byrne.com
Decoded
Donna Baier Stein
Donna Reid
EGD
Easter
Easter ham
Elisabeth Trefscar
EpiPen
Erma Bombeck
Everyman
Facebook
Faleeha Hassan
Five star hotel
Floor installation
Ford Taurus
Franchesca Ramsey
Frank Capra
Freedom
Freedom to Read
G.E.D.
G.I.Joe
GERD
GMOs
Genre Mixing
George Bailey
George Floyd
Ghost Stories
Gloria Vanderbilt
Goodwill Store
Green Drop
Green Fair
Gregg Feistman
Gremlin
Halloween
Hannah Jordan
Hasbro
Hat
Heritage County Market
Historical Writing
Home Sweet Home
Hook Your Reader
Horror Stories
I Feel Sorry for My Neck
IRS
IV
Inn of the Dove
Investigative Writing
Iraq author
It's a Wonderful Life
Jack
James Carpenter
James Stewart
Janice Wilson
John Leone
Joyce McIntosh
Juice Beauty
Juliette Writers' Group meeting
Kensington Avenue
Kindle
King
LLC telephone
LVP
Lee Harper
Life with Fred and Lucy
Longwood Gardens
Luxury Vinyl Plank flooring
Margate
Marlboro
Mayflower
Medford New Jersey
Mortimer
Mother's Day
Mountain Dew
Myles Standish
NASA
NJ Transit
National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation
National Poetry Month
Native Americans
New Home
New Jersey Turnpike
New Jersey shore
New Year
New York City
Newbery Award books
Nissan Altima
No Place to Pray
Norwegian
Novel-in-progress
O. Henry
Ocean City
Open Mic Night
PSE&G
PVC
Philadelphia Flower Show
Philip Hall Likes Me I Reckon Maybe
Philip Van Doren Stern
Propofol
Purple Heart
Queen
R. J. Repici
Relaxation
ReptoMin floating food sticks
Resurgent Companies
Rocky Horror Picture Show
Roof Oasis
Roosevelt Boulevard
Rosenbach Museum
S.E.P.T.A.
SCBWI
Saving Solanda
Scene from novel in progress
Scenes from the Heartland
September
Sergeant Savage
Sharkie
Sharklock Bones series
Shelley Szajner
Simon
South Street
Space X
Springer Spaniel
St. Joseph
Staying Disciplined with Writing
Steampunk
Steampunk Granny
Storytelling
Styrofoam
THE HIDING PLACE
TV
Tacony-Palmyra Bridge
Taurus
The Gift of the Magi
The Greatest Gift
The Green Book
The Long Harbor Testament
The Soulless
The War Merchants
Tom Minder
Tom Mindert
Topple
Tudor style
Tycony/Palmyra Bridge
United Against Book Bans
UrbanPromise
Valentine's Day
Valentine's gift
Ventnor
Victoria Marie Lees
WAR
WIC
Wedding
Welcome
Woodstock Music and Art Festival
Woody's
Workplace Woes
Writing characters
Zyrtec
a place on earth
accident
action figure
activism
adoption
adult child
affair
afterschool program
alignment damage
allergist
allergy
aluminum cabinet
ancestral home
ancestry
anniversary
anthology
apartment
apocalyptic
appreciation
architecture
aromatherapy
authors
award winning author
baby Jesus
bachelorette party
backstory
bacteria
ballpeen hammer
beach
beach writing
bedroom
bigotry
blessing
blue
body image
boob tube
book event
book store
botany
brake
breast-feeding
breastfeeding
broken hose
bureau
bus
candy
canned goods
card game
cast iron
ceiling
celebrating fifty
celebration
cell phone
character emotions
character relationships
characterization
charming
cheap thrills
child
child custody
child's voice
childcare
children's books
children's illustrator
children's literature
chores
city space
civil rights
clamp
cleaning
colonial style
colonist
color coding
comfort
commitment
community
computer processing
computer screen
confidence
conservatory
cooperation
corner store
coronavirus
couch
couple
crap
creative minds
creatives
creativity
critiquing
crushed frame
crystal
curdle
data entry
date
dating
death
decorating
denial
design
designed
devotional
digging
disabled vehicle
discrimination
disease
diversity
do-it-yourself
doctor
dog
drag performance
drag queen
dry eyes
dust
dysfunctional family
easy game
ebooks
electric bill
emotional balance
empty nest
error
evolution
excavation
experiment
eyes issues
fairness
family dinner
family history
father
faulty construction
fear
fedora
feedback
female
female impersonator
fetish
fiberglass
filter
fine motor
first time driver
fish tank
fix-me-up
fix-me-upper
flat tire
fleas
florist shop
foot massage
footprints
four letter word
fracking
fragrant soaps
frazzled
free plants
friendly group
frozen foods
frugal
future
gardening
gas
gas smell
gas station
gastroenterology
genealogy
genetic pool
genre fiction
gift
giving and receiving feedback
glass door
go green
grandchildren
green
guns
handmade soap
happy
health issue
heroines
historical fiction
hive minds
holidays
home insurance
home restoration
homeowner
honeymoon
hotels
house
house construction
https://kaitlynleannsanchez.com/literary-clients/
https://lydialukidis.wordpress.com/fallwritingfrenzy-2025-rules/
humane issues
husband
hygge
hyggekrog
identity
impatiens
improving your writing
inclusion
inclusivity
injector
inside game
international writer
interrobang
jeans
jewelers
jewelry
justice
kilowatts
kitchen
kitchen gadgets
kitchen tools
land
land grab
late for work
lawn
leaky roof
lemon
letting go of expectations in writing
library
life lesson
life well lived
lights
limousine
literacy
living
love of written word
magazine writing
mailing
main beam
manuscript
manuscript mark up
marble fun
mask
masks
matches
mature couple
medical procedure
meeting
mental health
metals
mile marker
milk
mini tongues
modern slang
molding
mommy jeans
monthly writer's meeting
muse
nails
nativity
needle
neighbors
new beginnings
new birth
new novel
new world
newborn
newly weds
night shift
non-fiction
non-profit
non-violence
nonprofit writing
nose bleeds
novel
novel. author
novels
novice writer
novice writers
old couch
old furniture
old house
old man
omni symbol
online presence
online schooling
own-voice
paisley
palm
patient
patriotic writing
peace ambassador
peers
pet
phone calls
pilgrims
pink cloud
pitch
platform
play
pleather
plot
plot conveniences
plumbing
plumbing companies
poetic writing
police
police station
pop culture
popping floor
powder puff tree
prank
pregnancy
professional speaker
pronoun
psychic
public conversation
public phone
public speaking
public transit
pump
punctuation
quantum leap
query
racial issues
reading
reading playing cards
realism
recliner
recycle
red pen
refinishing
relatives
renovating gone awry
renovations
reptile
resurrection
retirement
revising your work
ring removal
roadside assistance
romance writing
row homes
row houses
safety
sale
saline solution
salmonella
saving energy
saving money on electric bill
scam
scented soaps
science
science project
screen writer
seasonal writing
seasoned writing group
self-healing
self-promotion
semi-hibernation
sensitivity readers
sentimental
serendipity
setting
settlers
sewer. gas. utility
sex
sexism
sexy meatballs
shell
shore
short stories
short story
sibling rivalry
silliness
simple
single parent
sinus infection
sister
slang
small businesses
small township
snuggle
soap
social distance
social unrest
southern gothic
speaker on writing
special
speculative fiction
spiritual gifts
spiritual readings
spring
squirrel's gone
stale bread
stereotypes
stories
story teaser
stress relief
stretch jeans
strong woman
stuffed shells
sub-flooring
succulents
summer fun
summer reading
summer writing
super mom
superstition
supervisor
support beam
support for writers
supportive environment
supportive writers
surgical masks
sustainability
symbolism
synchronicity
tea
tea infuser
tea leaves
tea party play
teapot
technology
teenagers
teens
telemarketers
terra cotta
territories
them
they
things that scare writers
think tank
thrift store
thriller writing
time travel
tip
toilet
tongue and groove flooring
tonsils
tow truck
toy crane
toys
traditional marriage
trains
transportation
traveling
treasure hunting
tree
trends
trim molding
turtle
uncle
unity
used clothing
utility bills
valet parking
virgin
visiting Pop
vote
walking
wall-to-wall carpeting
warmth
water
water main
webpage
wedding gifts
wet cement
whimsical fun
wick trimmer
wife
windows
winter
women writers
wood
wood flooring
wood floors
workshop
wreath
writers meeting
writers' discussion
writing events
writing friends
writing group meeting
writing groups
writing habits
writing partner
writing platform
writing space
writing tool
writing workshop
yellow
young parents
zombies