My third grader is a boy, a kid who loves to ignite his army men with firecrackers (when I'm not looking), build helicopters with his tinker toys, and hunt fossils. All boy. And every nine weeks, his third grade teacher requires him to read a book and complete a book report. Last time, he had to read a mystery. I don't recall the title of the book, or even the series, but I remember him curled up on the loveseat, crying because he hated the book. More...

I don't know about your face-to-face writing group, but mine is the coolest. Cooler than yours, I'm dead certain. First, we meet in a small café, which, admittedly, is trés ordinaire, but our café is in the Super Target on Highway 66 in Rowlett, Texas, a place you've never even been. We have our own mascot, a certain red soda machine that growls like crazy if our prose stinks, which it only does at first, before its critiqued. Because after it is workshopped, by jinkies, our writing sings and that machine purrs. More...

On my way home from teaching, I pass an empty lot in the middle of my town's business district. The local funeral home rents the space and posts one of those Clever-Saying signs that usually adorn the parking lots of evangelical churches in my area. This week the slogan read: Love people to life. Don't judge them to death. More...