Jim the Writer

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What Else You Can’t Do

He had no music in him, never had. In fourth grade, before the Christmas pageant, a desperate teacher ordered him to lip-sync "The Little Drummer Boy." Decades later, a grown man, it still made him sad. "You can't dance," a woman told him over the booming bass at a grad school party. "It makes me wonder what else you can't do." A nasty sly smile. A mean …

Love and the Summer Night

He was a peasant, a man of the soil. Or so he claimed. She never believed him. He owned a farm house, but someone else owned the barn and fields. His hands were huge and strong, but sensitive. A potter's hands. "You're an artist," she said. "Admit it." They were in bed, katydids singing through the …

Homecoming

Lord Galt’s return to the Castle of the Mountain Kingdom was sudden and unexpected. It had to be so. The King had been vocal in his criticism of his uncle. His words stopped short of condemnation, and yet were poison in the minds of his loyal subjects. He may as well have pronounced the Syllables of …

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How Nan Got Her Maple Trimmed

Nan wanted a bough or two cut off the big silver maple in our backyard. So I hired a crew. Then she was hot to put in her garden and didn't like having to wait. "It's too early to plant, anyway," I said. When the crew got here, she was hot for the climber. "You should see the hunk trimming my …

The Day After Thanksgiving, 1977

On the day after Thanksgiving in 1977, I was alone in my apartment, writing. Nobody called it “Black Friday” then. It was just the day after Thanksgiving. I don’t know when it became the high holy day of American consumerism. …

Fragment of a memoir

"The thing is," Papa said, "everybody gets that story wrong. They always think the baby died." "Well, sure," I said. "What else?" Papa shook his head. "The baby didn't die. The mother doesn't want the shoes." He finished his gin martini and motioned to the barkeep for another. The fan turned …

The Cross Roads

Looks good, don't he? Like he could sit up and tell a story. Ol' Terry knew a few! He wanted to write, you know. No, I never saw him with the arm, either. Yeah. In the war. The Hürtgen Forest, 1944. Same day he crossed paths with Hemingway. Sure, the author! Funny story. Terry's hugging the ground …

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About me

As you have probably figured out, my name is Jim and I am a writer. For many years, I was a college writing teacher, too -- among many other life roles. I have another, more popular blog called Life After Carbs. It's about losing weight on a reduced carbohydrate diet. And it's about me -- my favorite …

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El Morro

The Desire to Leave a Mark ... El Morro (the headland) stands in western New Mexico, and is also known as Inscription Rock. At the base of El Morro is a pool of water that for centuries attracted parched travelers to the spot, many of whom carved dates, names, and messages (including petroglyphs) into the …

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