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Dear Wonderful Friends, I haven’t been present here at The Honeyed Quill nearly as much as I’d like, but for good reason. I’ve been publishing work with some of my favorite sites, developing pieces for others, teaching at the Spring WriteAway Retreat, and co-creating courses for local and online instruction. This has happened in addition to my usual client hours. I’ve been the best kind of busy. The kind that makes me want to slap exclamation points and shouty caps all over this post as I write it. But I’m

K., It is said we are all made of stardust (as if that evens the playing field) but you clearly cut yourself from your own cloth. I don’t know where I stand in relation to you, but in my mind you are walking backward up a very steep incline and I’m at the bottom with my neck craned and my eyes pierced by the sun wondering, “How does she do that in a skirt?” Life, maybe, wants to knock you down. I call bullshit. Not for the reason you’re thinking. I’ll

I’m sorry. I was hungry I guess? I’m not sure why it happened. You were there in one ultrasound. A shadow person. A double image. The doctor says I absorbed you. Mama says that makes me twice the woman I might have been. I missed you. I always set out a cup and saucer for you at tea parties. Put a mirror in your seat so I could find you in my corner vision, know what it might have been like to not be so alone. You were my greatest

There is something I want you to know. It is about the way I live my life since your embrace. It is the way you live in my life even after you pass, and until we meet again. In the Spring, I sit with my windows open so I can feel a connection to the world. It’s not like Kayfoun here. There is no direct connection to the land. No one lives in a flat above me. No laundry hangs outside. But I’ve come up with a way to counteract

Dear Woman, Stop it. Stop. It. Stop all of it. You are not a victim. You are a survivor. You get to choose what you will experience. So, file those papers. Pack his bags. Leave them on the doorstep. Change the locks. Invite friends over. Have them block the garage doors with their cars. Ask them to stay the night. This man you married, you owe him nothing. There were good times. There was love. You had hope. You put in the time. But what you had slipped away years

Dear Spire Readers, A friend recently reminded me I am more than a trauma writer. I began writing about my trauma and the path through it with a simple goal: to help one person. Judging by the number of personal responses I have received over the last few months (as well as their content), that goal has been met many times over. I honestly could not be more grateful for these connections. I am in awe of the people who come here to read because you have indelible courage. I

Dear Elaine, You won’t see this, but hello. I miss you on your fasting days with a McMuffin tucked in your bag of supplements because you were going to live forever God-willing-inshallah. Three days without food and you still answered the phones cheerfully and printed every email for the files you had me make sense of one summer nine dollars an hour and copies on the machine in a room with one window sealed shut and no air because it used to be a closet. I miss you, Elaine, your

Dear Mother, There is so much I need to say to you, because you are a sister to me. In a new way, now. We share a fear of seeing anger in a man’s eyes. We share a fear of those we love being hurt, and hurting those we love. We share a fear of hurting. This love is beyond friendship. We are betrayed. I want to hold you. I want to make myself safe for you. Always, you can cling to me. For hours, I have walked my floors

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