I know the name”

I am, as many of you know, a whole-heart­ed embrac­er of social net­work­ing, or at least the ver­sion of it that hap­pens on spe­­cial­­ly-designed web­sites ded­i­cat­ed to some aspect of that pur­pose. Face­book, LinkedIn, Academia.edu, even Goodreads: I’m on them all. I am remark­ably dili­gent in scour­ing up per­sons from var­i­ous eras of my life,…

Read more I know the name”

Why not?

If I had to pick one facet of humor to lim­it myself to for the rest of my life, “ran­dom” would be unhesi­tat­ing choice. The things in books, movies, and life that tick­le my fan­cy most almost always the sort of things that beg the ques­tion, “Where did that come from?” Think of me as…

Read more Why not?


I didn’t real­ly think about voice in my writ­ing until my last year of col­lege. I was tak­ing a course with a pro­fes­sor I had pre­vi­ous­ly had for my very first Eng­lish course three years before. She had tak­en me to task then for the absurd­ly grandiose style of my prose: an ado­les­cence spent pri­mar­i­ly read­ing Dick­ens was bound to leave a mark. Now, near­ing the end of my major, I had done a lot of writ­ing and grow­ing, yet I remained large­ly unre­pen­tant when it came to my prose style.

Always a step behind

I have nev­er been a very inter­est­ing stu­dent to have in class.

Now, I think that with­out too much immod­esty I can spec­u­late that many, per­haps even most, pro­fes­sors have enjoyed hav­ing me in their course. I can write a mean paper in most cir­cum­stances; my words and ideas, and I with them, come alive upon the page. But rarely does my hand rise above my head.

hitting my stride

I walk to work each week­day morn­ing, and unless a co-work­er offers me an unso­licit­ed ride, I walk home again at the end of each work­ing day. I have a thir­­ty-minute pedes­tri­an com­mute each way, untrou­bled by traf­fic and impact­ed far less by sur­face con­di­tions. I will be glad when the last of the snow…

Read more hit­ting my stride