A Natural, Zesty Enterprise: Writers' Workshop

Science teacher: Biology essential question: Were humans inevitable?

2010-08-10T16:26:00.000-07:00

Science teacher: Biology essential question: Were humans inevitable?

Star Map

2010-05-02T15:55:00.001-07:00

I forget that sometimes I am on a spinning

planet that is just little dot situated

wobbly on the axis of z

(I had been so fixed on x marks the spot and y cut me)

That we decided and created math problems about but then the astronauts wouldn’t have been able to get home if we didn’t know but anyway

I forget that sometimes I am on a spinning

globe that is just a little speck solemnly

Taking itself much too seriously and there’s only one right answer

But I am on a little spinning planet wobbly and unsure I know because

The Gargantuan Star Map was reporting back to base that the planets

Jupiter and Neptune were underneath my floorboards

And my knees turned to gelatin because I am only flesh and blood and stardust, too and I felt shaky like I was going to fall and spin out of this world and into the next joining my brethren stars that created me and my little precarious balance

Oh that little screen was so beautiful sprinkled with constellations and they have names! Beautiful names! Names of gods, names of goddesses, and hunters and milk and crabs and horses and we see what’s above

Why do we only look up?

Oh, but the little window showed me what was below

Deep below

It was as cold as heaven

And as easy to find as hell

It was my tiny tiny tiny porthole sealed up tight

My view

Of the stars

I’m going to fall

I had to hold your hand for a minute, and I felt better

Frida's Toes

2010-05-02T15:36:00.001-07:00

Overheard outside

the bathroom window down on the

sidewalk like a boom as if he was there in the room

the incorporeal voice said

I HAD A DREAM LAST NIGHT THAT I GAVE AWAY MY WATCH, MY BRAND NEW WATCH I SAID HERE, YOU CAN HAVE IT NOW WHY WOULD I DO SOMETHING LIKE THAT? ISN’T THAT CRAZY?

Well, I thought

There’s no mystery there

You gave away time and you feel your time isn’t valuable and you feel that money can’t buy time even though it was probably a really expensive watch you must have thought that if you gave it away maybe it wouldn’t have a hold on you anymore

But I didn’t raise out of the bubble bath to tell you that

I just thought it was kind of funny

While I looked at my red white polka-dotted painted toes ala Frida Kahlo

She made paintings of her toes on bathtub drains and a lot of other slippery

Things slithering in the waters

Like a little planet’s pool of tears the water may have well have been cement

Holding her

Down if there was a cut-away view of the bathroom I would have been in the tub hovering with the water above the ground and the man with the watch would have known the time on the cement

below

From January's Writer's Almanac:

2009-07-29T09:37:00.001-07:00

It's the birthday of the writer Frank Conroy, (books by this author) born in New York City (1936). He wrote the memoir Stop-Time (1967) and the novel Body and Soul (1993). He directed the Iowa Writers' Workshop for 18 years. He once scolded a student for using irrelevant details in her short story. He said: "The author makes a tacit deal with the reader. You hand them a backpack. You ask them to place certain things in it — to remember, to keep in mind — as they make their way up the hill. If you hand them a yellow Volkswagen and they have to haul this to the top of the mountain — to the end of the story — and they find that this Volkswagen has nothing whatsoever to do with your story, you're going to have a very irritated reader on your hands."

Paddling

2009-07-28T19:31:00.000-07:00

Bats flying around the twilight Texas sky
Eating mosquitoes
Maneuvers of force and elegance
My own Huck Finns on a raft, paddling to nowhere, or at least where I
can still see them and
Maneuver them home.

And here's to you, Mr. Robbins...

2009-07-22T13:23:00.000-07:00

It's the birthday of novelist Tom Robbins, (books by this author) born in Blowing Rock, North Carolina
(1936). He's known for novels such as Even Cowgirls Get the Blues (1976), Half
Asleep in Frog Pajamas (1994), and Villa Incognito (2003). He says that when he
starts a book, he has no idea of what the story will be. He never outlines and
never revises. He just works on each sentence until he thinks it's perfect,
sometimes for more than an hour, and then he moves on to the next one. He said,
"I'm probably more interested in sentences than anything else in life."
From The Writer's Almanac, July 22, 2009
http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2009/07/22?refid=0

Word Varmints

2009-07-17T17:15:00.000-07:00

-1-
“In the Chute”

Writing territories…back in the wild, wooly west, the writer jumps onto the worn, warm fence, corralling thoughts and anecdotes like wild stallions, all waiting and ready to buck the insanely courageous writer. She climbs into the box, the chute, mounts the snarling beast of creativity, using electricity, magic and supernatural aid to steady the animal and her own nerves. Surrounded, boxed in by steel bars and planks, the buzzer sounds – and she’s hanging on! Drooping, dropping, and drooling: the horse and rider fight against each other as they work together in a twisted tango of torture, in a flash and an eternity. In the back of her mind she knows she’ll never be one of the giants: Austen, Tyler, Robbins, Gaiman, Steinbeck or Atwell. Those are writers, the greats who always get back on their horses. She can’t master the art of writing about magic and angels like Hoffman, or darkly yet humorously taunt gods and goddesses like Gaiman. Run out the clock, wait till the titan tires and tuckers out? She’s more than just a rodeo clown, though, and once the time’s up, she realizes she didn’t think about this part: How the hell do I get off of this thing?!

-2-
“Out on the Range: Lonesome Cowgirl”
Where do I write? In my head and it flies out and through my fingertips and flutters away, to be captured in a net, my little mental butterflies. They try to escape, and some manage to cocoon in the muses’ membranes. Got a bee in your bonnet? No, that’s just my soul. It’ll lay eggs in your hair and you’ll go crazy. With what? With what do I write? Iron maidens and swords slicing through air, spilling oxygen and slicing metaphors. Pens, computers, greasy fingertips rubbing the space bar away with my right thumb, proper English riding and writing techniques and of course, blood. The smell of boy funk dyes and permeates the salty ink blue and sometimes I write with beads, crystals, chicken feet, yarn, cellulite wax and old bra straps. What light through wonder window breaks, the halogen steam hisses by genie oil lamp light, smoky torches, gas filled wall sconces or Cleopatra’s bedside manner. The elfish light shines for me, the light of my eyes, the light of the misty moon, which makes me moody and mumble. Oh, here’s a lovely spot! But so damn inconvenient, there is too little oxygen in the rarified air. Up the road, up the hill, up the stairs; how is everything vertical? My knees creak. It’s a geological oddity. The path is rock, rough, and redundant. My flabby arms do no work as flying squirrel wings to propel me air-bound, I write grounded and dusty with clutter and junk drawer prose. Keep up! Keep up! Huff and puff and blow my house down. A witch’s broomstick bristle that’s been dried, full of mileage and altitude, angel’s feather quills, recycled dinosaur skin, bones of my ancestors, animal grease, soot, and a hand on a cave wall. I will make a mark. Snatch a whisker off of rattlesnake and see what happens.

Burning my candle, secretly starched eyelet curtains blowing my thoughts out the window, away, little white rooms in Amsterdam, and little towns in New Amsterdam, with pumpkins and geldings, breast bulging out of bodices, I ride my broomstick anywhere and dip it in the click of a ballpoint pen. I ride anywhere I please, so what if a butterfly flies faster and farther than I?

It is ready yet? My spot—do I circle it three times before I can start, do I have quirks of which I am unaware? This is too much pressure – how the hell do I know? I am not supposed to solve these mysteries: how do dragons die? Changelings change? Butterflies boast? I am only the reporter on the scene, but I will attempt to haul you up, dear reader, and take you along for the ride.

I am a portable poet, an airy artist, moving, sitting, climbing, sleeping, dreaming, dreaming…dreaming. Scribes little worm holes on my wooden brain. They tunnel and burrow and hide with the light. The alarm alarms them, and they hide in the cellar.
-3-
“Hitching Up”
How do I get started? Don’t get me started. Why isn’t my great American novel finished? Because no one has asked me to write it. I don’t know. The annoyances in life get me started. The heartbreak gets me started. Coffee gets me started. Mental Post-It™ notes and gum wrappers capture brilliance on a daily basis. Humility is served on the side for free, no charge.

Getting started is never an issue. Stopping, pausing, perusing, contemplating, and breathing…those are an issue.
-4-
“Cowgirl Up”
Outside, on the dried concrete of brown dirt, a Texas summer day, I can see the monumental peaks of a white apartment building breaking the wake, like a tall ship on an ocean of young mother’s hope. Toward the back, in the brush, running barefoot through the grass, weeds, and burrs. The burrs attach themselves to my baby flesh of feet, grabbing in with harpoon hooks, tentacles, tugging nerves and heat. The burrs find more burrs, herding the seeds of pain toward a frothing stampede. Their survival and propagation depends on the next step, the planting, moving and generating more of their species. I am forced to walk on the sides of my feet, like some bow-legged dancer, down the sidewalk, hot, hot, up the stairs, and into the foyer. Mommy, let me in, and the tears are hot…she draws a bath for me, gently pulls out all of the burrs, like little Chinese throwing stars, like shards, like crochet hooks…they go in the trash. They don’t make it to another patch of dirt. They die. The warm bath is cooler than my tears, but I am better now.
-5-
“Stand back, ma’am. I’m a writer.”
I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer.

I have written love letters, emails, Dear John letters, doodles, proposals for profit, analyzed art, Mother’s day cards, stories, job descriptions, resumes, poems, journals, diaries, notes, lesson plans, comments, status reports, reflections, advertising, marketing, eulogies, directions, instructions, demands, texting and twittering, blogs, logs, receipts, tip included.

What I have not done: I have never written a ransom note. I have never written a parole officer. I have never written you off. And I never will.

I wish I had written on the caves of Lascaux. I wish I have written a speech that moves people to do great and positive things, amazing acts of kindness and world safety.

Yes, I am a writer, and I’ve got something to say.

Room for Me

2009-07-16T18:55:00.000-07:00

I’m not going to use oils or acrylics anymore
They make too much of a mess
I’m not going to use the beautiful easel
One gift
That holds Christmas decorations
I can find disk space
I can carve out on light and electricity and connections
Words that have been stored up
Shaken out
Repurposed
I know that the space I inhabit is all of it
I want more
Can I ever focus on who they are without focusing on me?
I’ll dig and cut myself out first, how does that sound?
And then I’ll make room for you

My Side

2009-07-16T18:51:00.000-07:00

In the bedroom is a treasure box
Painted in Pennsylvania Dutch style
Did you know that the Dutch is actually German?
There are so many little culture-bits thrown to the curb in America. That’s where I’m from.

On other side, is a German orphan named Thomas Anne
Who had nine children, including my Papa
6’3” and would hit my father with a spoon
He never hit me with a spoon
He shriveled up like a breathing corpse mummy
Lived to 102. Hope I got my heartbeats from him.

The treasure box was painted
By that side, too. My father’s side. His mother’s grandmother
A great-great-grandmother artist
I must have gotten it from her
She wrote a journal
And painted furniture
With the designs of symmetry she knew best: hearts, flowers, vines – all in greens, golds, reds, blacks, on light brown wood.
I keep the RSVPs from my wedding in that box
Some of those people are dead now, so it really is filled with treasure. Buried treasure.

A real church wedding. In the chapel where my parents were married, by the same man. I am from people who believe in magic, blessings, and talisman, although it’s never mentioned out loud.

As my mom said, there’s nothing like standing up in front of God and everyone and making those promises. She was right. I am from right.

I am from scrambled eggs, biscuits, gravy, chicken fried steak, canned spinach, unsweetened iced tea. Never grits. Never pancakes. Never sweet – always savory.

Stairs

2009-07-16T18:46:00.000-07:00

1.
I am not used to this. Thank goodness for the alumni who knew the shortcut to the “lesser of two evil” stairs. I didn’t have my coffee this morning, and my heart feels like a balloon, ready to pop, too much air. I become a mouth-breather. Someone lightly springs up the concrete stairs, and I am grateful for the fact they are wearing ear buds and can’t hear me breathing heavily. I walk up the stairs so slowly I notice they all need to be pressure washed. I walk up so slowly I heard my right knee creak. I walk up so slowly I have noticed the deciduous plants and leaf patterns of over ten species of shrubs. I have noticed the old beater bike, rusted, decrepit, and still locked to the bars. There is one more flight to go, and there’s the young squirrel. Yes, I have the attention span of a squirrel, but the thighs of an elephant. He winds around a small magnolia tree and looks at me with pity. The last obstacle are the stairs inside the engineering lecture hall. I imagine the ghosts of the past: young Northwestern men, eager to build great things, eager to marry the girl next door, eager to conquer the world. I’m just trying to conquer the stairs.
2.
I don’t weigh a lot, in fact, at 24; I’m still pretty damn scrawny. Listening to Becca’s i-Pod is quite revealing. We switched today, an act of intimacy as our relationship turns into something more. She’s so beautiful. I don’t know what she sees in me; I have never been super athletic. I love to play hacky-sack and was on the cross-country team in high school. Man, there’s this fat middle aged lady barely making it up the stairs. Sheesh, I hope Becca never lets herself go like that. That would suck.
3.
God bless it, Anderson! Parking in my space again! Well, I’ll get you, you bastard. Thinking because you just got your tenor you can park anywhere you please?! Get out of my damn parking space, now, before I ram into your new Volvo cross-over POS. Now I’ll have to park in the student parking lot and walk up those damn stairs. This isn’t over, you jackass!
4.
The professor is little late today, and seems agitated. He said something about someone parking illegally, which surprises me; I thought they were pretty strict around here. It’s good to take the stairs once in awhile, though. Reminds us to keep in shape, or at least try to. Even the squirrel agrees with me. So what if I walk up slow? At least I’m here.

Bootz' Books

2009-06-30T19:36:00.001-07:00

15 books

Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen books you've read that will always stick with you.
1. Best Hikes with Hikes with Kids Series
2.Heart of Darkness-Joseph Conrad
3. Mortorcycle Diaries-Ernesto Guevara
4. On the Road-Jack Kerouac
5. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius-Dave Eggars
6. The Odyssey-Homer
7. Travels with Charley-John Steinbeck
8. All Creatures Great and Small-James Herriot(I thought I would be a vet. when I read this as a kid)
9. Lord of the Flies-William Golding
10. America's Fascinating Indian Heritage
11. Kokopelli's Flute-Will Hobbs(This book had a profound and lasting impact on my older son)12. Wuthering Heights-Charlotte Bronte
13. Into Thin Air-John Krakaur
14. Gone With the Wind-Margaret Mitchell
15. The Godfather-Mario Puzo

This isn't always fun.

2009-06-30T09:42:00.000-07:00

Writing gives you the illusion of control, and then you realize it's just an illusion, that people are going to bring their own stuff into it. - David Sedaris

The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say. ~Anaïs Nin

There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein. ~Walter Wellesley "Red" Smith

I am procrastinating. I'm supposed to be doing the free write time during my writers' institute, and what's coming out of me this morning sucks. It's dry, boring, and the unforgivable: unimaginative. I'm working on a personal narrative of when I lived in Tehran, Iran, in 1977. I was in 7th grade. It should be a magical story of coming of age, confessions of a juvenile delinquent, and local flavor memoir. But it's sucking, like a large mosquito with no other purpose than to suck the blood of creativity right out of me and leave me with an itchy welt.

A good friend of mine told me I had the stamina to be a writer. I don't want her to be wrong.

Disappointing John Irving...

2009-06-23T17:57:00.000-07:00

A long time ago I remember a quote by John Irving, one of my favorite writers, that was something to the effect that strong or good writers never write about themselves, that all of their narratives are about characters, created from nothing but imagination, creativity, and sheer will. When I consider another writer's process, and how it isn't or can't be my process, there is an film, a scum, a membrane of guilt or inadequacy.
Not sure really what I'm trying to say. Maybe it's just that the people we look up to aren't only role models, but prototypes we try to emulate. Short-comings aside, John, you don't know me, but I'm sorry. I must write personal narrative essays. I can't make this stuff up.

Look how disappointed he is with me.

http://www.loc.gov/bookfest/2005/irving.html

Brain Cloud

2009-06-06T15:09:00.000-07:00

I want a perfect soul...

2009-05-24T11:15:00.001-07:00

http://www.lowmorale.co.uk/creep/flash/lm_creep_(FLASH).swf

What do you deserve?

2009-05-24T08:34:00.000-07:00

Among the Things He Does Not Deserve
by Dan Albergotti

Greek olives in oil, fine beer, the respect of colleagues,
the rapt attention of an audience, pressed white shirts,
just one last-second victory, sympathy, buttons made
to resemble pearls, a pale daughter, living wages, a father
with Italian blood, pity, the miraculous reversal of time,
a benevolent god, good health, another dog, nothing
cruel and unusual, spring, forgiveness, the benefit
of the doubt, the next line, cold fingers against his chest,
rich bass notes from walnut speakers, inebriation, more ink,
a hanging curve, great art, steady rain on Sunday, the purr
of a young cat, the crab cakes at their favorite little place,
the dull pain in his head, the soft gift of her parted lips.

"Among the Things He Does Not Deserve" by Dan Albergotti, from The Boatloads. © BOA Editions, 2008. Reprinted with permission.
From the Writer's Almanac, May 24, 2009

Have You? (from http://mikerbakersdump.blogspot.com/)

2009-05-05T19:47:00.000-07:00

Writer's Almanac

2009-04-25T08:35:00.000-07:00

Imaginary entry for the Writer’s Almanac:

It’s the birthday of writer and poet, K.C. Love, known as Kelly to friends and family. She was born in Austin, Texas in 1964. She became a teacher as a ‘second career’ in her forties. Her husband, Jim, a talented artist and computer whiz in his own right, always supported her creative pursuits. Due to many twists and turns and the U.S.’s economic woes, she found herself trying to control the only thing she felt she could, and that was her time spent writing and finding her voice, and the voice of others – namely, her students. She went onto write many adolescent bestsellers such as Patched and Epic. She currently lives in Seattle, Washington, having fled suburbia as soon as life afforded her the opportunity. She once said, “Most of us would never go back to middle school years, but my teaching of 13-14 year olds provided me with daily redemption and opportunities to make their paths a little less cluttered; although, I realized that the apotheosis of the adolescent is the crucible by which we all become adults, successfully or not. No one really understands the word ‘choice’ until maturity releases them.”

April is National Poetry Month!

2009-04-19T10:26:00.001-07:00

Write a poem...get it published here!

Dog Fight

2009-04-19T10:25:00.001-07:00

Dog Fight

three drops of blood
on the white concrete
animal or man
I couldn’t know

All else is black night steam and
alcohol sweat
a galaxy away
gaseous and vapor

white shirt
with abstract blood

grandfather
young uncle

vying for alpha

dismissed as a misunderstanding
but I know what I saw
three drops of blood
after the dog fight
shirt is washed
blood is gone

Around the Corner: In Response to Worry

2009-04-11T10:46:00.000-07:00

Around the Corner

Around the Corner
Could be anything
Could be painful
Could be beautiful
Could be both

Under the Lid
Bubbles up a plastic chartreuse opaque liquid
Below the surface lies the answer
But no one will let on to me they keep me in the dark
Because it’s more powerful that way that’s their black magic

Buried Deeply
Exhumed knowledge never quite as fresh when it’s day old stale
Exceptional I am not; nothing special about me what I’ve done is wrong and insubordinate
Exhale a deep breath exhale the bad air in with the good in the with God
Esoteric won’t be on the test

In the Back
There is something moldy
There is something delicious
There is something that needs to be tossed
There is something that needs to come to the front

Around the Corner
Someone knows but isn’t telling
Someone knows but it’s their power
Someone’s sense of self importance is superfluous, sublime, and menacing
Someone’s secret is soon to be revealed

But I have a secret, too
I know that the worst that can happen is for me to panic
For me to worry
For me to come unarmed
For me to give up and surrender

Around the Corner, I turn, prepared

Yelling At My Children

2009-03-29T16:44:00.000-07:00

The end of the world is in a Glad bag if it doesn't get dumped

the four horsemen of the apocalypse are

dirty dishes

un-emptied trash

unfolded laundry and

mismanaged recycling

You would think they were running around with hoodlum friends

But they're just enjoying a Sunday afternoon

and they still need me whether I know it or not

Smirking Muse

2009-01-24T16:52:00.000-08:00

Muse and Morpheus whisper in my ear just before sleep and tease me with the idea for the greatest novel ever it’s mine for the taking if I could just
get
up
and get a piece of paper but I’m so tired (that damn Morpheus)
and it’s their way of playing a joke on me
because
they come from a time when gods were both cruel and bored
The next morning
I’m driving and I remember that I had a great idea but it POOF is gone and I can’t reach it they think it’s so funny and they are so clever
They’re in cahoots (who says that anymore?)
Driving driving driving maybe the idea will come back to me but I know it’s gone like an old boyfriend tire screech sirens rubber meets the road taking action moving forward
It sits behind opaque glass -- a shower stall clean and fresh but untouchable but no definition and the new stroke of genius drives away and gets out of range because of road rage fussy spinster mocking me distracting my brilliance while she goes about her dull life in her practical small white virginal compact
going
the
speed
limit
What an insult while I want to speed getting someplace faster though I am not sure where or why
The idea
The idea
The idea
is miles behind me
the idea hitches a ride with another
and
Muse smirks in my rear view mirror – caution: ideas may be farther away than they appear

Stories of being BUSTED

2009-01-19T17:24:00.000-08:00

My senior year in high school a group of friends & I decided to cut school one day. Both of my sisters were off in college, my mom left very early for work, and my dad was out of town on a business trip. No witnesses. Imagine my surprise when Dad came home the night before the planned Ditch Day. Still, no worries... he'd probably get to work that morning as he usually would and my b'friend at the time could swing by to get me without detection. All perfectly planned.

So the morning comes and as I headed to the front porch to wait for the boy, I noticed Dad's car was still in the driveway. Snag! So I decided to hide in my car to wait until he left. I crouched down low to wait. And wait. And wait. Meanwhile my dad was heading out to work and saw my car still parked on the street. Wanting to be a good neighbor, he came out to move my car to the driveway. He opened the door... and there I was, smoking a cigarette, hiding, NOT at school where I was supposed to be. There was a lot of hollering and attempts at looking innocent (right!) with the end result that my butt had to get to school.

Later that week that b'friend came over and started to tell my folks the entire plan, including the details of how EVERY SINGLE ONE OF US had gotten busted. We broke up shortly after. No one likes a stoolie.

Busted, #2:

My first and last attempt to sneak out of the house was in 8th grade. To preface, my parental units musta been listening in on my phone calls…I set up a rendezvous with a potential beau via phone. When the time came, he knocked on the window to let me know he was outside. I proceeded to go to my bedroom door to leave. Lo and behold, the father was at the door saying ‘oh no you don’t’. I was humiliated and the good (paranoid) girl that I was, never tried again. Hhmmm, mind reading or phone listening?....

Scarred for Life...Submissions

2009-01-19T15:35:00.000-08:00

"Once when we were visiting Plano, I was out in the front yard doing cartwheels. I overhead Grandad say to another adult (don’t remember who), “She moves really well for a plump girl.” He meant it as a compliment."

"Once when my son was being very cranky in the backseat of the car, and we were stuck in traffic, I grabbed a handful of Cheerios and threw them at him, hoping some would land in his mouth and he would calm down. It didn't work, but I think about Cheerios very agressively to this day."

To Be continued...

When I was a kid, I guess I was kind of insecure because one of my brother's favorite things to do was to gaze up at the wall on which my four older sibling's birth certificates were displayed, and suddenly announce, "It's too bad Mom still hasn't told you that you were adopted." This always provoked the desired younger sister response from me. So, I would go running to find my mom who would always say, "Oh, I'm sorry, I just haven't gotten around to ordering it. suppose I should just go into the city one of these days and get it." Apparently, Washington D.C. had stopped giving out pretty little keepsake ones in between my birth and my brother's and people were now required to order official ones.

So, then I would go tell my older brother the triumphant news that our mom just had not had time, what with the five kids and all that other random stuff she always did around the house and work. He would then respond that she was just saying that so that I wouldn't get all upset and that it was obvious that I was adopted since everyone else in our immediate family had brown hair and eyes, whereas I had really light hair and blue eyes. Just when I was starting to feel alienated again, he would add, and if you still don't believe me then think about this, "even if it is possible for you to look that different and still be related to us, the fact that you are the only one who is left handed just makes it that much more obvious,"

I have to say, when I finally did see my birth certificate, I was a little relieved even though it was many years later. And, now that I'm older, I also realize that people with four kids probably wouldn't adopt a fifth!

Scarred for Life...

2009-01-17T14:00:00.000-08:00

Recently I sent out an all-call for submissions on personal anecodotes with a topic. The focus is stories from our childhood or parenthood that we regret, that caused no permanent physical, emotional, or supernatural harm. Stay posted.