One dog's bath...

During our run up on Black Mountain's cross-country ski trail, Bailey found some stinky poop to roll in. What is the fascination or the instinctual basis for such action? I scrubbed him down with snow on the mountain side, and then gave him a proper bath on the back deck at the house. When I poured the last bucket of warm water over him after having soaped him up, he looked at me with the most pathetic eyes. A bit of that look is reflected in this photograph.

"The best words in the best order."

Poets search tirelessly for their words--live lifetimes seeking them out. Visit Frost's cabin in Ripton, Vermont and you'll see evidence of that on his cabin's walls. Or read Frost's collected works and see the never-quite-there revisions in the back matter. Rosen said, "The poem is the point at which our strength gave out." I can't imagine Frost ever giving in.

I used to think I was a poet, and loved the idea of the life––shacked up in a small cabin on the shores of Lake Webb, white wine at midnight speaking the 44th revision of a poem about Weld. Some of those poems landed in regional publications and one even found a place in Indiana Writes and was anthologized... but now, thirty years later, I know that I didn't work long enough for those words. I might be able to now.

Spring Snow Storms

Spring storms are good for writers. They keep us indoors, nose to the keyboard and ass in the chair.

Winter hangs on...

The electricity went out this afternoon with the wet snow, so off we headed toward Joe Pond. April is just two weeks away, and we have enough snow for skiing for another 4-6 weeks. Amazing. I tried out the GPS on my Android phone to create the map and where we were at the time.

Poor Ry-Ry crashes on his surf board in the California surf

Bailey is deeply saddened by Ryan's surfing mishap.

We advise...

1) standing,

2) standing, and

3) not landing face first.

Myles Visits

Bailey's brother Myles stopped by as he was heading back to UMaine. Spring break is over and Myles is back at it!

Do I shed?

"What? You think a pretty boy like me would shed?"

"Damn straight. I shed small to medium-sized puppies! It's curious. When my writer needs a break from four-hours at the keyboard--where, by the way, he talks to himself a lot--he vacuums the rugs and takes pictures of me. Really, he needs a life beyond writing."

Just saying...

Seven months into my current writing project after nearly six years of collecting data... I went out in public for the first time in a week on Saturday and felt like I'd discovered a new planet. I was happy to get home–the writing life is not for light weights.

Another tough morning...

... in the life of a writer's dog. I revise page after page, paragraph after paragraph ... sentences, words... chapters, and still he snores.