Anything can be. Aren’t those lovely words? Strictly speaking, they’re not true – there are some things I just can’t be. I can’t be an astronaut, Miss America, or a brain surgeon. But there are so many things that I can do. All my life, I wanted to be a writer. I said I would write when this or that eased up, or when I had something to say, or after my child was grown, or I didn’t have to work any long, or or or.
Continue readingDonnie talked about Pocahontas County all the time. Camping there. I wasn’t interested. We were neck deep in converting the barn and my whole life was a primitive camping trip. I didn’t think I needed to wander into the Wild and Wonderful to experience more awkward cooking attempts and uncomfortable sleeping arrangements. My life was full of such.
She continued to wax poetic. Lyrical, an ode to the Williams River and I told her I was sure it was beautiful. But declined.
And then she was diagnosed with breast cancer. And then it metastasized before we were even able to process the news.
She wanted a last trip to the river. And we agreed to go along.
Continue readingA year ago, I had the privilege of being published in Hippocampus Magazine’s Writing Life Column. The following is the editor’s note about my essay:
Editor’s Note: Connie Kinsey’s essay is ekphrastic. It’s a vivid description of a work of art, its meaning expanded through her imagining. The art is the painting La Panthère Noire des Buttes-Chaumont, (The Black Panther of Buttes-Chaumont) by artist Kinga Katanics. Parc des Buttes-Chaumont is a Paris park.
You can read the essay here.
W. Va. Fur and Root 