Full Stop.

Tuesday night I was eating dinner at my kitchen counter and catching up on reading e-mails. You know the ones that you know have good nuggets of information in them, but you don’t have the time to read them in the moment they arrive, so you leave them unread until you can give them your undivided attention. Like the ones from that half marathon training team coach, or that person whose take on marketing for creatives you love. Those e-mails. All 30 something* of them. (*May or may not be a gross underestimation of the actual number.)

At some point, I took a break from mindlessly chewing, looked up from my phone, and saw this outside my window:

img_2698And I thought isn’t that pretty before turning back to my bowl, back to those e-mails. Which is when this tiny voice inside my head grew big lungs and screamed STOP.

I put down the spoon, set aside the phone and watched the sun dip low behind that building. The yellow blending to orange and then ending in pink wisps. Art. Perfectly framed in the window.

But only for a moment.

 

The Unintended Consequence of All My Beer Talk

I write about beer a lot. It’s become this thing that people sort of know about me, which is great. I love that folks are reading my Books & Brews posts or articles/interviews in which I’ve mentioned my love of craft beer. But there’s this one little unintended consequence of my very open, very frequent, and very public profession of beer-love that’s been nagging at me lately.

Here are two scenarios that occur with surprising regularity: 1) someone says “I was going to bring beer, but I would have NO idea what to bring you,” when arriving at my house for  dinner/a party/hamburgers on the patio; 2) I’m told “Sorry, we only have *insert non-craft beer brand*,” when I’ve been invited to someone else’s home for dinner/a party/hamburgers on the patio. I’d like to take a moment today to assuage all these fears people have about serving me beer: Continue reading

On Cozy Coffeeshops & Other People’s Love Stories …

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Last Saturday I had a book signing about forty-five minutes away in Fredericksburg, Virginia, at the coziest little coffee shop ever, Agora Downtown Coffee. The shop is co-owned by sisters, one of whom bakes amazing things and the other who is the biggest champion for local artists ever (as well as a talented artist and craftsperson, herself). In the short time I was there, the sisters’ father and brother stopped by and introduced themselves, a local business owner bought me a cup of coffee because he “knew how hard I worked”, a designer complemented my book covers, and countless folks smiled and wished me well. Continue reading