Like mother, like daughter. In the saddest, most inevitable of all possible ways. We’ve been out of touch, bad, bad lovers — my bad. I’ve been writer-ing so, so hard, y’all, and work, too–the paid kind–puts a big ole hole in the...
Baby girl. Danae, that would be. Always moreso than Livia. In the minds of the two sisters, anyway (Marta would have preferred no baby girls at all). Livia was fine with that, Danae could have Marta all to herself. And so Danae alone adored Marta, and pretended not to...
Or she was. But no matter. If Marta was Bad, Bad Love incarnate, and she was yo’ Momma, oh, woe is you. She’s gone but not forgotten (who could forget Marta?). Installment XXX of The Will of Venus shows you why you never had a chance. Especially if your...
Venus is XXIX, y’all! Sweet, sweet twenty-nine (installments, that is). But Danae is XXXIX. Thirty-nine. About to be forty. And, that, as far as she’s concerned, is a problem. And it’s not like we weren’t warned. Let’s put this another...
You know that sister, the one you’re always having to bail out, buck up, pull along. And maybe she’s not the most brilliant person on the planet, maybe she was born pretty and has been able to coast along, pretty well, on what God and her momma gave her....
We all get old, Bad, Bad Lovers, it happens to us all. But for women, it’s different. There, I said it. Funnily, I thought I would come back to this passage with twenty years of distance and find it no longer relevant, or less so. You know, girl power and...
Strange things, Bad, Bad Lovers, strange things are happening in installment XXV. Maybe certain things you thought were finished up and done with…umm…aren’t. If you’re a recent arrival, you can take yourself all the way back to the Beginning Of It...
It’s been a minute. But we’re back, Bad, Bad Lovers, with a new installment. XXIV. And it’s a sad one; doesn’t feel right to make comic chit-chat as an aperitif, so let’s just serve it up. Perhaps best savored if you heat up number XXIII...
The moment is here. The one where you know, in your gut, that something very, very bad is about to happen. It’s just that you don’t know what the Bad Thing is, and so you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to, but you know it’s coming. They...
The priest is tipsy–Marta got him that way, or he let himself be gotten that way, or however you choose to word it. Her daughters are watching her through the window, which maybe she knows, maybe she doesn’t. Either way, they’re learning at the knee...
If you want to hear about My Life with Rabbits, what I eat when I travel (no one wants to hear about what I eat at home–boring, boring, kale, broccoli, boring, boring, whole wheat pasta, blueberries, salad, boring, thank God for wine), or watch me try to reconstruct a novel last seen hanging out on a floppy disk twenty years ago, then this is the blog for you! Sign up and don’t miss a thing!
