“A word is dead when it is said some say. I say it just begins to live that day.”
~some put up jars of jam, I stock up on words~
The first draft of a third novel is cooling, like a deep-dish pie on the window sill, and I take some time
to recalibrate my thinking.
~resolutions align with new stories, or help me rethink what I have just written~
The new lunar year is afoot.
“I always thought of words as art supplies”
To keep my brain in tune I seek out words, search for synonyms and the history of phrases. I compile lists.
~the sepia tints of another time~
My father, Lars Johnson, was an adventurer and a storyteller who never sugar-coated the past. As a teenager he learned to fly from a barnstormer, joined the Army Air Corps before he was of age, and stowed away to Alaska. He worked in gold mines, until the beginning of World War II, first in Juneau and then at Independence Gold Mine.
the flux or flow of ore in a smelter’s furnace
Living is a mystery. Words are the clues.