Home office + four children = headphones. Lately, I've favored fiddle
music. Fiddles sing with strange energy. When you first hear fairy
tales about the hero banishing goblins with a reel, you scoff. Then
you hear real fiddles.
In my last post, "The Curse of Is", I roused myself to
hunt verbs, instead of relying on "is" all the time. The blight of
"is" lays heavy on my writing. But I didn't get far into that post
before I realized that even my domain name hasn't escaped the curse.
"Bill Powell Is Alive"!
What should I have called it instead? "Bill Powell Lives"?
First off, this would feature three small l's in a row.
They don't change fundamentally -- they don't sprout mouths and
stomachs. But every year, even a twisted old crone of an apple tree
suddenly decks herself in fresh pink blossoms, like a grandmother
dressed for a wedding.