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deborah rose reeves

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Category: Writing

Fund My Dream!

January 20, 2015June 10, 2019 Deborah Rose Reeves1 Comment

Please help fund my dream. (My dream was that I was a sardine in a bait ball and you were a hammerhead, a great one.) (My dream was that I was the last hermit crab and you were an old marmalade jar.) (My dream was I was wandering in a narrow gorge with so very high… Continue reading Fund My Dream! →

Posted in Writing

The Uninvited

November 28, 2014March 26, 2019 Deborah Rose Reeves1 Comment

Last night I dreamed I was skating on glass. Nobody wants for mold to appear unbidden, and flourish, in the airspace between their double-paned windows; but, if it must, they can only hope for the crystal kind whose fine filaments creep into your nighttime with whisperings of snow. From the Old Norse vindr auga came the word window: ‘wind… Continue reading The Uninvited →

Posted in My Writing Life, Writing

Two Lovely Things, Briefly Noted

November 2, 2014March 26, 2019 Deborah Rose Reeves3 Comments

1. My first short story, 'Lay Down The Dark Layers', has been published by the Irish literary magazine, The Stinging Fly (hurrah!) 2. This anthology---Winged: New Writing on Bees---is essential and beautiful and its existence in the world makes me happy (about some humans and all bees).

Posted in My Writing Life, Writing

I could be content being a one-trick pony.

September 4, 2014March 26, 2019 Deborah Rose Reeves1 Comment

Someone, put me out to pasture with an apple and a wand. No. Wait. Sugar cube and a cape.

Posted in Writing

“The gift of writing is to be self forgetful…

May 3, 2014March 26, 2019 Deborah Rose Reeves1 Comment

...to get a surge of inner life or inner supply or unexpected sense of empowerment, to be afloat, to be out of yourself." - Seamus Heaney.

Posted in Writing

For now, Portland Oregon

February 25, 2014March 26, 2019 Deborah Rose Reeves5 Comments

A short essay I wrote is up on Orion Magazine's website. "My husband wants land. He digs through websites, hoping to uncover a patch we could afford. I want it too but it hurts to see him look at places someone else will live on, or subdivide. It’s not our time, yet. We plant pennies… Continue reading For now, Portland Oregon →

Posted in My Writing Life, Writing

Breakfast silence broken when a small bird hit the clear glass door. Quite the commotion.

April 7, 2013March 26, 2019 Deborah Rose Reeves3 Comments

Posted in Writing

Memoir in ‘E’

December 1, 2012March 26, 2019 Deborah Rose Reeves1 Comment

Earthworms and Earwigs. I was afraid to dig in the garden or nap in the grass. Eavesdropping. I came down the stairs one night to get a glass of water and what I heard from beyond the door frightened me more. Ebb tide. Carry me away.  

Posted in WritingTagged Autobiography, Memoir, Writing

Memoir in ‘E’

December 1, 2012March 26, 2019 Deborah Rose Reeves7 Comments

I never cared for the name Edna, and I still carry the unreasonableness of a child who appraises a person by the name assigned to them against their consent or knowledge at birth. Why, for example, couldn't her parents (she was a lady in our church) have called her Effloresce which means to blossom, to… Continue reading Memoir in ‘E’ →

Posted in Writing

Memoir in ‘D’

November 23, 2012March 26, 2019 Deborah Rose ReevesLeave a comment

Daddy Longlegs. "Dad! Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaad! Get it out of here!"

Posted in Writing

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