I started teaching an online class and my bookshelf is weighted down with books of essays. How have I missed some of the best writing? Some of the creative non-fiction work is far more inventive, riskier, and more apt to wander away from contrived plot lines. I'm enamored with the lyric essay—at the moment.
The calendar tells me that soon September will morph into October and then the leaves will turn and I'll not be able to fool myself into thinking that summer is still in the wings.
My bookshelf still hold three mysteries I meant to get to this summer—autumn will do.