I specialize in blending data and public records with on-the-scene reporting to produce accountability journalism as well as creating content for a range of assignments –– crafting blog posts, polishing landing pages, proofing legal and technical documents, or carving a bright paragraph out of a lump of jargon. I believe that writing should be honest and plainspoken, so that every detail shines.
"Where you all from?" Euan said to the three men sitting at the bar. "Lexington," one of them said. "Spitting distance." "Get you anything?" "How's the bourbon?" Euan grinned. "Worth a shot."
Victor Sweatt is teaching me how to sketch a landscape. "I come from this perspective of using the Masters, the Renaissance, how they divided up the scene into quadrants," he says. "For this one, what I'm thinking about is combining realism and the abstract. Like I say, I'm just having fun with it."
In the distance, the Ark was perched upon a plateau, as if the floodwaters had just receded. Tree trunks, shaved of branches and lopped at the ends, had been angled upward, steadying the boat's corners. From this height, they looked like toothpicks, and the Ark seemed no bigger than a raft drifting below the tidal wave of the sky.
Stone tablets wind alongside the path. Engraved into the first stone, Jesus has fallen to his knees, hands clasped in prayer, in Gethsemane, the garden of his agony. I remember that passage in the Bible. Jesus tells Peter, John and James to watch at a little distance while he prays.
"My grandfather had a country store - it was like Carriss's," Paw-Paw said. "It was during the Depression. Everybody was coming in all day to get something." "I didn't know that," I said. "Where was it?" "Greenwood, Kentucky - you're almost to the Tennessee line," she said.
Last November I took a train to Haworth in West Yorkshire to the Bronte Museum, housed in the parsonage where the Bronte sisters once lived.