Day by day, my doggy is improving. Yesterday he started to show signs that he could shake himself out head to tail. Today he did so more convincingly and, when I leashed him, he didn’t snap at me or shy away; he came over readily but looked up at me with a lingering sadness. Later, […]
A bizarre, pretty much unbelievable but true story that would make you think I am a liar.
BetsyG reveals a strange episode involving a dream and a novel.
BetsyG shares her fiction again, this time to honor her missing cat.
BetsyG’s friend Ron tells a humorous story about the perils of a fading memory.
BetsyG provides a quick-and-dirty tutorial of Facebook for the over-40 set.
BetsyG finds herself talking about cake–and obsession–again.
What sort of dangers do snowbanks pose? Beds? Open car windows? If you were raised as I was, they are all potentially lethal weapons.
BetsyG figured out the key to her existence while pondering her left-leggedness during her run.
Until this week, my short story, Scotch Hangover, had been read mostly by men, who were universally aggravated with the ending. The guys in my writing group didn’t think it was the wrong ending or that it needed revision; they just weren’t pleased with it. But this week, women read it, and the response has been different. […]
BetsyG likes to write even more than she likes to talk. Her essays have been published in the Boston Globe Magazine. She has children who would be horrified to be associated with her and her blogazine. BetsyG is a happy divorcée and, suffering from a bad case of arrested development, has no idea how old she really is; her deluded belief is that she's your age, whatever it may be.
