Editor
The writer hails from County Antrim and has lived in the desert southwest of the United States for over 20 years. Her blog is her virtual home away from home.
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Arimidex, Feminism, Fiftieth Birthday, Health Activist Writer's Challenge 2013, Language of Cancer, Marge Piercy, Mother Daughter Relationship, Poetry, Tamoxifen
vintage me . . . I’m still here
On the first day or the last day of every school year, I force my daughter to pose for a photograph. It’s just one of those non-negotiable traditional things that comes around but once a year. All I ask is that she smile while holding a sign declaring the grade level ahead of or behind her. She used to love…
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Bullying, Health Activist Writer's Challenge 2013, Memoir, Memoir, Memory, Regrets, Seamus Heaney, Themes of childhood, Toxic Workplaces, Workplace Bullying, Workplace Mobbing
when a bully takes it back
NOTE: I am very happy in my current workplace, surrounded by smart people with whom I laugh and think and learn something new every day. Having escaped a very different environment, I write the following for anyone crushed by workplace bullying. ****************** The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of…
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Art, Billy Collins, Health Activist Writer's Challenge 2013, Memoir, Memoir, Mother Daughter Relationship, Ordinary Things, Poetry, Writers
impressions of speed
VELOCITY by billy collins © Sophie Jones In the club car that morning I had my notebook open on my lap and my pen uncapped, looking every inch the writer right down to the little writer’s frown on my face, but there was nothing to write about except life and death and the low warning sound of the train whistle.…
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9/11, Belfast, Boston Marathon 2013, Damian Gorman, Facebook, Health Activist Writer's Challenge 2013, Memoir, Northern Ireland, Poetry, Seamus Heaney, Seamus Heaney, Seamus Heaney, Soundtracks of our Lives, television, The Troubles, The Troubles
boston . . . without warning
Until September 11th, I had taken for granted the sense of security I felt as a woman who had traded in Northern Ireland for America. Foolishly, I had too quickly dropped my guard, almost forgetting anything can happen. I grew complacent and smug, confident that – unlike her mother – my American daughter would never have to look twice at an…