Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
It happened in Washington, the Evergreen State. It was late. There was a woman about to kill herself. She was young. Standing on the ledge of an overpass. Holding a stuffed animal. Hair blowing in all directions. She was really going to do it.
Her name is Honey. She is in the meet-and-greet line after one of my shows. She holds one of my books. White hair. Tiny frame. Maybe five-foot.
You’re going through something right now. Something bad. Something truly, inexplicably, wholly, and everlastingly crappy.
I don’t know what it is. But it’s ugly. And it’s getting the best of you.
I have no children. The closest I ever came to having a child was when my wife got me a goldfish for Christmas. His name was Gary.
Dear God,
It’s me again. Actually, I don’t know what you want me to call you. For all I know, you might prefer to be called something Hebrew, Latin, or maybe you don’t want to be called anything at all.
It was an average weeknight in Birmingham when I stood atop the Vulcan statue. Snow on the ground. I was looking at the city below, standing beneath Vulcan’s massive butt cheeks.
The New York Times recently published an article stating that librarians are facing a “crisis of violence and abuse.” So I just thought you’d like to meet your local librarian.
Birmingham. I met the old woman for coffee. She was small and slight, with a mane of white. She spoke with a thick Latin accent.
“I have a story for you,” she said.
Bryan was walking the Arkansas highway shoulder with only the moon to guide him. Backpack slung over his shoulder. Blisteringly cold.
Sean Dietrich answers reader questions as only he can, with wit, wisdom and whimsey.
I am not sure whether you understand English, but I’d like to think you do. I’d like to think that you know exactly what I’m saying to you. I’d like to think I speak fluent dog.
Even in seasons of mental exhaustion and spiritual dryness, God remains faithful, offering rest, grace, and quiet strength to weary hearts.
I like you. I like everything about you. I like your smile. Your teeth, no matter how crooked. Your physical shape, no matter which shape that is.
We walked into a packed Waffle House. All booths taken. Two cooks and two waitresses running offense. “Let’s sit at the bar,” said Morgan.
There were tattoos on his forearms. Not the new kind of fancy tats, multi-colored and expensive. These were a few grades below battleship tattoos. Crudely done. Almost like the inkwork inmates give themselves with guitar wire and BIC pens.
I was blue. I had just watched the news. Wars were raging. Bombs were dropping. People dying. All God’s children were bickering over the price of rice in China in the rain.
Dear Young Writers, You know who you are. You’re reading this on your phone, computer, tablet, or maybe a soggy newspaper you found in a gutter.
“Dear Sean,” the notecard began. The handwriting was very neat. “My name is John. I’m 14 years old… And I know your really busy but my dad committed suicide like yours. Maybe you can tell me what to do or be my friend. Love, John.”
A little girl. I see her in hotel lobby. She is maybe 10 years old. She has her luggage with her. Her gait is severely uneven and labored. She is having a difficult time traversing the lobby.
I was eleven. I was invited to try out for the Christmas community choir. A lady visited our church to conduct the auditions.
I had been practicing for three weeks, learning the lyrics to “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”