What could go wrong with a bag full of bags of canine output and one excited hound? Find out in today’s awful offal tale of woe.

Just one long, hot, humid month standing between us and my favorite season of the year. Yes, August is really the February of summer.

My evil doctor has inflicted a calorie-counting diet and exercise regimen monitored by an Apple Watch – proof that evil technology starves me.

Author groups across social media buzzed last week about a proposal for reality TV for authors and a few thoughts popped into my head.

Moving back to the mountains of North Carolina meant not eating my beloved Frogmore Stew, but then I made a discovery.

We comfortably share our home with many large, wild animals, but the scariest creatures in the woods are quite small.

The dog didn’t eat my homework, but exploding oatmeal and broken water lines sure interfered with my novel writing this week.

We focus so much on epic events, but sometimes it’s the smaller things in life that are the truly important little stories.

Just when I was getting a good night’s sleep—a rarity—a 2 a.m. shriek shot me out of bed and into a night of frustration.

As we honor the men and women who gave their lives while in uniform, my Memorial Day gratitude seems an insufficient thank you.

Nothing is better than a cheerful server in a restaurant, even if they make a mistake or two or three. After all, attitude is everything, right?

I injured myself last week. Stupid, I know, especially when I can only call it an old injury in celebration of my approaching birthday.