by Donna Salli | Jul 7, 2026 | Blogs
I once imagined that a writer sits around with a martini and a typewriter, leisurely typing, as the Pulitzers and Nobel prizes roll in. What a pile of horse manure. My husband Bruce and I are writers. There had better be a damn good reason to interrupt when the other one is in the throes of working on something. It’s like looking in the mirror. What I do, he does. He’ll be at his desk, I walk in, and the hand flutters up, warning me away, followed by the sideward glance, and the glance always does it. I start thinking—today, about places I’ve lived. Some have been memorable, like an apartment where the landlady lived downstairs, her two deceased Pekingese dogs mounted and displayed in a lighted glass case. It was a bit unnerving, but now I see the love she had for them, and likely the loneliness. The place I think about most, though, isn’t that one. It was a corner apartment next to a funeral chapel, the apartment with a voice in the mirror.
by Donna Salli | May 13, 2022 | Blogs
My mother passed away in November, and ever since, I’ve been writing about her and my dad, who passed nine years ago. This is the third such blog post in a row. These last months, I’ve been writing in threes. I expanded one of my poems into three parts and called it a triptych. Then I put three thematically linked short stories into a chapbook—sub-titled that too, “A Triptych.” The number three has always seemed magical to me. Now, I’m aware that most readers will scroll on by when a writer is talking literary-crap, especially when she gets metaphysical. But this isn’t about writing in threes. It’s an apology to those who follow my blog, for writing yet another piece about my mom and dad. If you accept the apology and stay with me, you’ll get to meet my parents when they were young. In fact, you and I can sit behind my mom in her senior year study hall! We’ll think about love, about the people who raised us. Even when we’re adults, we don’t really know them. In those familiar people are (or were) people we never met. In them, there were lovers, people seeking and growing in intimacy. That part of them, we can’t quite imagine.
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