For Real This Time


I’ve written this post twice, and twice put it in draft mode. I cannot say this to people IRL even though I am sure they have suspicions. It’s an understood secret that I am tired of living.

This will come as no surprise to my online friends who have known the online me more than a month.

I think I wrote too much explanation the other two times. I realized today that the only thing that I need to say is that I am a cis bisexual woman and realized it in middle school, although I didn’t know the words for it 30 years ago.

The older I get, the more I would prefer a relationship with a woman of my own age rather than a man. I don’t know what that means.

Thank you and good day.



My Great-Grandmother’s Mirror


In packing up my aunt’s personal belongings before her house is sold, my mother and I came across a very precious item. My mother was overwhelmed because of who it had belonged to and how long it had been since she last saw it. I was a bit stunned that we found it. I’ll say why in a moment.

mattie mirrormattie mirror back

This is a mirror that hung in my great-grandmother’s house.

I never had the good fortune to meet my great-grandmother because she died of pancreatic cancer in 1956, when my mother was eight. Even the coldest older members of our family almost break down when asked about her. Grandmother was sweet, grandmother was quiet, grandmother was always working, grandmother always had her head down.

Well, with the jackass she married–and I’ve heard plenty about HIM–I don’t doubt she kept her head down.

wedding mattie charlie crop

I was told that she made her wedding dress. Then she became a farmer’s wife. She lived in a tumbledown farmhouse and had seven daughters and a son. They all lived, even my grandmother who had diphtheria as a kindergartener.


After all the children were born, my great-grandfather sold this property and moved the family into a nice “modern” house. And that is where my mother remembers seeing the mirror.

The mirror is rounded, dim, and distorted, but you can still see yourself in it. The first time I looked into it, I had an unsettling sensation. My great-grandmother looked into that mirror. It doesn’t seem to be the style of mirror a woman would have in her bedroom. Did it hang in the hallway, near the front door? Did my great-grandmother stop, look into it, and adjust her hat before she went out? Did my great-grandfather pause before it, take a comb from his pocket, and run it through his hair? Did she wish for something prettier, more stylish? Where did she get the mirror?

These are things I will never know. I’m going to add sturdy hardware to the back and hang it over our sideboard, and then I will always be drawn to look down that dim tunnel, and wonder.

Edit: I forgot to explain why I was so shocked that we found the mirror. My grandmother, even though she was the second-oldest child and the oldest girl, she got almost none of her mother’s belongings. Sadly, a couple of her younger sisters cleaned out the house before my grandmother got there. All she had (and we still have) was an old bottle with a cork, a foot-long hatpin, and a rhinestone brooch. We had no idea she had the mirror. She must have kept it put away, and my aunt found it after her death.

Family members can turn greedy and do things you wouldn’t expect after a death, especially the death of someone like my great-grandmother who held a very large extended family together. My grandmother loved her sisters, but at the same time, she carried the hurt of being left out of the dividing up of her mother’s things for her entire life. We live in my grandparents’ house. I suppose bringing the mirror home made me feel that my grandmother knows somehow and it made her happy.

Why I Decided To Use A Pen Name


I did not decide to use a pen name because I’m trying to hide (that’s my face right over there).

I did not decide to use a pen name so I could use different names to write in different genres.

I decided to use a pen name because of my father and my ex-husband. Both attempted to tear me down, destroy my self esteem, and keep me from ever trying anything I wanted to do. When I was nine, my father told me I couldn’t draw people and not to add them to a picture I was drawing for him because “you’ll just mess it up.”

I was nine.

He also hit me. When he finally abandoned us for his girlfriend, he never paid a dime of child support.

Why would I want that loser’s name on my books?

My ex-husband did everything possible to discourage me from writing. He made sure that I would be financially devastated if I left him. He refused to return my belongings and gave the car that was bought for me and the hope chest that my mother gave me to his girlfriend.

Why would I want THAT loser’s name on my books?

My mother’s name is Dianne. I’ve been a huge admirer of Princess Diana since childhood. I decided I’d rather have a middle name that relates to two strong women than the name my father picked on a whim at the hospital when he found out I wasn’t the boy he wanted.

Ashe is part of the name of the city where I landed after I left my ex-husband, the first place in seven years I could get into bed without being afraid. I could read, write, watch, and wear what I wanted. I remember driving up and up the longest two-lane highway ever and suddenly seeing blue hills in the distance. I got to be myself again. I love carrying a piece of that place with me in my name.

I kept the name Robin out of pure piqué because people made fun of me for it the nearly the entire time I was in elementary and middle school. I earned that name like I earned every gray hair that I have.

I don’t have to let my identity be defined by people who abused me and held me back.

I can be whoever I want to be.