In the hierarchy of great literature, crime novels rate slightly above washing machine manuals but below the throwaway inserts that come with over-the-counter cold medicine.

For snobbery in action, you can’t go wrong with a group of New York Review of Books readers dissing the latest police procedural to hit the USA bestseller list.

Exceptions, of course, for Walter Mosley, who rose to fame after Bill Clinton exited Air Force One with a copy of an Easy Rawlins’ mystery tucked under his arm. But then…Walter Mosley.

Saying Walter Mosley is a crime writer is like saying Julia Childs writes recipes.

I write recipes.

Julia Childs changed the way we look at food.

In tribute…

An homage to the Irish famine.

I have a busy work schedule today and no plans to gadabout. Nobody will see whether or not I’m wearin’ the green.

So why did I put my orange running shoes back in the closet this morning? Even though they are the most comfortable on my aging bunions?

Why is orange an insult to everything Irish, you may ask?

It’s certainly not because they clash on the color wheel.

My heritage came to mind several days ago when Soliel Ho, food editor for the San Francisco Chronicle, wrote a piece worrying about whether she was Asian enough for some of her reviews of the restaurants…

If the alarm clock doesn’t interrupt the big finish.

Some people say they don’t dream. Others claim they don’t see color when they nod off.

I’ve dreamed in vivid color and 3-D surround sound for as long as I can remember.

The first dream I recall had me standing in the charred remains of a building when I was four or five. The terror of the fire woke me, and I barged into my parents’ bedroom, begging to be let into their bed.

Another day, I can remember bounding into the kitchen early in the morning, regaling my mother with…

A friend of mine is going through a profound loss, one I have not had to face, at least not yet and hopefully not ever.

She lost her child recently and struggles with a future in which she can see only grief and darkness.

She doesn’t ask for help, only reports from the field, a place I pray I never have to visit, the ground without my daughter.

It is a parent’s worst nightmare, losing the child we love more than life itself.

One of the many cliches about that particular loss is that it violates the order of things…

Golf used to bore me more than ironing. And I hate ironing more than I hate long division. I could go on and on with examples of the degree to which I loathe boredom, but came the day I saw the beauty in golf.

It took marrying a golfer. Though we were totally unsuited for each other, he introduced me to a game that, for a brief period in my life, became my passion.

During a getaway at a resort with a golf course, my temporary husband put a putter in my hand, and I understood why commentators always whispered…

Sending good wishes for a change in your luck.

My daughter received her first kitten for Christmas at age 5 years old. Love at first sight, she named him Sam, a black beauty who was weaned too soon. Our beloved black cockapoo Sebastian would roll onto his side so Sam could grab a mouthful of hair and “nurse.” I couldn’t figure out who was more neurotic, the kitten for thinking the dog was his mother or the dog for thinking he was female.

During her fifth grade year, I took my daughter on a trip to New York to visit our family. If you knew my sister, you’d understand…

If
you’ve read any of my snarky pieces, you might think you’re in for a laugh. Here we go, you’re saying. She’s got some joke up her sleeve. I bet this is about writing and stinky diapers.

And it is, sort of. Except Anne Lamott beat me to it with her famous line about shitty first drafts.

But for me, perseverance and writing is about as serious as wearing a mask.

Like clockwork, whenever I teach a group of students who start out with a burning desire to write, we come to the part when they hit a wall and want to give up.

Often, this happens to new writers when the dream of winning prizes, earning big money, and…