No February blog would be complete if it did not touch on the theme of love. Philos, Eros, Agape, whatever you choose to call it, I’ve learned over time that love works in much the same fashion as a shovel.

January doesn’t arrive with fireworks for me.
It comes quietly. Cold mornings. Stiff joints. The same body I woke up in last year, only a little more honest about its limits.

One bite at a time.

That phrase has followed me everywhere lately — especially into the garage.

I actually did a helluva lot.

Gratitude, for me, has never been about abundance. It’s been about endurance.

They linger in the shadows of our minds, often unacknowledged.

For me, words aren’t just things on a page. They’re alive. They breathe.

Fear, for me, has always been about the loss of control.

The mobile home had flipped over completely—roof flattened into the dirt, resting right on the propane tank.

I believe that every story, no matter the genre, is, at its core, a love story.

I’m Michael S. Haralson—though I've been called by my middle name, so feel free to take a wild guess what the 'S' stands for. I can’t promise I’ll tell you, though.