Ned rozell biography

With a short work week upon us and me not wanting to rush a draft through the editing pipeline, this week I visit a theme many writers are pulling from their back pockets: gratitude.

That’s an easy one for me.

As the sunrises add up, I fire vocal thank-you arrows skyward with increasing frequency. But I don’t always share those words beyond the stars and the snow trails that bear the imprint of my fat-bike tires.

I’m thankful for that bike.

My wife somehow found one last Christmas and purchased it for me. That was clutch.

Let’s keep the list going: After a year of covid couch-school, my daughter is finding her freshman groove in high school, even signing up for the ski team.

A month ago, because of two flying machines that crossed a continent in half a day, I got to hug my aunt, my two brothers and my two sisters.

Here in Alaska, our house is slowly sinking as the permafrost thaws, but the front door has never failed to shut and latch