Masked up! A photo of my son and me. I definitely owe you all an update. I feel like this year has slipped past me, all while still feeling like it’s the year that will never end. How can it be already December when it’s still March? That’s honestly how it feels. My biggest update … Continue reading For the Birds, NaNoWriMo, and other updates
This short story is one I entered in "Wish You Were Here," a Redwood Writers contest about travel experiences. And guess what. I won first place! Read it here.
Excerpt from my current novel in progress, For the Birds. Photo by Hannah Porter on Unsplash While Meadow freshened up in the bathroom, I did a quick dust job of the canopy of branches over the bed, then changed the sheets. By the time she came out, the bed was turned down, the room bathed in the soft … Continue reading Short Story: The Tree Bed
If you’re a writer and ready to give up, read this first. Photo: Viktoriya Bezhan / Shutterstock I know you’re tired. I know you have times when you wonder what the point is. You wake up early, stare at that blank page, and aren’t sure why you even bother. You have things you want to say, … Continue reading What’s the Point of Writing?
“Edison McIntyre,” he said in his thick accent, affecting my heartbeat as he clasped my hand in his. The amused squint of his eyes didn’t help, our secret history flowing between us, unbeknownst to Mr. Finnigan. “Charles has told me all about you,” Sonny continued. “I look forward to us working together." ...
The bees were already at work on the lavender bushes, despite the early hour, and I watered the base of the billowing plants to avoid soaking their fuzzy bodies. “You’re doing a wonderful job,” I cheered them on, just like Mom used to do. She talked to the bees, the birds, and the plants the same way she’d talk to a child, asking them about their day and offering encouragement. When I was young, I swore they answered her. ...
It’s probably not a surprise that I always wanted to be a writer. It’s all the things that came out of that dream that are surprising. And, just like most writers, it began with a love for reading.
He let me know how strong the bones of the story were, but that it needed more work before it was done. My ego flared brighter with each mark on the story. I mean, I’ve been a writer all my life, and an avid reader. I knew what I was doing, dammit. So I did the mature thing. I decided to quit writing.
This morning, in an effort to find that peace, I decided to write a love letter to my novel. I know, I know. This is painfully cheesy. But you guys, it worked. Instead of feeling like my manuscript is a burden standing in the way of my happiness, I have this seed of warm love for the story, almost like it’s my own child, held in my hands.
Usually after I write an ultra vulnerable post, admitting all the things I’m struggling with, I wake up with a vulnerability hangover. Not today. I feel relief, like breathing is a little easier.