Yesterday it was Friday and sunshine on palm trees. Today it’s Saturday and fat plops of snow on dog poop in the backyard.
Away for five days on a writer’s retreat in Palm Springs hosted by author Christie Tate, I’ve returned to domestic mundanity in South Central Kansas.
It’s late January, and today’s typical Kansas weather is an interesting punctuation on the out-of-the ordinary week I’ve had.
Monday: I hate flying but the reward outweighs the risk and I jet from ICT to PSP. I bring my emotional support dog Scraps, the little salt and pepper, curly-haired terrier I adopted from the animal shelter shortly after choosing sobriety a year and a half ago. A dear friend paid his way on this trip. He’s nine pounds. He whimpers in his soft-sided carrier until we’re airborne. …
This little pansy caught my eye in the flower bed last week. An early sign of spring on a frigid February day. Bloom where you are planted, indeed. Whenever you’re freaking ready.
I could pretend that I’m writing this to lift the spirits of a dear friend who’s going through a dark season, but here’s the truth; this is for me, but not only me. Maybe it’s for you. Or your dear friend.
See, I’ve been at this writing thing for a long time. 15 years professionally (18 if you count my internships in college), and 31 years if you count my crayon-scribbled masterpieces as a young child. I’ve always, always wanted to be a writer. And now I am. Not many people can say that they’re living their childhood career dream. I can, and I’m grateful. Not many …
Eight years ago, I was a newly-jobless mother of two girls, ages 1 and 3. I’d left my job as the director of communications for a sizable non-profit in exchange for more time with my progeny. I envisioned delightful outings and play dates and leisurely afternoons spent reading and cuddling and baking cookies. And sometimes, that happened. But truth be told, I was miserable. I was broke. I was lost and fumbling, unsure of my purpose or value.
So darn precious. Those days were long, but the years were short. I will not cry. I will not cry.
So I started freelancing. I picked up projects here and there, but it wasn’t enough to fulfill my need to create. So many words. So many stories. I did what every red-blooded white lady who lives out in the …
When my friend Dani Stone (freelance writer and short story author extraordinaire) asked me if I’d already participated in the How I Write blog hop, I had no idea what she was talking about. To which she replied, “SWEET ACTION.” And this is why I love Dani. Our Facebook IMs are epic, and often result in me snorting some beverage I’m drinking out of my nose. The gal is funeeee. And while we’ve only met once in person (well, twice if you count the time I waved at her in Red Beans, and she had no clue who I was), I’ve forged a bond with her over freelance foibles, writer woes and momma drama. So of course I wanted to participate in this blog hoppy thing.
I’ll answer a few questions about how I …
Let my words be used to glorify, and not malign. (image from osage.k12.ia.us)
I’m not one to seek conflict, but I often find that when confronted with an accusation through written word, my response is less than Christlike. This is my prayer, that I might use my gifts to build Him up, and not tear others down.
Lord, you have blessed me with the gift of language. The ability to put fingers to keys and translate raw human experiences into strings of words, sentences, paragraphs, stories. How often I long to use this gift to glorify you. To tell of your love, to demonstrate your tangibility. But sometimes, shamefully, I use this gift, this toolbox of letters and language, to injure. I pull out barbs, masterfully twisted to inflict the most damage. I catch grenades in bare …
It was just a typical Wednesday morning, or any morning, for that matter. I sat on the couch, laptop open, planning my grocery shopping trip for later in the afternoon. (It takes hours to plan when you attack the store like the crazy coupon diva you are.) My toddler sat at my right, still a bit groggy, munching on Cheerios while watching the annoyance that is Caillou. A notification popped up, informing me I had a new interaction on Twitter. “Probably just another spammy follower,” I thought to myself. But what I saw was not a scantily clad avatar with an obviously fictitious name and a feed propagated with virus-inducing links. No. This was a woman name Emma Wilson…from the BBC.
I’ll never wash this tweet.
The BBC! Was this for real? Could it be an acronym …