The week has been a full one with meetings and interviews, all manner of busy-making to keep myself…accountable? Distracted? In a false sense of purpose? Sometimes, in eras of encroaching depression, I find that making myself go through the motions is akin to treading water in the middle of the ocean. I’m not really getting anywhere, but I’m not sinking under either. All that to say, here’s some poetry. About quietness. And how loud it really can be.
In Quiet
the world is less complicated without the obligation of you
it is simple now in droning waves of sunshine and isn't that better?
no need to perk my ears to your words
no longer worrying my lips over where yours are residing
life is simpler here it's quiet like a ragged street in a forgotten city
trash caught in dead weeds and chainlink
its quiet like burnt olive carpet in funeral homes
ghosts of lilies blooming to fade in grief it's quiet
like a room with no children and a meadow with no breeze
silent like a catacomb stale and cold communion with death
Welcome to my monthly update about what’s going on, what’s not, and how I’m navigating the current horrors. Surprise! There are a lot more horrors than last month. I’m really not sure how this current administration continually jumps the fucking shark every week, but… I guess when you lack morals and have the full use of 342 million people’s taxes, you can do some righteously awful fuckery. So here’s a couple of pictures that helped me remember that the world isn’t all ugly and it will be a lot more beautiful when we’re all gone, (crosses fingers for an asteroid). But first, the only thing more constant than the sun rising, is that if you open a cookie package within a mile of her, River will know and demand her rightful percentage.
Random Shit:
In, non-writing related news, I spent a little time in my old stomping grounds. Not my home-home, and not somewhere I think I still could live, but San Diego has always been a little part of me. Particularly OB, PB, and some of the more quieter shores. I’m a mountain girl at heart, but if I had to pick a close second, it would be the ocean. Nothing calms me quite like that sound, and the way every wave keeps coming, even if just a little different than the last. I got a few words in (3000 or so) and worked on my editing. Discovered a few new artists at the Museum of Art in Balboa Park and slept in for a couple of days.
Now back to work.
Reading:
In reading news, I started “taking a look” at another book by one of my writer friends. (He swears he’s not a writer, not really. He also swears he’s not very good at it. To both points he’s miserably wrong). One day, he was just pondering the philosophical significance of theater, and theater life and decided to just sit down and bang out 34,000 words on the topic. Then asked me to take a look, like I wasn’t already fawning over the man’s talent about a book he’s currently shopping around. Friends, I try not to be angry at an author who just gets progressively better at his craft, and he didn’t start out nearly as badly as I did. I’m not angry, it’s brilliant. Comparing the life and worries of the stage to the philosophical questions and perspectives of life, is turning out to be a damn fine book and I hope he lets the rest of the world see it.
Still working on “How We Learn to Be Brave” by Mariann Edgar Budde. Still learning to be brave. Instead of overwhelmed. I’ve also started to dabble in “Night Vision: Seeing Ourselves Through Dark Moods” by Mariana Alessandri, because that seems really on point right about now.
I finished “Nettle and Bone” by T. Kingfisher, and it only made me want to read more by them. Also, I realized I need a genre book mixed in with all of the non-fic stuff (or not if I want to finish the non-fic stuff…hahahahah)
Writing and Editing:
I’m working through the second hard round of edits of “Heir to Time”, the last book in the Timekeeper series, after a miscommunication with my editor that made me worry it was so awful she’d trashed the whole thing and burned my contact info. Turns out, no. I still have to work on it. But it’s going better and we’re getting it cleaned up. There’s an unfortunate “surprise” in the first two books where I’ve mistyped the hero’s last name. I’m sure some readers have already noticed. I guess that’s how you know it was written by a human. This sucker won’t be out until May probably. But it will get done. If you liked “The Mummy” and Jane Austen, you’re gonna love this little book with a nod to sapphic romance and all the hours I spent obsessed over Egyptology in middle school.
I’m chugging away at 5 Prince Publishing’s first shared-town anthology due out in the 2026 holiday season. My little derelict of a Hallmark failure is currently sitting around 28,000 words so I’m on track to finish it on time with a few weeks of editing to spare. If you want to check out my idea board for shits and giggles, you can find it here: 8 Nights in Everpine
I had a poem accepted by Levitate, so I’m stoked about that and I was brutally rejected by two more small presses. (I say brutal, but it was more like a toe-stub)
AWP (the Association of Writers and Writing Programs) was a thing. I learned some cool stuff and met some cool people. I also met some jerks, such is the way of life. I took some cool classes on how to move your writing workshops out doors, how to use your art and your writing as protest and in defense of human rights, and how to more effectively use silence in poetry. I’m not sure if I’ll go back, but I did get some good info on some independent presses and made a few contacts with some like minded people. Next year its in Chicago. A town I love, but that was a lot of damn people and I’m not really interested in posturing. I’d rather just go for the museums, the architecture, and the food, and skip the hullabaloo. I did get to see Poe’s grave, so that part was pretty cool.
I’m super excited to be able to participate in the Fort Collins BookFest in April! Yay! This event is one of my favorite and if you’ve never been, you should go. There are several different readings, panels, book signings, and other fun literary events to satisfy the bibliophile in you. I’ll be on a panel for romance authors on April 11th. But you can find the full schedule here: FoCo Book Fest.
Finally, if you’re in the area tomorrow (Friday, March 20th) from 5-7pm, I’ll be at Grimm Brothers Brewery in Loveland, hosting a write in with some folks from WHWA. You don’t have to be a member to stop on by and work on your writing, poetry, or anything that needs a little focused time.
Well, that’s about all I have. I’m currently helping out the Wyoming Writers Inc, as a board member to put together a killer conference in Casper Wyoming in June, but I’ll put more out about that next month. I have to save some of what little news I have so it’s actually a ‘news’ letter and not just…a letter.
Listen, I’m coming off of AWP, with notes to still type up, meetings to catch up on, emails waiting, a submission not yet done, new edits, word counts, laundry that’s been through about four dryer cycles (IYKYK) and had to come back in straight away to give a presentation on “Burnout” (*maniacal laughter*) for a lovely little local conference Founded in Fort Collins. So when I sat down to a blog post, blank screen and cursor blinking, I literally had nothing. But I do have my latest work. If you read Book One (Time to Byrne) and Book Two (Courting the Lion) then you are a beautiful human and I would thank you for a review.
Book Three takes a little turn, and a lot more adventure, bringing together both of the couples and an ancient Sapphic mystery in need of solving. Instead of the cool, green fields of Britain, our team of adventurers find themselves in 1920’s Egypt (camel milk lattes?) and the tomb of an unknown physician who started the whole bloody mess. So, I thought I’d share an excerpt from the book for this post. I’m currently in my third round of edits, with probably one more to go. I had hoped for March, but it might be more like early May.
Enjoy!
(oh! And if you read Courting the Lion, I would seriously love a review on it. If it’s not your type–i.e. Heated Rivalry but Regency and without the Hockey–pass it along to someone who might like it. It truly is a lovely story)
Heir to Time: An Excerpt
“What are you even doing here?” Matthew staggered back a few steps before coming back to stand straight in front of her. He gestured back at her. “What am I doing here? You are my wife, you disappeared! Did you not think I wouldn’t come and find you? Did you think I would just leave you to time?” “It isn’t safe for—” “We talked about this and I thought we’d agreed. This mission was too dangerous for both of us! We said that we would not go! Despite the very reasonable and rational things we discussed, and seemingly in agreement, you loved me into oblivion only to leave me the next morning.” Lillian stopped for a moment, her eyes went soft, remembering that night. Her body responded with such a force that she had to step away. “We did not agree! You had your reasons and your rationalizations and once settled in your own head, you stopped listening to me. You would not come with me, so had to do it on my own.” “And in your efforts to prove me wrong, something happened to you. You did not return!” Lillian’s face turned white. “Matthew,” she whispered. “I was imprisoned for your death, Lillian.” “But that’s impossible—” “I wish it were. I spent a month in a cell. All the while knowing that you were probably dead. Or lost to time,” he paused to frown. “Or that you simply did not want to come back to me.” She threw her hands up into her hair in frustration. “Why would you even say such a thing. Of course I want to be with you.” “Then why did you leave?” Lillian turned silent. She had left to find adventure. To prove herself. To flaunt her independence in the face of Matthew’s desire to settle down. “I,” she stuttered. “Because I thought it was the right thing to do.” Matthew stalked closer to her. “Did you not think for one moment what leaving would mean to me, to all of us who care for you? When Richard discovered the altered history, that I was accused of your murder and hanged for the crime, he and Thomas used a map to come and rescue me.” “Matthew, I’m sorry,” she paused but he continued on. “Did you not think what you leaving would do to my heart?” Matthew said, his voice breaking. Lillian’s lips trembled and she looked at him with wide eyes. “I did not know! How could I have known?” “Do you think I care for living at all without you? Do you think I would not follow you to the ends of the earth, or to the ends of time? I love you. You are my wife and I will always come for you.” Lillian crossed the distance between them quickly and silenced Matthew with a kiss. Hard and biting, she knocked him back two steps and pressed her body into his. He returned the kiss just as hungrily, forcing her back and up against the wall, where he held her against his hard and straining muscles. She gasped into his lips, her whole body burning to feel his touch. “Lily, my angel,” he whispered against her cheek, caressing her curves with hungry and needy hands. The taste of him, his warm breath, the delicious pressure of his fingers against her back, her waist, her bottom, drove her mad with the desire to have every inch of him touching every inch of her. His hot, wet tongue delved into her mouth and she moaned, her breasts heaving against the strong beat of his heart. Lillian’s hands ran up Matthew’s chest and she brought them around his neck even as he lifted her into his arms and her legs spread wide to wrap around his waist. The pressure of him between her legs caused a delicious shiver to run up her spine. “I missed you,” she cried against his lips as he broke away and bit and licked his way down her neck, causing her body to pulse in waves, closer to his. He paused in their fervent play and shook his head against her collarbone, as if he still had a weight on his mind. “What is it?” “You did not find solace in Alistair’s arms?” Matthew asked lowly. At the mere thought of Alistair, her whole body stiffened and she pushed herself away from him. She landed on her feet and shoved him backwards. Matthew backed away with his hands up, lips red and breath panting. “Lillian, I only—” “Did you find solace in Amelie’s bed? She implied that you were her boyfriend, and that you were smitten with her. That you were having discussions about your deceased wife in her bedroom. You told her I was dead!” “She made the inference herself and I did no such thing. It was in her apartment with Natalie as chaperone.” “Natalie?” “Richard and Thomas’s daughter.” “The little girl. In the car?” she said, breathless, and her heart softened. “She’s their daughter?” She had not had time in their hasty retreat to even ask, or meet the girl. The wild ride back to their hotel had not allowed time for introductions. “She is. And she is incredible, but that’s not what I want to talk about.” Matthew said. “We must work through this. I cannot spend another night without my wife.” Lillian narrowed her gaze. “Fine, spill it then.” Matthew took a big breath. “Amelie plucked us out of a market while I was babysitting her so her fathers could… have some intimate time.” “Matthew Blackwell, doctor turned au pair,” Lillian smiled. Matthew scowled. “In any case, Amelie had said that she knew Alistair and even hinted that you might be with him. So, I agreed to dinner at the Golden Dial with her to get more information and hopefully see you. Which I did. I did see you. When you kissed Alistair!” “He kissed me! I was upset and worried and thought I was going mad with missing you because I thought I’d seen you in the arms of that cheeky little harlot. I was confused and he pulled me in before I knew what he was doing. You mean to tell me you did not kiss her?” Matthew swallowed and backed away. “There can be no lies between us. I am afraid I did indeed use Miss Sheldon to get closer to you. We were at a loss and I needed any information I could get concerning you. She kissed me, yes, under quite some duress on my part. She said it was payment for getting us into The Golden Dial.” “Under some duress? What does that even—” “It was not as though I was staying in her hotel room!” “I’ve been sleeping in a maid’s closet! Every night since we parted, amongst the rats and the dirty laundry! Thinking of nothing but getting back to you. Doing nothing but missing you!” Her eyes filled with tears and she rushed past him into the bedroom and slammed the door. Matthew watched with his heart breaking and wondering how they would ever survive this mess. Richard and Thomas came through the door of the suite. Thomas poured both himself and his daughter water from the pitcher and took Natalie out to the patio to watch the procession of merchants packing up their wares below. When they were outside, Richard stared at Matthew who was breathing heavily and staring at the closed door. “We both heard the last of that. You idiot,” Richard said. “Yes, quite.” “Well?” “What am I supposed to do? She left me, to find adventure.” “Upon the faulty assumption that she would be back before you even noticed.” “But I was right! It was too dangerous, something did happen to her, and she should at least admit to that!” “What did the Timekeeper promise you two, exactly?” Richard asked. Matthew paused as his brain went through the verbal contract of their ‘supposed’ last assignment. “That we would be able to choose the time we lived in. And,” he swallowed and stopped. Richard lowered his gaze. “And?” “That we would be safe. That you and Thomas would be safe to live your lives as you pleased. With no further intervention from the Timekeepers. She promised that…that they would find her father and return him safely to her.” “So she saw a future for all of the people she loved, safe and happy?” Matthew was quiet at first. “Yes.” “And you are angry that she wanted to risk that? For you? For her own father who risked so much to keep her from dying? For Thomas and I, and our child? You are angry that she would secure a future for all of us?” he motioned out the door to the laughing girl and his beloved husband. Matthew’s face blanched. “I—” “I’ve only known Lillian for a short while,” Richard’s voice was thick with emotion. “But I have loved her in every moment. She is bumbling and often crass. She is misguided, yes, at times. But when she came to me, crying in the library of Oxford, so heartbroken over losing you, she made me, a hardened and cynical lion, believe that a love strong enough to survive any fire could exist. She would not give up. She would not give in. She threw herself into the ether, risking death, just to find you again. And she was right,” Richard wiped a tear away and looked back to his beloved Thomas. “Love is all there really is.” Natalie’s laughter filled the space of their rooms and the distant sound of Lillian, still sobbing in the bedroom, filtered in. “What do I do?” Matthew said, his voice cracking with emotion. “What indeed?” Richard scowled. “Surely nothing out here in the hall will help.” Matthew took a deep breath in. There was nothing he loved more in this world than Lillian. They had been through the worst of things. Danger, forced parting, murder, fire and unfair propriety. She had stayed by his side, protected him and kept him safe. She had done it all for him. For the people she loved. He had only selfishly thought what his life would be without her. If he had gone with her, if he had only agreed to do this together, they would not be suffering so. What would her beautiful heart be, if not filled and committed to the ones she loved? It was all his fault. He let out the breath and stepped quietly into the bedroom. She had not locked it. He hoped that meant she wanted him to follow her. He closed it quietly and locked the door behind him.
Well, there you have it. The novel that has been a bit of a Moby Dick to my Ishmel. Really though. If I survive this one, I may just call myself a writer. Stay tuned, next week, for my ever-popular, always appreciate (she said, rolling her eyes) newsletter.
I was trying to think up a topic today, within the sphere of writing, that might be new and interesting. It was then that I realized I like to fall back on my favorites. Character writing, dynamics of character interactions, emotion on the page, building tension. Or perhaps turn the microscope on myself and talk about burn out and creativity, progress without production, heart without hustle. But I feel a little bored with those topics and if you read my blog enough, you’ve probably read more than you wanted to.
So what do you write about when you’re toolkit feels a little… empty?
Well, maybe just that. I’ve long been at war with myself over the worthiness of a higher degree in the Literary Arts. Let me preface by saying in no uncertain terms: Every Degree You Get is Meaningful. Education is never a waste. And time spent learning and perfecting your art and voice and style is a worthy pursuit. But I have to add, that economically speaking, it doesn’t always give you an advantage. And…if you are at an economic disadvantage due to student loans, it can be harder to pursue a writing career.
So, what does a financially unstable writer do, when faced with the knowledge that she could certainly use a little more education and a freshening up of her skillset? Well, honestly, I could just rest on my laurels. I’ve published books and had work in different literary magazines. I’ve won some awards. I could argue I know enough.
But that would be short sighted and frankly pretty fucking egotistical. I don’t know everything. I could know more. I could experiment more. I could find a new mountain to climb, and shouldn’t we all? After all, what are we doing with this life if not learning? So, I’ll be looking for some affordable alternatives and, for any other writer who might be, like me, looking for a new challenge in their skills department, share some interesting options from down below.
Research new or unknown forms of poetry. This is my new favorite. I’m working on pantoums and cinquinta, and all kinds of weird little funness
Try an online course like MasterClass or a YouTube channel: Currently I’m taking Aaron Sorkin’s Screenwriting, and Roxanne Gay’s Writing for Social Change
Take a class or invest in a book, outside of your genre: I’m currently reading both a Screenplay book, and one called “Howdunit” all about how crimes are committed and solved.
Consider switching over to Fiction or Non-Fiction: whichever you don’t normally do
Attend a conference or workshop in your area: Despite the recent hubbub, (and it’s not in my area) I will be attending AWP with the hopes of taking some classes that can broaden both my poetic skill and my writing organization’s offerings.
Well, I hope those ideas have given you a little goose to the behind to get started on reclaiming your lifelong love of learning (or inspiring one if you lacked it).
Welcome to my monthly update about what’s going on, what’s not, and how I’m navigating the current horrors. First, look at my damn cat. Every damn day, this is what I put up with. If she’s not yelling at me to let her on my shoulders, she’s taking up space on whatever project I’m trying to work on. Pray for me.
Random Shit:
In, non-writing related news, I spent the weekend going outside more for the Great Backyard Bird Count. I think in times which are particularly trying to one’s heart and soul, it’s important to spend more time in nature. Away from the screens, and ground ourselves in something that’s real. It’s a strange sort of joy to sit still in a field, stand next to a marsh, breath quietly beneath the canopy of evergreens and just listen. Not for the loudest, most painful rhetoric, but the simple song of birds in conversation with one another. It resets our nervous system and tells our lizard brain that we are safe. A predator-less moment is much welcome.
Reading:
In reading news, here’s what I’m currently working on. My book club is reading “The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell”. I put it down somewhere around 20%. Why? Well, I don’t know. But I think it’s because I’m really not interested in reading something from the white male perspective right now. Because within a couple of chapters between his youth and adulthood, he both vilified men who were making derogatory comments about his mother’s body, and made similar comments about an assistant in his office. I don’t think I used to notice those things. But they’re glaring now. And I’ve already spent over half of my life being bombarded by this particular viewpoint and I’m bored with it.
So I put it down in favor of: “How We Learn to Be Brave” by Mariann Edgar Budde. While I was raised in a Christian faith, I no longer practice, and I have some deep and justified rifts with the church. However, this book is written by the Episcopalian Bishop who spoke out against Trump’s horrific public policy. It’s a pretty engaging book about how various people throughout our country’s history have been on the precipice of great and difficult choices and chose to be brave, stand for what they believed was right, and up against tyrannical forces. Budde includes examples of her own life and how we, as ordinary individuals can utilize our own inner strength to act when it counts. I’ll let you know how it goes.
I’m also lightly reading “Nettle and Bone” by T. Kingfisher. I’m only about a chapter and a half in, but I like it so far. Beautiful fantasy, and it’s fun to get back into a genre I haven’t read in a while.
Writing and Editing:
I finished up my first deep-dive edits of “Heir to Time”, the last book in the Timekeeper series, and sent them off to my astounding editor. I’ll still have a couple more rounds to go, but I feel like the major issues have been addressed and with any luck, it’ll be ready to go on to cover and publishing in March sometime. I’ll keep you posted and next week I’ll include a blurb. If you liked “The Mummy” and Jane Austen, you’re gonna love this little book with a nod to sapphic romance and all the hours I spent obsessed over Egyptology in middle school.
I’m also participating in 5 Prince Publishing’s first shared-town anthology due out in the 2026 holiday season. 9 authors, of the several, from 5 Prince will all submit a short novella (30-50000 words) based in the same small town over the holidays. It should be an interesting group, from across a wide spectrum. Mine will be, as usual, a little subversive, and a little dark, but it will be a beautiful nod to finding the light on the darkest days, and having someone to share it all with.
I’m participating in a “Postcards for Peace” project where I write a thought, hope or poem on peace and send one out a day to a stranger who has signed up. That’s going well and it’s nice to get some good thoughts in the mail for once.
I recently got a short story accepted at a small press (Rat Bag Lit). It’s a bit horrific and dark, but also strangely romantic. More on that as it gets closer.
Before you think I’m too high up on my horse, also know that I’ve received 4 glorious rejections so far this year as well. Well on my way to the 52 for the year I’m aiming for.
I’ll be attending AWP in March and I’ve never been to a conference this big for any reason. The Association of Writers and Writing Programs annual meeting is chocked full of classes, not just on craft but on how to teach and encourage other writers and inspire your community through your organization. I’m hopeful it will help me be a better organizer and community resource for Writing Heights and the expansive group of writers in the Colorado and Wyoming areas.
Finally, if you’re in the area tomorrow (Friday, February 20th) from 5-7pm, I’ll be a the Loveland Ale Works, hosting a write in with some folks from WHWA. You don’t have to be a member to stop on by and work on your writing, poetry, or anything that needs a little focused time.
Well, that’s about all the news that’s fit to print. I wish you luck on your projects this week, even if all that means is getting out of bed and brushing your teeth. Even the little stuff matters in a world overrun with big stuff.
I rarely post them. I, honestly, rarely read them unless they’re really entertaining. I know that as an author I’m supposed to tell everyone about my books, and what I’m working on, and where they can find me, and what great and wonderful things are happening in my life. It’s to froth up my base or some such nonsense. Provide a giveaway or prize to feed into the corporate machine?
The truth is, I’ve just never been a newsletter kind of person. One, I don’t have a lot to say about my books until I’m nearly done or have just finished them, at any other stage I’m too busy writing them to talk about them.
Two, I don’t want to be found. Seriously, I like my solitude and my peace. I would happily hermit for the rest of my days. I do occasionally crawl out of my little cavernous hole, hiss at the sunlight, put on pants and grunt my thanks to book buyers as I sign their copies. And I am grateful for those that come and support me. It means a lot. But as my schedule is still pretty mom and business heavy, I don’t occasion out much. And honestly, the selling of books was never the reason I began writing in the first place. Here’s a little secret, any one of you could write me and ask for a book and I’d probably just send it to you, free. No exchange of money. We all need stories. You can have mine.
Three…I’ve always had mixed feelings about telling others about the great and wonderful. I’m not sure how interested anyone would really be in my life, and I understand that there is so much ‘great and wonderful’ on social that it can often feel false. Truth be told, I often feel guilty when there is great and wonderful. Because even when you work hard, so much of that is dumb luck. Or systemic advantage. So I prefer to not say much, because I understand the sting. I also understand that nobody wants to hear about the doldrums of my actual life. Unless it inspires them by making them feel not so alone in their hermitage, general dislike of capitalism, and hatred of not-pajamas. I feel like anyone who follows my weekly blog, probably knows enough about me. Probably more than they wanted to.
But…this year, I’m going to be doing a few new things. Like hosting write-ins for Writing Heights Writers Association regularly, and supporting local businesses with poetry readings, supporting other local authors and events, and looking into good causes for our community to collaborate on. I’m going to be making myself get out more in an effort to balance the horrors on this new scale our country is holding. Because as much as I hate pants, as much as I hate noise, and parking, and crowded rooms…I hate fascism more. I hate people being censored, abused, wrongfully imprisoned, and killed more. I hate to see the arts and artist organizations fold and crater. And if my existence in the outside world makes a difference, then I will put on pants and make that difference.
So, every third week of my blog will be my Newsletter. I will try to promote my site and get a few more people to sign up. Not to sell books, not to make a name for myself or garner more ‘follows’ (imagine loving solitude and still being told you need more followers—gag me with a spoon) but to make friends. Because one of the best ways to build community is to create friendships, to find common ground, to make the fight personal. The more we know one another, the more we protect each other. And we all need protecting right about now.
I promise it will be short. I promise it will be honest. I promise it will attempt to be funny. I promise it will have at least one thing in it that should make your day better. That’s all I can promise. Technically, this is my first one, and you’ve just now read what I intend to do.
If you need more details, I’ll be hosting a write-in, in February (I’ll post date and time on social), and my writing group is organizing at writing challenge next month (February). You don’t have to be a member to participate but you can win some membership benefits for participating (message me and I’ll get you those details). I’m teaching a class in February called “Your Novel in A Year” and I’ll be giving you all the good tricks and tips to finish that book, and next steps. You can register for that here: Your Novel. I’m currently working through massive edits on a terrible novel that I hope will not be so terrible once I finish. I am also up to 5 submissions and 2 rejections for the year. Uh, what else? I’m on the board for Wyoming Writers and registration for their June conference (4th-7th) is now open: Wyoming Writers Conference 2026 I’ll be there, selling books and directing traffic and whatever else they need me to do. In May I’ll be giving a fun little talk in Saratoga, Wyoming about writing romance, and I’ll have more details on that later. I think that’s it. See, imagine that paragraph as my entire post, and you have my newsletter (plus or minus a few pictures of my cats). Thanks for sticking with me.
I’d tell you to like and follow…but, well you know.
Why do they look like they’re being directed by a Glamor Shots photographer?
Nobody likes being rejected. Yet one of the fundamental truths of life is that we will not be accepted by everyone, every time, and that includes our work. Admittedly, throughout nearly two decades of being a writer, I’ve been rejected more than I’ve been accepted. In recent years I’ve put aside submitting to pursue work with my publisher in the craft of novel writing, but I’ve come to realize that it’s stunted my growth as a writer.
The years I spent submitting weekly (mostly in an effort to gain experience and get some publication credits, as well as harden my tender, little writer heart against rejection) were the years when my writing grew the most. Submitting to whatever contests and journals I could meant I was always pushing outside of my comfort zone. Feminist horror? Sure, why not? SciFi Flash fiction? I can do that. Memoir? Creative nonfiction? Humor? Let’s try it out. Whatever was calling for a submission, I would fumble my way through it, and that led me to explore genres and forms I might not have otherwise attempted. I learned I do have a little dark streak that likes to come out and play.
I learned that a thread of justice and the unsettled walking of moral lines often shadowed my flash fiction. I wrote poetry about lawnmowers and tricycles. I threw paint at the wall in so many colors that my writing house became a mural of unexplored and emerging thought. All of it wouldn’t have happened if I had focused on a ‘rejection’ goal instead of an ‘acceptance’ goal.
Now, in a certain stage of stagnation, I’m returning again to a rejection goal for 2026. Not so lofty as 100 this year (I do have important things at home to still attend to and novels coming out) I am just aiming to submit once a week and garner 50 rejections in the year. I’m looking into playwriting contests, and speculative fiction, memoir and essay. I’ll probably revisit my favorite literary magazines and quirky publication to see what they’re up to. All of it, a practice that I hope you try too. A practice in being brave, in being curious, and in being untethered to the ideas of publication as success.
What can you learn about yourself as a writer? Not just what genres you might unknowingly enjoy, but also in sticking to a schedule, brushing up your cover letters, and learning how to concisely formulate a story (or poem) that feels like your voice and your soul. Knowing that you’ll be rejected. Knowing that not everything (maybe even none of it) will be published or given a place in the public sphere, can you reorganize you brain around the idea that it is the practice itself that’s the prize to be won?
That’s the goal for me. To rediscover the boundlessness of my creativity. To get uncomfortable. To learn things about myself and what the world looks like through my words. I hope you can find something similar that challenges you, humbles you, and eventually strengthens your love of writing.
“Like the lotus flower that is born out of mud, we must honor the darkest parts of ourselves and the most painful of our life’s experiences, because they are what allow us to birth our most beautiful self.”
– Debbie Ford
If we are to know growth, compassion, and peace, we must first understand and embrace suffering. It is only through accepting and living with burdens, sorrows, and disappointments, that we can let go expectations and learn to live in the skin and environment we’re in. The mud. The muck. The lessons and trials that come to us all. They teach us about patience, about failure, about acceptance and resilience. They teach us about our pain, and through it, others’ pain. And when we feel this suffering, we can better understand the suffering of others.
This is a New Year, and last year put me through some of the deepest, darkest, muddiest waters I’ve ever had to traverse. It gave me months of anxiety and pressure. Worry and loss of time and opportunity. It, in some ways, took both of my daughters away from me. But in other ways, it taught me how to keep them close even in the darkest of storms. It taught me who to trust, and who I could love better at a distance. It taught me that my heart is tender and that it should be. That it has been one of my biggest faults, in the past, to harden it every time it was broken. It taught me that a compassionate heart knowingly takes in pain, and breathes out hope.
So with all of the muck and mud I have sat in, the darkness that has surrounded me, I am in so many ways, seeing the first rays of sunlight bouncing on the surface above me. I am feeling my petals arching towards it, strengthened and supported by the loam of life that has taught me that all things along my journey have mattered, have fed me, have taught me…have shown me, just how beautiful and unpredictable and precious this life really is.
What are my plans in this dawning new year? Well, first I’ll happily tell you that I have no expectations. Because holding expectations is a sure-fire way to get the universe to prove them wrong. So I’ll just say this. I’m going to be kind. To myself and to others. I’m going to be conscious. Where I spend my time and my energy. What I allow into my life, and what I close the door on. I am going to be honest. About what I want, and what no longer serves me. I’m going to be quiet and listen more. I’m going to go outside more. I’m going to be alone more. I’m going to write more and email less.
I’m going to look for ways to hand over the obligations I took on out of ego, to someone who can carry them instead, with heart. I’m going to let go the trappings of the ‘hustle’ and embrace the comfort of the ‘nestle’ instead.
This last year was hard on my heart, my body, and my soul. So this year, in as much as I can and the universe allows, I will be softer to myself. I will remember my roots, and what has built them. And I will reach, always, and upward, towards the light.
It’s that time of year again, and wherein I repost one of my favorite blogs. This isn’t about religion per se. It’s not about what you believe or who you ascribe your faith to. It’s about how you choose to treat others. Because it is always a choice. And we can make it every moment. We aren’t held to our past. We can be better. In this particularly dark time, I would urge you to remember your capacity to spread and give light. We may not be able to control everything, or combat large and fascist forces, but we do have a choice to spread our own joy. To illuminate the shortened days. We also have the choice to be a petty and divisive jerk and shit on other people’s beliefs… different beliefs that rarely have a negative impact on you.
So here’s your yearly reminder: Don’t be petty and shitty, not any time, but especially not this time of year.
The world is dark enough as it is.
Be good to each other.
Psst… if you’re looking for a way to be good, especially after you read this tear-jerking post then click on this link and spread some joy:
For a list of where to get the most out of what you have to give check this link out.
For something closer to home: This is a great place to start.
And now, grab a tissue and enjoy…
Dear Madelyn and Delaney…
I hear there have been some questions at school and amongst your friends, about if Santa Claus is real.
There comes a time, in most kids lives, when they are taught to grow up and out of what some adults call “silly, fanciful, daydreams.” And so adults and peers will go about destroying everything that even whiffs of magic, and work hard to wipe away every ounce of stardust from the eyes of children who believe.
To this I say…Shut your mean-hearted pieholes, you wankers. (And anyone who hasn’t, at some point in their existence, called a middle schooler a wanker is probably lying. Let’s face it, middle school is not our finest hour as humans.)
These are the people who will say it’s obviously impossible for a generous old guy to deliver presents to kids one night of the year, while simultaneously cherishing and accepting the “fact” that a deity impregnated a virgin and their child wiped away the entirety of sin in the world…
…uh…
If they can suspend reality and base their lives around the idea of (albeit a cool), hippy/demigod, is it such a stretch to believe in a jolly old elf that spreads the ideals of generosity and selfless giving for just one day?
I won’t touch your hippy demigod if you don’t touch my jolly old elf in a red suit.
I bet Jesus calls him St. Bro-cholas.
I refuse to lose my stardust. (Or as Anne Shirley would say; I refuse to be poisoned by their bitterness.)
You want to know if there is magic? If Santa is real?
Here’s what I know…
Santa is real and magic exists.
How can I be sure?
I’m here aren’t I? You’re here, yes? We’re all here.
We were sprung from the unlikely combination of a evolutionary, chemical lottery and dumb, cosmic luck. Our bodies’ chemical and mineral components are the same as stardust floating around and comprising distant galaxies. We are made of the Universe and the Universe is in us. We’re naked, funny-looking, bipedal apes, and we’ve survived hundreds of thousands of years of evolutionary death traps.
If all of that’s not magical, what is?
Here’s what I also know.
There are two types of people in the world.
Those that destroy joy, and those that spread it.
I DO KNOW that it does no harm to believe in something better, more beautiful, and magical in our lives (Hippy Demigod or Santa Claus).
I DO KNOW, it does no harm to fill our eyes with wonder and joy in the midst of the darkest days of the year.
I DO KNOW, it does no harm to hope and anticipate.
I DO KNOW, it does no harm to walk into these short cold days with elation in our hearts.
And I KNOW this:
That it must be a horrible, dark and sad world for those that seek to take away such light; how bitterly awful to be those who disbelieve and ridicule others who hold magic in their heart.
It does harm, to take someone’s joy.
It does harm, to smother the fire of giving and generosity.
It does harm, when we seek to oppress the light of selflessness in a world so dark.
I also know this; each one of us chooses what we believe.
We choose what we fill our hearts withand in a world that can be so gloomy and wretched, why would you want to fill your heart with anything that would make it even more so?
I choose to believe.
I believe in Santa Claus and I believe in magic.
I believe that there is light in the darkest of times. And I believe that the joy radiating from hearts that hope, and love, and give, is more real than any hot air getting blown around by a bunch of self-conscious, hormonal, dying-to-fit-in middle schoolers (or cynical, angry, self-conscious adults)
Now listen: I can’t decide for you what you believe,
but neither can they.
So you choose.
Embrace the joy, be the magic, and light up the dark… or reject the lot of it and wipe the stardust from your eyes.
No one is harder on me than me. And so, when I realized that I’d missed not one, but TWO blog posts in a row, I was at first righteously disappointed in myself. After all, I’ve been doing this blog for a long time. Every week, on Thursday, a little something about life, writing, or just to enrich the world (via poetry). But if you read this blog, you know that my life has been on the rocks for the last 8 weeks or so (before that really on our way leading up to inpatient) and so the disappointment quickly faded.
You see, I’ve learned to treat myself with the same grace I would extend to those whom I love. And it’s a kindness I’ve been looking for my whole life.
Like it or not, my blog is not the miracle of physics that keeps the world spinning ’round. There aren’t lives dependent upon my poetry or massive crowds hanging on my every word. When it comes down to it, the blog is a lot about me shouting out into the void, to remember that I still have a voice to use. That it occasionally resonates with someone else is wonderful. That it exists helps me feel purposeful. And so to hit and miss it a few times while my daughter and I are staying far from home and undergoing treatment for one of the deadliest mental illnesses that exists, is a drop in the bucket of my existence. I’m doing other things.
Fun fact I learned in one of the classes we take here as parents; the stress of parenting child suffering from an eating disorder is THREE TIMES the stress of parenting a child with schizophrenia.
I believe it. I feel it. The constant worry and triggering of what they eat, if they’re eating, if they’re eating enough, if they’re getting up to exercise in the middle of the night while you’re passed out from exhaustion from being “on duty” all of the time. If they’re only pretending to get better and it will reemerge as soon as you get home. If they will relapse later. If this will be the thing that takes their life, if not now, then sometime down the road. There’s no magical medicine to help soothe the savage beast of an eating disorder, and the only thing that truly is their medicine (food) is the one thing they fear most to take. It is physical and mental. And the mental leads to worsening physical, and so the cycle goes.
When I remember the characteristics of this villain we’re currently fighting, my blog post doesn’t feel quite so important. But it kind of is too. Because in the midst of this battle, I realized, I’ve become nothing but the General. Nothing but one-woman army, constantly fighting. Not a writer, not a wife, not a sister, not a friend, not a community organizer, or a poet. Not a human. Just the facilitator of a hard-to-come-by cure. And it has worn me thin. Too thin. So thin that the dark thoughts I’d shelved for the last few months are beginning to seep through the cracks in this armor that has already taken too many blows. And the thoughts that seep in…
Well…they aren’t life sustaining, I’ll tell you that much.
So today, I’m making a conscious effort to sit down and write. To do more than research and fret, and meal plan. To remember that attending to the foundation of who I am matters, to the house that still needs to stand in this storm.
I’ve watched a lot of events and occasions pass by in the last two months, as an outsider. From holidays, to birthdays, to fun events and friend gatherings. Even the release of two of my own books. And I could not be a part, fully, of any of them. But we are coming back into the light, and with every day she grows stronger, I need to also commit to coming out of the dark too. It wouldn’t do much good to help her survive only to loose my own will to in the process.
So I’ll keep writing. Keep shouting into the void. And I’m thankful for you, bearing with me while I come back to myself.
Sarah Reichert Author 