Word of the Month: Obtenebrate

Nothing’s sexier than a good vocabulary, so let’s get hot? At the very least, let’s learn a new word.

Today, I used the very scientific method of flipping to a random page in the “Dictionary of the Strange, Curious & Lovely”, by Robin Devoe and closing my eyes to point to a word. That word, was obtenebrate. To which my brain and tongue had to slow down and work together for a few seconds. Tongue to back of teeth, lips puffing. It feels like a word that would provide the hearty mouthfeel for spoken poetry. And it rhymes with other gems like, confiscate, innumerate, postulate, adulterate, articulate…and now I’ll probably be working on a poem later.

It’s a fun word to say. But the meaning, hit a little too close to the heart, particularly this week.

Obtenebrate: To darken or make dark; to enshadow a thing; to obscure.

The word itself, comes from the late Latin obtenebratus, past participle of obtenebrare to darken, from Latin ob- to, toward, over + tenebrare to darken, from tenebrae darkness, and also shares roots with the Portuguese trevas (darkness or gloom).

And whereas there are a lot of different directions towards gloominess I could take this post today, (aren’t we living in a space and time where a malevolent shadow in a bad spray tan is constantly covering us?) I want to talk about it in terms of ourselves. Our own psyches and perceptions of the world. Beyond the simplifications of being classified as an optimist or a pessimist, I’ve noticed, particularly in the case of a dear friend, the uncanny ability of the mind to obtenebrate itself.

But why does it do this? Why do we do this? This dance with darkness that quickly spirals into an ocean of shadows too deep to keep our heads up?

During a weekly Buddhist gathering, we talked about the concept of being entwined without becoming entangled. To be present without absorbing. To always come back to one’s self, in a world that is constantly pulling us and scarring us with traumatic happenings. All of which, by the way, add up in our physical bodies and in our reactions and fears towards others. From childhood and the father who was abusive, through college and the professor who said we’d never be a writer, to the poor reviews or rejections of lovers…the body remembers, the mind tries to protect. And in doing so, both become entangled. Gnarled roots take hold, darkness shadows over our thoughts, clouding our vision and perception of the world. Until we no longer remember what a bright day looks like. This darkening is cyclical. It feeds on itself, growing larger, and expanding over more and more. Our memories, our achievements, our hopes…the people who love us.

It feels like “the Nothing” from Neverending Story, a bit, doesn’t it?

And to watch it happening to someone you love (or even yourself if you have that kind of self-awareness) is a frightening thing indeed. Because shadows don’t listen to reason. Darkness is too accustom to swallowing light, to pause and ask if it belongs there. Where there are scars, the obtenebration plants seeds. Grows more darkness. Until it can feel like there isn’t much warmth or light worth sticking around for.

And I’m not smart enough to offer solutions. Because the undeniable truth of our own birth and death means that the constant state of existence is one of entropy. And if the shadows are dark enough, perhaps you can only see the decay, the breakdown, the demise. Maybe you don’t yet understand that the breakdown often happens to feed something deeper, brighter that will cycle back around out of the shadows. Maybe we have, for too long, overcomplicated our own wounds, become entangled by them, and forget that we are the only ones capable of hacking through the briar patch of shadows. Maybe we don’t think there’s a reason to bother.

Look, I only have forty some years of experience, but what I do know, from nature, and from my own cycles of loss, and suffering, is that shadows and clouds, night, and darkness, all come through, and then…eventually they are broken apart and carried away by the light, the wind, and the dawn. Yes they come back. Because the only truth of life is change. But instead of running to stay beneath the shadows of those dark clouds, perhaps we can sit still. Come back to ourselves. Shine our own light on these wounds, these entanglements. Work to understand them and, this is the important part, find a way to love and accept. So that maybe the next time the world obtenebrates our lives, we are not allowing it to entangle us.

Take care of yourself. Accept the shadows that come, but don’t invite them to stay. It’s a waste of your one, precious life.

Photo by Javier Balseiro on Pexels.com

Poetry 10-22-26

Morning all. I’m going through these mountains of poetry. Some from many years past. Some from last year, while I was in program with my daughter at an Eating Disorder Recovery center in Denver. I know it is a year past, and things are better. She is brave and strong, and working through so much. She is eating and once again capable of rational thought. But I also know that there were wounds made in that space that are still tender. For us both.

How? Well, at the RMFW conference a couple of weekends ago, I found that my hotel window faced the Gary Pavilion of Children’s Hospital. The building we spent every day from 7am until 7pm, undergoing treatment. Not just forcing her to eat, but requiring hours of therapy, inner work, and learning coping mechanisms. Some were helpful. Some, as dictated by that particular program, did not sit well or work with either of our values. When I opened my curtain and saw it, just the innocuous building, nothing on its own but filled with months of memories, I felt immediately physically sick. All of the days of crying and screaming, hateful rebellion, and how-could-you-do-this-to-me’s, how could you save a life I’m trying so hard to end… came rushing over me. And maybe I had been trying to put it, like a box, in the back of my brain closet. Seeing the building, in the same light as we would leave each day made me feel anxious and shaky. I closed my curtains and did not open them for the entire weekend.

Anyway, a long intro to this poem. Written during the struggle. If you’re in a struggle, of any kind, I hope you find some comfort within the lines.

Photo by Gyu00f6rgy Lakatos on Pexels.com

The Path, Unasked For

we did not ask to be put on this rocky trail

we did not ask for the biting roughness

the edges that catch

and trip our feet

we did not ask for this blazing heat

no respite of shade

no cool breeze on blistered skin

we did not ask

to become more suffocated

with every tenuous step upward

we did not ask for this mountain ahead

for the perilous journey

that life kidnapped us to

we did not ask

for this

but this is what we have

perilous and rocky

blistering and biting

every step, every growling hunger

a pain and punishing gauntlet

every hoisted leg, trip and fumble

skinned palms and

wind knocked out fall

is ours

to own

this trail, this journey

this mountain, my darling

it is yours

and it is mine

and we’re traveling it

together

through all of the nasty

the bitter

the burn and ache

and all the bloodletting

the tear shedding

we are suffering

and conquering

this together

this is our trial, our path

our mountain

and it is not fair

and it is not kind

but it is ours now

and the only way out

is through

the only way home

is over the mountain

the only way back to safety

is through this hell

this darkest night

take my hand

one step

one breath

one us

at a time

ever onward, darling

until dawn is ours

Newsletter October-November 2026

Goddamn it. I hate newsletter day. Let’s get it over with.

What’s going on in my world? Honestly a lot of chaos. Chaos in my business, Writing Heights Writers Association, where I’m tasked with taking on a few extra roles and constantly navigating in stormy seas to keep this ship afloat. Chaos in my projects, where my distracted and depression-soaked mind bounces from one to the next and back again without any real progress. Chaos in my heart and mind over new and conflicting feelings for things I cannot have. Things I cannot change. Chaos in my physical space where all my converging roles make haphazard piles on my desk.

Let’s sort it out a bit.

GARDEN NEWS:

What can I say, we’re winding down. Something has happened to our corn, and the grasshoppers have taken to gnawing on the leaves, so I don’t expect much from them, but I am going to try to harvest the seeds for next year. Speaking of harvesting…

Squirrels love squash, and if it’s anything that Harvest Community has in plenty? It’s squirrels. I don’t mind. I mean, I would have liked to eat a couple but, I also know that food and water supply is pretty weird these days, and I’m not gonna NOT feed something that’s hungry.

The nasturtium are beautiful

and the tomatoes are starting to slow in their ripening with the shorter days. So, we may not get too many more but I’m looking forward to making some fried green tomatoes. Which makes me think of Fannie Flagg’s book and the incomparable movie with Jessica Tandy and Kathy Bates (get yourself some hormones, girl), Mary Stuart Masterson (my first girl crush) and Mary Louise Parker. And that makes me think of good food, recompense for nasty men, and women standing up for one another. Check it out HERE.

The dog and cats are good. Assholes sometimes, but also sometimes stupidly wonderful.

Why always on my side?
the perfect night

READING:

I finished Cinder and I’m on to Scarlet from Melissa Meyer. They’re good, but not so heavy that I can’t sleep at night after reading them. I like the twist of fairytales into the fantasy world and the way the storylines are converging.

I finished and read the newly-out Songs of Good Cheer from Lauren Lipp. Its a sweet and warm-hearted, holiday sapphic romance with good character development and a second-chance romance worth the read.

Carter Wilson’s When They Find Me is an excellent thriller, set in Colorado. I have to read it out of bed though, during the day, because it ramps up my anxiety too much before trying to sleep. The sure sign its a great book. I’m almost through it.

Existentialism is Humanism by Jean-Paul Satre is an interesting little journey and I’m making lots of notes in the margins. It’s a little escape from my own thoughts and delving into someone else’s. To something bigger beyond my own little troubles.

No Words After I Love You by me. Yeah, I know. It’s mine. I also know I reread it when my heart is heavy. Because sometimes I really need a Charlie in my life. And a ballsy ex-journalist, and a love that was written in the stars. When, my heart is hurt I need to be in an alternate world where things can somehow work out. And that kiss…everyone should be kissed like that at least once in their miserable little lives. Part of that Chaos of Wanting.

WRITING:

*takes a deep breath and sighs it out* Thanks to upcoming critique groups, I’m trying to push out some work. And work, if you can manage it, helps distract the heart. The problem is that I’m not sure it’s necessarily good work.

I’m through edits on FaeSpawn, my first in the trilogy set in the Ornkey Islands, north of Scotland. I’m handing it over, a few chapters at a time, to my new critique group to see what comes up and I’ll go back through when the trilogy is complete to fix and refine anything that may come up in the process. I’m now working through the second book, SeaSpawn. I forget that I wrote this first draft in my neophyte days, but boy does the writing remind me. Its sometimes good to read through older work and realize how much you’ve grown and improved, but there’s quite a bit more rewriting that comes along with that. I suspect it will take a bit longer to edit then I had first thought.

I’m working this month on character sheets and a short outline for a new and different project (see last week’s post). Set in Aberystwyth, Wales, it follows the convergence of two souls, scarred by life and teetering on the edge of their own kind of chaos. It has everything, insanity, murder, Munchausen’s Syndrome, obsessive compulsive disorder, cutting, abuse…a real light-hearted tale….

On the other side of all of that, there is also the power and resilience of the human heart, interesting interweaving of magical realism, soul-searching, love, friendship, acceptance, letting go, redemption and healing. I’m at about 15,000 words in, and plan to use Novel-in-a-month November to finish the first draft. If I can pull my heart out of its current self-pitying tailspin.

What else? Still working through the poetry anthology, and as it turns out I’ll be taking over the Poetry Critique group for Writing Heights so it will be helpful in starting to go through some of them, with some talented poets whose help I could really use. So far, the document is about 120 pages. Not all the poems will make it.

Also–oddly, I have about 9000 words on a strange little comedy of errors, about two people who try to erase their lives, and start over. Only to find that the past wants them back, just as they’re finding each other.

EVENTS

I have a book coming out. October 20th, my holiday novella “Eight Nights in Everpine Valley” will be released. If you’ve ever rolled your eyes at the Hallmark Channel but still like a good romance, this book is for you. Subversive and snarky, this little book puts the reality of all kinds of love (familial, self, romantic) in the context of a world gone mad for the season. Check it out and leave a review, if you can. If you do read it and you’re interested in the ‘deleted’ spicy scene, let me know. I’ll send you the missing, toe-curling chapter.

I will be speaking at Arapaho Community College on October 21st for their National Novel Writing Month Panel. You can find out more here: ACC PANEL . I’m super excited to work with Jomil Ebro and David Slayton and Rachel Weaver, to talk about writing, answer some questions, have a few conversations, and encouraging writers in next month’s endeavor.

I’ll be teaching a class at the end of November on how to write a series, through Writing Heights Writers Association (she plays all the roles in this place). I’ll be using my current series in progress as an example and we’ll talk about common pitfalls, how to create that beautiful, total-series arc, how to keep every novel strong on its own, and how to not lose your damn mind in the process (suggestions welcome). Check us out HERE.

In addition to all of those things… I also run four critique groups a month, host all of the classes, have two regular, in-person write ins (more in November for National Novel Writing Month) and teach the youth class. I’ll now be responsible for the newsletter, and if you’re a member or subscriber I thank you in advance for your grace as I navigate that world (we all know how much I LOVE writing newsletters). I try to schedule one team meeting in a month, and individual check is with each of my team. There’s also my daughter’s therapy appointments, pick up and drop off, the occasional cleaning when I am not beset by the other more demanding things. Pet care, garden try-to-care

…people ask me why I don’t do more “self-care”. I said I could probably hire it out. But I don’t have the time or money. So until then…I’ll just keep pouring out of this empty cup and see how far I can go. As Noah wrote “If my engine works perfect on empty, I guess I’ll drive”

Until next month.

The Beautiful Writers Workshop #20: Finding Romance in a Time of Disconnect

I wrote this post in June of 2020. I was going through it, “modernizing it” and sadly not much has changed with the first paragraph. The world is still tense, but more in a ‘waiting for the trifecta atom bomb of environment/AI/Fascism to end us all” kind of tense. A bit more depressing. A bit more frustrating. So, in an effort to lighten some hearts and bring us back down to our sensual humanness, enjoy advice that’s still pretty good.

The world is a tense place right now and I know I’m not the only one who’s been suffering with a busy and worried mind. These days, these times, these overcrowded houses, and insecurities about the future don’t make for good bedfellows and it’s not just artists who are suffering.

A recent study revealed that fewer people are having sex. Especially in the younger age groups. A combination of the world’s current crises, economic disparity, job loss, women fed up with inequality, women no longer having control of their reproductive health (you can’t fucking touch me because I won’t have a choice afterwards, asshat), incels, underground dark net sites where men drug their significant others and assault them in videos for profit and ‘instructing’ purposes (thought I forgot about that? None of us should forget about that). Then there’s women’s fears of sexual violence, inequality in the emotional and mental labor at home, exhaustion, fear of war, fear of food supply. Shit… maybe I shouldn’t be writing about the erotic. Maybe we should be prepping instead.

Ahem…

A lot of younger generations are also experiencing a general unease about the current “hook up” culture in addition. All of this has left a great many of us feeling as though sex just isn’t worth all the hullabaloo. (Clear sign that people aren’t getting enough play time between the sheets is the uptake in old-timey language like “hullabaloo”, “horse feathers”, “fiddle faddle”, wisenheimer”, “canoodling” and “shenanigans”)

So, what better time to start a new literary romance novel and a romantic fantasy series? Actually there are a lot of better times, but we may only have three years left before AI kills us all, so I might as well get a few more books out, right? Despite feeling a little ‘meh’ about love in general, my hope is that it will ignite some latent ideas that will help me finish the two or three novels that have just been sitting like cold leftovers in my fridge.

 (I should eat that before it goes bad, but I’m just not feeling like all that fiddle-faddle. I’ll make a quesadilla.)

I’m not sure how many of my writing clan out there dabbles in romance or what your current feelings are on the matter, but I think that when we are faced with a world in such serious and important chaos, the idea of a little escapism should not be dismissed too lightly. Passion comes in many forms, and when we stoke the fires of one form, we help to ignite the others. A passionate life is not just in the pursuit of justice, it is in the pursuit of love and happiness as well. And a good romance novel will follow this pursuit.

So, for today’s exercise, whether or not you write romance, I would like you to try your hand at a touch of eroticism (there’s a double meaning in there). I’m not suggesting you sit down and write your tawdriest letter to Penthouse. I don’t want to know about girth or the overused metaphors of trembling phalluses or ‘moist’ orifices. (Yuck, I think I just grossed myself out).

I want you to find the eroticism in the small details, objects, places, memories. Eroticism is more than just what you think of when you see an eggplant emoji.

Awe, they’re canoodling! (Photo by Dainis Graveris on Pexels.com)

Take your time, focus on the minute details of moments. The way a finger plucks a grape from the vine, or how a callus feels against the small of your back. Focus on the path of a rain droplet down a leaf, the low blood-warming rumble of thunder, the smell of skin warmed by sunshine. The juice of a mango running down your wrist.

Write about those moments and observations, as if it were the world teasing you.

What makes them sensual? What makes your breath quicken?

If you need more direct inspiration, here are some great suggestions from Natalie Goldberg’s “Writing Down the Bones”:

  1. What makes you hot?
  2. Name all the sexual fruits you know? What makes them so?
  3. What do you crave when you are in love?
  4. What is the most erotic part of your body? (and please, be creative, we all know the obvious ones—reach for something more interesting—well, not literally…or yes literally–what do I care what you do in the privacy of your own home? I support however you process).
  5. Write the body as a landscape.
  6. What do you connect with? (physicality, music, touch, words: think of this similarly as how you learn. Visually, orally, auditory, by doing, by reading?)
  7. Do you remember the very first time you felt desire? When was the first time you felt erotic?

Okay! There you go, something fun to get out of the world for a minute. I hope it helps to boost your writing if not your mood. Maybe your cohabiter will even benefit from these shenanigans. As Monty Python so eloquently said: “wink, wink, nudge, nudge”.

Why Writing Good Characters is So Hard

Occasionally, I like to put off writing.

That’s not true.

Lately? I’ve been finding all kinds of excuses to not write. Why? Because my current project scares me a little. It’s darker than I thought it would be. There are great tsunamis of sadness that seem to engulf and overwhelm every page, and I worry. I worry that its not just a reflection of the times, but of my own psyche. I could abandon it. Try to churn out another HEA, enemies to lovers, satisfying romance, but something about this book, this idea, this yearning feels deeply important. And maybe that’s why I’m struggling so much with the characters.

yeah, I really do have that many things marked in this book… try to nerd on my level

So, in my procrastination this week, I went back to one of my favorite books on writing. “Naked Playwriting” by William Downs to rehash what it is about these characters that’s interrupting my flow. And also to refresh myself on themes that are not only applicable to theater.

Bcause I have a sneaking suspicion this book is a tragedy.

And I’m a romance writer. I write sins, not tragedies (Poise and Rationality). I write redemptions and happy ever-afters. I write feel-good and resolution because I want to see them in the world. I have a sneaking suspicion that the world has beaten that hope out of me. I suspect, my sense of romanticism and love has been steadily destroyed over these last ten years. I suspect that once that blindfold was tugged off by every heartbreak, disappointment, news article on the rape and abuse of women, and failing justice system, it became impossible for me to put any blinders of Happily-Ever-After back on.

So maybe this is the book I need to write. Maybe I need to get the tragedy out of my system. Maybe someone dies at the end. Maybe they’re already dead. Maybe the reason it feels so rainy and sad is that I have been out of the light for sometime now. And maybe these two ill-fated lovers, are the parts of myself who are desperate to do something in a world that constantly binds hands and hearts.

So back to Character. Just like steel, as Downs and Russin write, is boring as hell when it’s broken down to it’s bare facts, so characters are cardboard nothingness until…we shape them into agents of doing. Good stories happen when characters are doing something. Falling in love, struggling through crisis, winning, losing, overcoming etc, etc, etc… When I ask myself what these characters are doing, the obvious answer is incredibly boring. They’re suffering. They’re both stuck in past tragedies and meet along some astrological plane of existence, stewing in their own morbidities. Two depressed fucks just standing around staring at each other. Waiting for me to do something with them.

When we consider Micheal Foley’s “Age of Absurdity” he speaks of humans has having four ignoble truths:

  • We can’t sit still
  • We can’t shut up
  • We can’t escape self-obsession
  • We can’t stop wanting things

Pause for a moment and read that again. Am I the only one who feels personally attacked? Good, we should. We should consider our ignobility. Our flaws. The conflict we bring into our own lives and how it will apply to characters (both on stage and on the page) is what drives a story that seems to be stuck on a stormy, cold beach at the end of the world.

In addition to knowing those unflattering things about the character (and ourselves) we must consider that they are not in a vacuum. They are a part of the plot, inseparable. They are the drivers, the instigators, and they are all under this dark sky of theme. So while they don’t necessarily reflect real people, they need to feel natural within the context of both the plot and what the story is about, in total.

For the next couple of weeks, and leading up to November (where I intend to put myself in a social media time-out and focus on finishing this novel–tragedy or no) I will be asking myself how each of my characters display and act out these truths, I will ask where they are in the world, and what it is that they both so desperately want. What they’re willing to do to get it. It seems, at first, so easy to fit them into an appropriate box, but this process has proven to be deceptively simple and requires a lot of work. And it could be work that no one will end up reading. But that’s not the point of writing. As a good friend once reminded me on my last birthday:

Poetry 9-24-2026

Y’all. I found this one and it made me blush. I honestly don’t remember the inspiration, but I must have been hungry.

Hunger

I daydreamed your long
and nimble fingers
spread me wide
pulling apart
the sections of sweet,
blood orange
and you
bit into my
bitter
soft rind
would that I
could be
feasted upon,
delectable
and delicate
taken with
such hungry,
thirsty care

Newsletter September-October 2026

Goddamn, how is it already time again for a newsletter. I’m not ready. I’m gonna try to keep this one pretty short.

GARDEN UPDATE:

The tomatoes have taken over. We have a half dozen winter squash that are coming due and another bunch of zucchini that are springing up out of a plant that I thought was on it’s way out. How miraculous. Also, I bought a “sweet-hot” pepper plant that produces these beautiful little gems, that look like petite bells. Gentle readers these seemingly innocuous peppers will melt the flesh off of your face and set fire to the remaining bone. I saw god, and he smited me with the fires of a thousand suns on every goddamn tastebud. I saw the color of numbers. While cutting them up, and rinsing out the seeds the oils from the pepper dispersed into the air like the worst homemade pepper spray and I spent the next hour coughing out the insides of my lungs.

But they’re pretty good in a burrito.

We’ve gotten some decent carrots, and the kale and greens are really good but there’s not a lot and I’m not well schooled in how to reseed in a timely fashion but we’ve eaten some and not worried about getting the shits.

The crows are sassy as ever and they will now show up in the afternoons upon occasion, to yell at me. But when I come out with treats, they just continue to converse without seemingly wanting anything. I am building a reputation as every time I go out to talk with them someone is inevitably walking by to hear me yell “Well, I don’t know about that, maybe your being dramatic” to the treetops. I expect the little men in the wagon will come to take me away shortly.

OTHER STUFF:

I’m currently writing this on the retreat and I have to say, if you’ve never ran away to the mountains to get a little work done, then you’re missing out. Even if you don’t do it with a group its worth investing the time. Just to get away, to be amongst other writers, (or even just alone) you will see a benefit. I’ve already made some good progress and its not even a full day in. I think I’ll surpass most of my goals.

I’m gonna take a free Master’s Class with Laura Pritchett through Western Colorado University. It’s all about a deep dive into setting. That’s happening in September and here’s the link if you’re interested. WCU CLASS

WRITING/EDITING:

Eight Nights in Everpine Vally is coming out OCTOBER 20th!!! My anti-Hallmark Holiday novel about a Jewish Carpenter living in a Christmas town, who falls into cahoots with a Feminist Studies professor. It’s ridiculously a middle finger to the schmaltz of the holiday frenzy, but despite that, it’s also really heart forward and sweet. There’s a cranky aunt, a has-been cheerleader, shenanigans, and a little spice. Speaking of that, due to the nature of the project, all the books had to be closed door, but…being that I believe in real, complicated, satisfying relationships, I did write a “deleted scene” for this book. I will have it available in my November Substack. I’m trying to figure out how to make it available to just those who purchased the book, but I’m not that tech savvy.

My edits for “FaeSpawn” (mythology-based, contemporary fantasy, set in the Ornkey Islands north of Scotland and south of Scandinavia) are back on for this retreat. But I’ve made some changes to the over-all arc of the series so I’ll need to go back and redo and clean up some of the earlier work. I’m telling you, real writing is not always a straight and narrow path. It’s like going on a spontaneous walk on your retreat that turns into a hike, and you maybe get a little bit lost, meet a moose, go a mile and a half out of it’s way and don’t make it back as soon as you were supposed to… yep… Writing is unpredictable and sometimes sketchy. You often have to backtrack, recheck your compass, take a deep breath and just head in the right general direction. Even if you end up creating your own path and stumbling into someone’s ski chalet drive way. Eventually we all make it home.

I’m about 80 pages into the process of transcribing all of the poetry I’ve written over the last few years for an anthology out next year (possibly from a publisher). I’m trying to get up to the 100 page mark over this retreat and have about fourteen more poems to go I think. Some aren’t going to make the final cut (no matter how much editing I do, there are poems that are just not meant to be out there), but I think I’ll have a lovely little book at the end of it.

I’ve started something new, again. Because my computer does this stupid thing where it randomly updates and anything not saved gets eaten. I had 1000 words that I loved, poof, gone. So I started over last night, begrudgingly, and I think these might even be better. But I saved that damn file seventeen times just to be sure.

READING:

I finished “The Ladies Road Guide to Utter Ruin”, by Alison Goodman. It was fantastic and held up to the same brilliance as the first. I hope she has another coming out soon.

I finished “Night Vision: Seeing Ourselves Through Dark Moods” by Mariana Alessandri. It was good. It was an interesting counterpoint to the overtly and often disgusting ‘just smile more’ movement of believing all things good are light and all things negative are bad and that we should force ourselves out of sadness, grief, anxiety, and depression. Rather, Alessandri reminds us that it is in those states that we find our own humanity, our empathy, and break down old versions of ourselves to grow into something deeper and stronger. It was a little whiny at times, and self-obsessed, but you know what? so am I.

I’m currently reading “Cinder” by Marissa Meyer. It’s been really interesting and fun. A spin on the Grimms fairytale, in a future dystopian world, where Cinder is half cyborg and might hold the key to erradicating a particularly nasty disease that’s afflicting and killing a lot of the population. There’s a whole series and I’m really enjoying it.

I also have “Existentialism is a Humanism” on my bedside table (by Jean-Paul Satre) I haven’t opened it. It intimidates me. Maybe tonight.

EVENTS

Not much yet to speak of. I will be attending the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writer’s Gold Conference, in the beginning of October, so if you go, come by and say hi. I won’t be teaching this year, but I’ll be in the vendor hall with the Writing Heights Writers table. I’m looking forward to seeing and talking with some writers there.

We (not the royal ‘we’ but the ‘we’ of Writing Heights) will also be collaborating with Grove Creative Collective, on a class at the end of October (20th) about improve and writing. Check out the link here: IMPROV WITH GROVE

CLOSING:

There was a point last night at our first retreat dinner, where all of the ladies (no gents signed up this time) were talking and laughing until our bellies ached and tears were in our eyes, when my angry little heart and my convoluted soul felt so wonderfully at ease and at home. There is something absolutely priceless about being together in a room of friends who have sat in your seat, have walked in your path, and have struggled and rejoiced in the same ways you have. There’s something about being surrounded by strong, intelligent, caring, and funny women who are glad to share, happy to help, and listen without judgement or need to push their own agenda. To just be together, seeped in our own little worlds, and coming up for air and good company has been healing to me in a lot of ways I didn’t know I needed. A few of the members here are my age. A few have more years of experience, but I love the way we all come together in joy, and in support. I have learned so much from them about the kind of person I want to be. About the person I’m becoming.

If you don’t have a writers group, get one. It doesn’t even have to be mine. But you’re always, always welcome here.

Now, I’ve gotta go. I’ve got writing to do.

WRITING HEIGHTS REGISTRATION

“Idlewild” from “The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows” by John Koenig

Let’s learn a new word, kids.

When I found this lovely book, I wanted to share it with everyone I loved. Then I realized that I’m a complete nerd and blossoming basket case, and not everyone finds language and expression of pin-point emotions so fascinating as I do. But if you do like those things, check it out. Today we’re going to be talking about idlewild. But first, a word or two about sorrow.

The word sadness originally meant “fullness”, from the same Latin root satis (which gives us satisfaction and sated). Not so long ago, to be sad meant to be filled with the intensity of an experience. Or as an empath, I like to call it every, normal day. Sadness was not a malfunction of your brain’s “joymaking” machine, it was a state of awareness. The ability to take all of life in, the joy and grief. Today we tend to think of sadness as only the absence of hope, or simply-put despair. I think I prefer the idea that sadness or sorrow is more of an over-filling of emotion, a realization that everything is fleeting, all moments are once-in-a-lifetime, and that you care about something enough to let it into your tender heart.

Photo by Nirmal Rajendharkumar on Pexels.com

And now, let’s talk about “idlewild“

The book describes idlewild as feeling grateful to be stranded in a place where you can’t do much of anything–sitting for hours at an airport gate, train station, or back of a car enroute. This temporary alleviation of the burden to be doing something can often free up your brain to do whatever it wants to do. Most noticeably, daydream, a past time many of us no longer feel the freedom to do. (From Idelwild, the original name of JFK International Airport in New York).

I decided on this word because I knew it would make some of us cringe over our coffee cups. What do you mean, sit and do nothing? How does one feel grateful for not being productive, as society so often demands of us? Precisely the reason, my friend, why this occurrence is so important. Especially for creatives.

Listen I’m the first to admit that I find being strapped into a plane, train, or automobile as one of the most productive experiences for me and my writing. Let’s face it, when there’s no laundry, or pets, or children, or cleaning, or appointments, etc that need taken care of, and I’m stuck unmoving for a few hours, it’s the perfect ‘butt-in-chair” time a busy writer needs. But recently I’ve found, especially after a few writing slumps, that sometimes the mind just needs to do nothing. Nothing productive I mean. It needs to be silly. It needs to stare across the landscape and wonder. It needs to wander to destinations that don’t have meanings or books attached to them. No futures or pasts. It needs to think about strange what ifs and in the same moments let them go like clouds passing overhead.

Photo by ilia Afsharpoor on Pexels.com

This freedom to let your silly little neurons, memories, knowledge banks, and disconnected oddities play on the same unoccupied playground is one of the best things you can do for yourself. It not only helps in future creativity and problem solving but it’s like giving your brain a recess from all the relentless details and doomscrolling in the day. I’ve honestly found that I enjoy staring off into space and playing thought leap-frog much more than being drawn into that annoying little screen always selling me hormone supplements and bondage wear? (Listen, I don’t have to explain my algorithm to anyone)

So whether you write, or paint, or sing, or…build buildings or teach five-year-olds, I encourage and prod you a bit to practice idlewild this week. In the waiting rooms, the bus rides, the elevator, the pick-up line. Instead of reaching for your phone, stare off into the distance and pull back the curtains to what your mind has wondered about lately. Not to do lists, or what you should be doing, but noticing the color of the horizon, or counting the trees in the painting your dentist hung up, or making up strange and humorous character situations about the people on your bus. Find a little wild in your idleness.

See you next week.

Poetry 8-27-2026

Sometimes, whilst one is going through the previous year’s poetry to put it all together, one finds something written by a kinder heart. I wrote this with a kinder heart. A heart that (erroneously, okay) started to open in the presence of gentleness. It’s a trip, knowing this feeling existed once, inside my chest. I guess that poetry is good for being the time capsule that reminds you, occasionally, that love was almost. I guess it is also, sometimes, good for reminding you that you were right to have put rocky ground between you and others.

Photo by Image Hunter on Pexels.com

Rocky Ground

the path to my heart

is unjustly perilous

even for me

the travesty of sharp drop offs

make it nearly impossible

to find to enter to heal

this hermit atop high summit

has banished herself there

a strong fortress

to defend against love

and all the ways it has

failed and fooled and lied to her

better the quiet solitude

and steep loneliness

better than to be drug down

the mountain ever again

I made the trail to my heart

impossible

but your steps are soft

respecting the land

the danger and beauty

of it,

just as it is

ever onward, every upward

to gently knock on

the spiked door

shrouded in thorns

and ask

I am still at home

am I here?

You’re here

want to come out?

the sunlight is beautiful

and I brought you

an apricot

to share

its only me

its only love

I exist,

I’m here,

even if you don’t

open the door

I’ll wait

Newsletter August-September 2026

Hey kids,

It’s Newsletter Time! I know it’s your favorite. Who doesn’t love reading about some weird-ass author who ironically pretends that this is something people care about. Let’s get started shall we?

GARDEN UPDATE:

Shit is drying out. It’s hot. The tomatoes have put a little too much effort into foliage and less into fruit so I’ve done some pruning. The rain we had last week was welcome and I hope there’s more. Also–why have we suddenly started calling this “monsoon season” in Colorado. Monsoons are not the same weather phenomenon. Are we also seeing King Cobras on the dry-ass hiking trails? No. Language matters. Don’t be misleading or sensationalist. Anyway, here’s some evidence of me not killing a few things.

I’ve always just loved the leaves on nasturtium and the blossoms are edible

Of course the only squash producing is fu*king zucchini. The bane of my existence. If a bag mysteriously ends up on your doorstep, as Shaggy says, it wasn’t me.

I ate this one after washing it with the garden hose. Because good microbes, and things.

Soon, I will have more tomatoes than I think I’ll be able to responsibly eat. So, please feel free to come by and pick some over the fence. The goddamn bunnies and squirrels have eaten a lot of my flowers (nipping the buds off the echinacea is an interesting choice, I guess they’re warding off the flu).

But the coolest news by far is that over the course of a month, I’ve managed to befriend two crows. It’s slow going and consistency is the key but this morning I heard one calling (their names are Merry and Pippin of course) and when I opened the door she was on the front steps, waiting. So we sat and I had coffee and she had nuts and Ritz crackers and it was a lovely time. One step closer to being an old bog woman living completely off grid and giving my remaining days over to the forest.

OTHER STUFF:

School is starting this week for my youngest and next week for the oldest. I don’t know why the end of this summer feels so much sadder. I think they are both trying some new stuff and there’s a little hint of anxiety in the air that is hitting different. If you know about my youngest, you know last year was a struggle. Eating disorders are nasty, and terrible, and if you’re the kind of person who posts skinny-culture shit on your social media, I kinda wish you’d go to hell. The biggest lie society ever sold us was that being smaller, weaker, and skinny was attractive and that being attractive to men is all we are good for. Anyway, beyond my soapbox, my kiddo is taking on a new semester with a full class-load and lunches on her own and that might not mean much to most people but to us, it’s a big deal. Send your good thoughts, your prayers if you pray, your hopes that she remembers to love herself and her beautiful body more than the pressures of skinny culture in a white-affluent-entitled school.

The oldest is having the normal issues of if they’ve picked the ‘right’ field/major/concentration, and what if they’re wrong. I told them life is 90% about being wrong. You don’t learn anything when you’re right. Weird that the world puts so much pressure on them to know exactly what they’ll do and it better be lucrative. Fuck capitalism by the way. They had a breakdown about living at home. And how that made them a failure. I reminded them, that in my college days, an apartment cost me $450 a month, I had a paid internship, and college was 1/3 the cost that it is today. They’re not failing anything. Society is failing them. Man…sorry I could go on about things that aren’t really relevant to my writing life, but these are things that are important to me, and probably to a lot of us. Our economy sucks. Really rich people are to blame. Anarchy and revolution are justified for survival. Let’s move on.

Writing and Editing:

Heir to Time came out! It always feels particularly satisfying to be done with an entire series. Usually I feel a little bittersweet, but this beast was different. I’m glad it exists. I’m glad I wrote it. I still love the characters. But I’m also glad I can move on.

I’m in my final round of edits for “Eight Nights in Everpine Valley” my anti-Hallmark Holiday novel about a Jewish Carpenter living in a Christmas town, who falls into cahoots with a Feminist Studies professor. It’s ridiculously a middle finger to the schmaltz of the holiday frenzy, but despite that, it’s also really heart forward and sweet. There’s a cranky aunt, a has-been cheerleader, shenanigans, and a little spice. I hope you like it as much as I do. I felt like myself again getting to write it. The tentative release date is September 28th? I’ll let you know for sure if you check out my socials.

My edits for “FaeSpawn” (mythology-based, contemporary fantasy, set in the Ornkey Islands north of Scotland and south of Scandinavia) were interrupted for the proofreading for the holiday novel, (you might recall last month they were delayed for Heir–always the book in pipeline, never the book) but I have made it through one whole round and I’m killing my darlings in this next one. Listen…there’s a little bit of “why choose” and a little bit of “fated mates” and a main Woman Lead who is tough as shit and has lived a hard life. But she’s also a Fae with a little secret that will save (or ruin) the fate of the world. Plus–Y’ALL, I’ve never written a red-headed male lead and I’m having SOOO much fun with it.

Here are some teaser pictures from my Pinterest Board

I’m in the process of transcribing all of the poetry I’ve written over the last few years for an anthology out next year (possibly from a publisher). My lovely friend Nina texts me almost every week to check in. She’s the most lovely, beautiful soul and if you don’t have a Nina in your life, get one. So far I’m up to over 50 pages of work. With about 60 more poems to get into the file. Then the editing starts.

Reading:

I’ve started “The Ladies Road Guide to Utter Ruin”, by Alison Goodman. The first was such a fantastic romp, with adventure, humor, and romance. Plus to get to read something, albeit fictional, about women in their forties destroying abusive systems that hurt and imprison women is pretty satisfying. It’s great so far. Please check her out. It’s great writing.

I finished “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”. It was a fun and light read with still some interesting thoughts on society as a whole.

I’ve been thumbing through, pausing, and sighing a lot over Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. Because he always has something to say that ripples out through time.

I finished a middle book of a series that I picked up at The Lioness Lane Bookery in Riverton over my stay in Wyoming. Called “The Headmaster: Lessons from the Rack” by Tara Sue Me. It was a light/semi-dramatic book about the world of BDSM and Dominate/Submissive play. She is a New York Times Best Seller, and I’m not saying the book wasn’t good, but… something felt flat about it. I’m super interested in the world and the dynamics and psychology. She did well at writing the intimate scenes, but I just never connected or cared much for the characters. So I picked up this:

because I want to write something that’s not just the naughty shock value selling it, but the dynamic of power structures, the deep seated trust and love that needs to be part of the process. I feel like, as a character writer, I could bring something deeper than 50 shades or The Rack academy into play. Something that feels like a heartfelt exploration of what it means to submit and what it means to dominate.

Events

Eight Nights in Everpine Valley is nearing completion. This book should be out at the end of September. I’ll keep you posted on the details as I have them. I do know there might be a book signing of the available 5 Prince Publishing Holiday novels at the Tree-Lighting ceremony in downtown Fort Collins. It could happen.

WRITING HEIGHTS WRITERS RETREAT

Mid September I’ll be up in Winter Park cooking for, and hopefully inspiring a group of determined writers to spend three days working solely on their projects and getting those word counts in. There are still three spots left and to be honest, this is the cheapest retreat I’ve found out there. So, please, think about signing up. They are good people, it’s a time just for you, to invest in yourself and your writing, there are no pesky ice-breakers or critiques (unless you want them). It’s just time. The only commodity you’re not getting any more of. Here’s the link. I’d love to see you there:

WHWA FALL RETREAT

Closing:

I was told this week by a male acquaintance that they didn’t know how I put out novels as quickly as I did. The source of the question sort of made me second guess the intention and wonder if it had something to do with quantity over quality. Then came the imposter syndrome and the questioning if it’s all just fluff. I get it, I don’t have an MFA and I’m not making any major lists. But then I sat down to really think about my process. Most of the books coming out for my publisher were books I started and nearly finished writing over the last 15 years.

I didn’t just start them in one year and bang out twelve. They were all shaky seedlings I’d planted years before and had shaped and trimmed and worried over for years. Some do get written fast, like the holiday novel. But that’s because I am passionate about writing, and I’m passionate about my characters, writing feeds me–it breathes inside my lungs and gives me life when the rest of this fucked up world is falling apart around me. And a deadline will do a girl wonders. And despite whatever else is happening in my life, I will make the time. In fifteen minute increments throughout the day, or up-til-midnight sprints. When my characters talk, I listen and take notes. That’s how it’s done.

So instead of taking the bait of I write dime-a-dozen books, I realized that I have a fire inside of me, and not everyone has the skill or drive to write like I do. Along with that, there is an acknowledging that I won’t be around forever. I know I’ll die, probably sooner than I should. I’m not so much upset about my own demise as I am all of these characters and stories dying with me. I feel it’s important to also note that it was a man who asked the question. And my first thought was to respond, well, if you want something done, give it to a mom (aka the world’s busiest human), because we won’t hem or haw, we don’t have time to pussy-foot or stall. We don’t have time to fuck around. Other shit needs done. So if you’re gonna write you don’t get the luxury of waiting for a muse, or the right ‘vibe’, or an idea you think is ‘worthy’ of the New York Times Bestseller list. You just write. I just write. Some authors are faster than me, some are slower. But the process and the love invested is the same. It’s always, everything.

Take care of each other, take care of yourself, love.