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.
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’ve been writing a lot of rage poetry and journal entries lately. It’s a method of processing, a safe space where my feelings won’t be chastised or be cautioned to calm down. To be told, with shrugs, that this is just the way it is. To be hounded with others’ convictions that I’m being the irrational one (or worse, the powerlessness, of ‘nothing can be done’). No wonder women go mad. No wonder we quit our jobs and our relationships in droves. I think someday we’ll all probably wander of the grid and go feral. I hope that someday our leaving destroys the grid completely. I hope ‘feral’ is a return to what we were always supposed to be. In ownership of our own bodies, part of an egalitarian community, taking care of the Earth that sustains us, protecting one another. I hope for this.
Today’s poem is part of a project I’m working on, tracing philosophically through the roots of my own rage, and the collective anger of my generation of women. Raised to believe we could be equal from a generation that was slowly learning it themselves. As such, this poem is an exploration and an ode to one of the most influential albums (and songs) of my teenage years. And to the seeds that she planted in my soul, that have found a fearsome bloom in current times.
The Jagged Little Pill (I can No Longer Swallow) (lyrical exploration of "All I Really Want" by Alanis Morissette)
All I really want is deliverance
from the maddening hold of the lesser sex’s self inflation
Do I stress you out?
to remind you that you came from a womb and still she chose to keep you even after all the repulsions she knew you would own and call power?
I am frightened by the corrupted ways of this land
when faced with pedophilic horrors and the butchering of innocence as if it were any other expendable resource men rape the land, why not us too? why not our daughters? our sons? we are fresh streams and teeming oceans gold mines and diamond fields all for the taking all for the discarding
Reel them in and spit them out
calm down there is nothing to be done let the broader shoulders shrug to end the matter
I am frustrated by your apathy
while you drink your martini and cast sunshine, between sips, that at least the stock market is finally up and I sit still, as prey praying in bushes might, cheap wine I feel guilty for and watch blood run in the gutters and remember my own, horrible 8-year-old truths while the news blares of babies being eaten or burned or buried by the ninth hole water hazard and sand trap thank fucking god the stock market is okay
the sound of pretenses falling
is louder to me but you were never listening anyway, were you? just for the sound of panties dropping be a good little girl for daddy sit on my lap and reassure me, I’m still a ‘nice guy’ right?
No.
I won't speak these lies any longer my lips have been sewn shut needles in and out the thread of anger trapping unsettled bees in my throat and handcuffed wrists bleeding as I fight against the radiator of the American Dream
why are you so petrified of silence?
does it make you hear the echoes of your own dissonance? A good man who still sometimes objectifies his high school students and calls it ‘American Beauty’
And all I really want is some peace a place to find a common ground
but we aren’t standing on even ground never was there equal footing from the day I spilled out of my mother my knees have been broken by the bat of masculine ‘protection’ my voice scalded with the shame this system gave me for a body that nature knew and named as more divine
Trust me, I’m going somewhere with this. It will all come together when I explain that the topic of today’s blog is about trends, “expert advice” and why writing (and often parenting and absolutely eggs) should be taken with an entire salt-shaker on the side.
What on earth could these three things have in common, you might ask. Well, when we look at a generational trend (ie 20 year increments) we see the advice, recommendations, and expectations of these three things swing from one end of the spectrum to another. Each time we have gotten used to one way of doing things, or our delicious morning egg and toast, or compassionate parenting, and then some talking head pops onto the screen (or a writing guru pens a blog) and tells us to scrap what we know and start doing it the opposite.
I have watched the constant wave of good vs bad hit eggs about three different times in my life. They’re bad, they’ll raise your cholesterol. They’re good, maybe nature’s perfect balance of protein, fat, and nutrients. You shouldn’t have more than 7 a week. They’re the power-move for non-meat eating humans.
Listen, my grandpa, who had his faculties and his strength into his eighties, typically had two to three eggs a day. Now, granted, he was a rancher and spent a lot of time outside and physically working, so I’m not saying that his lifestyle didn’t contribute to the balance of how many oves he was ingesting, but it worked for him beautifully. I love eggs. I don’t eat pork and not even beef if I can help it, so eggs are one of my favorite ways to keep a balance in my breakfasts. Do I have six a day? No. Would I? Maybe, if you let me.
In the wide and dumb world of parenting advice every idiot who ever sat in a room with a child, (or studied them in books) will freely give you advice on the best way to raise the most: compassionate, successful, independent, co-dependant, non-attached, attached, rocket scientist, artistic savant. Depending on what the latest fad is. None of them have had to sit in the middle of a minefield of legos for eight hours and continually be responsible for not only the little tike’s safety and life, but also making up story upon story to keep their brains busy all while bribing them with M&M’s to use the potty. Just when you think you’ve got it figured out, someone will come along with a different bit of advice and assure you that you have, unfortunately up until now, been doing it all wrong. *sigh*
What’s the writerly point of this longer-than-necessary intro? Oddly, let’s apply it all to dialogue tags.
When I was first learning to write in the 8th grade, I was taught that constantly using ‘said’ all the time was boring and it was also a bit of a waste. A more descriptive tag would help the reader to picture how something was said or the mood of your character. So… I seasoned the shit out of those early novellas. People sighed, and bit, and growled. They laughed, and smirked, and carried adverbs along with them, gently and fervently. Then, as I was finishing up my first novel and had a few editors look at it, I thought they would need a fainting couch. What was I doing using all of these descriptive tags? They were cumbersome and distracting. And perhaps the hardest bit of advice, of all was that it was lazy writing. That if I were a better writer, the reader would know automatically how each line was delivered by the magic of…creating a character so known and predictable in a situation so well understood? I do get the idea. I understand what they were saying. I worked hard to take out the flourish in my tags and be more visceral in my narration. But it felt clunky and I found that my first drafts were always a mix of both ‘said’ and something more fun. Because that’s how my voice sounds in my head. And I liked writing that way better.
Fast forward and I’m pursuing a writing article last week, when I nearly had to stop and find a fainting couch (I must be feeling dramatic today) because *gasp* the all-powerful ‘they’ of the writing industry (trends) have decided that a little spice of interested dialogue tags might help break up the monotonous lines of ‘said’ and bring a little more color to your characters. For the love of all that’s holy.
What’s next? Are we’re not giving out participation trophies to our kids anymore to boost their self confidence? That we need to let them fail so they can learn? (for the record, that was always my stance, along with my two eggs a day breakfast.)
The point I’m trying to make is that in all things, you know yourself best. I like to believe you’ve had a healthy dose of introspection (hopefully some therapy and a few writing classes) and have learned as a parent and a writer, where your faults lie and how you like to move in your creative and parental endeavors. That not every book, article, poem, breakfast, or child is the same, in any given moment, and that learning to trust that you’ll do the best you can with what you have, and honor your own ‘style’ in the process is the better route than following a trend. That you can enjoy a moderation of eggs regardless of what the latest health article is decrying currently.
So–I will keep my fancy dialogue tags, thank you very much, when they serve the scene and the character. But I promise not to use them at the end of every line being delivered (just like I won’t, probably suck down six eggs a day). I’ll constantly work towards the balance of support and love, while stepping far enough away to let my kids struggle, fall, and get back up. And I’ll keep my two soft-boiled eggs and toast breakfast as a loving nod to my grandfather and the nourishment that sustains.
I’ve been reading a lot of writing and life advice for the past few years (few, meaning 18 years?) As we’re approaching February and another Writing Heights Writing Challenge, I feel a little edgy in my gut. Knowing there’s an accountability is part of it. Knowing that a lot of the writers I follow have been recently talking about their writing habits and writing every day. Knowing that the last two to three years I’ve been in an editing whirlpool (stacks of books written that are now under contract means back-to-back edits and very little new content.) And I think the edginess is resting somewhere in the knowledge, that I haven’t written anything new lately.
Okay, back up a tick. Yes, I finished the last novel for the Timekeeper Series in October. But that book was bit of a possessed demon to both my process and my love of writing. I won’t go into it now, but suffice to say, it did not feel like the beautiful, flowing, creative river that writing often is for me. It was more like I had to manufacture a kayak run by diverting a real river into a human-made one. Anyway, what was my point? Ah yes, I haven’t written anything lately.
I could just as easily use the February challenge to work on edits and it would count. I could even more easily, not participate at all. But I’m starting to feel (admittedly with the unneeded pressure of listening to other writers’ processes) like I’m not much of a writer anymore. I have a hard time nowadays, sitting down and just writing. And it kind of breaks my heart because I always feared that this might happen. That I’d get to a point when I was out of ideas for story. When I had no one left I wanted to follow in their journey. That I would be resigned to teaching instead of doing and reliving glory days behind book jackets of years-ago published work.
But maybe it’s not that I lack story. Maybe there are still characters still locked away in there. And maybe I’ve just thrown curtains over them in my constant state of editing. Maybe what my writing really needs, is a challenge to sit down and recommit to it again. So…I’m looking ahead and spending some quiet time to myself, to think about what a good, but not overwhelming challenge might bring me back to the essential core of who I am as a writer. How can I be present again with the creative process?
It will need time. It will require me to let go of some other things that have siphoned off minutes and hours in my day. It will need consistency, and the letting go of perfectionism. It will need a dash of whimsy and a whole shake of bravery. I’ll let you know how it goes. I’ll let you know who I find beneath the curtain. And if my edits take a little longer. If my house is a little dustier. If the email responses lag and I don’t make every meeting…perhaps that is a better thing for my overall existence. I’ll even schedule some write-ins through Discord, at some local coffee shops and the occasional brewery. Keep an eye on my social for when and where.
If you want to be a part of my bumbling reset, it’s free to join the challenge. I’d love to meet you there. We can figure this thing out (once more, again) together.
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?
A bit more Hallow’s Eve than New Year’s Eve…but this came from a poetry challenge a few years ago and I thought it was interesting.
Corvidae
Black oiled beauty needle claws to grip solid to my eye sockets no longer needed by me
I'd rather be your throne
and you can be my new eyes and continue on in this dark world light glinting and soul exposed in the off feather sheen and firelight behind your beaded eyes
ever higher, above the madness that ended me you will be my wings and I will be your resting stone your peaceful, calcified nest of respite
you will be my freedom from the fog of earth the stains of so many moments now rested in the dry and brittle grass
we are a pair dark wanderer above the grief of an impermanent world together in easy camaraderie until your bones rest atop mine
the world will go on, in wreck and ruin growing up through our silent jawed beaks until we are stones in the grass nothing and everything more
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.
Sarah Reichert Author 