Wednesday, February 7, 2018

IWSG: February 2018

First Wednesday of the Month
Welcome. It's the first Wednesday of the month, making it IWSG time. Thanks to Alex J. Cavanaugh and co-hosts for putting this thing on. When I was thinking about what to post, a conversation came to mind that I had with one of my illustrators. I asked the question. THE QUESTION. Are you willing to speak before a group? She very nicely, but firmly said, "No". I thought I understood. Who likes to speak in front of other people? But it turns out I was wrong, she didn't mean that, at least not ONLY that. She followed her no with a very insightful thought--isn't it better this way? I considered it, and I must say, I have to agree. Isn't it better that we as artists maintain some sense of mystery? Would we be so looked-up-to if the general public knew that we're not only like everyone else, in some ways we're a little worse? Not worst in a bad way, but in a socially-awkward kind of way. Would that young eight-year-old look bright-eyed up at you when your skirt was tucked in your underpants? Probably not. Would that teenager care about a word you wrote if they knew exactly how much of a dork you were? Again, no. Today I'm going to do a reading in my son's classroom. And he's howling the whole way to school. He knows how much of a dork I am. He knows I'll (probably) embarrass him. I told him not to worry. I've checked my skirt. It's officially panty-free. 

Wednesday, January 10, 2018


Feel free to share.

*Photo is used with permission by Canva. 

Wednesday, December 6, 2017


First Wednesday of the Month

Welcome. It’s the first Wednesday of the month, making it IWSG time. Thanks to Alex J. Cavanaugh and co-hosts for putting this on. For those of you who don’t know, IWSG stands for Insecure Writer’s Support Group—a monthly online gathering for posting about this crazy thing called writing. Please join us. 
For me it’s a weird time of year—just coming off the hectic schedule of NaNo, where for the first time ever I failed to meet the 50,000 word count—turns out it’s not a good idea to go away for a week when you’re supposed to be pushing out almost 2,000 words per day. Now it’s December, where I’m crazy busy for a whole different reason. Christmas is coming and I’m hosting this year and my husband and I thought now would be a good time to gut out our whole kitchen. Maybe a part of me really does like the time crunch. Hopefully this turns out better than NaNo. I’ve got seventeen people expecting a meal from that kitchen in a less than a month. Right now there’s no working faucet and just drywall on the walls. Pray for me. Seriously. Right now. 
For those of you who don’t know, I’ve been a psychiatric nurse for years and one of the groups I lead over and over is on relaxation—closing your eyes and deep breathing, counting to ten, that sort of stuff. It’s funny how you forget to apply what you teach to yourself, at least I do. So this month I’m going to deep breath. I’m going to count to ten. I’m going to finish the book I started for NaNo, even if it takes me three months to do it instead of one. I’m going to enjoy my Christmas gathering, which will probably end with all of us washing the dishes in the bathroom sink.

Until then--

Tuesday, November 28, 2017


We have a farm. Did I ever mention that? It’s small. Really, I shouldn’t even call it a farm, but I’d been told once that as soon as you have animals of the hoofed variety you get upgraded to that. My husband and I met on a farm and it’s been in our blood ever since. Even when we were in a microscopic apartment in the city, we wanted to have one, me more than him, probably. Almost three years ago that dream came true. We were living in the house that was supposed to be our starter home. Sixteen years later and we hadn’t moved on. We were doing the best we could there. We had chickens, a small orchard, and a garden. I’d thought it was enough. Until someone literally knocked on our door and wanted to buy the place and we started to think that maybe, just maybe we could finally get the land we’d dreamed of. We looked and looked and were just about to settle for living in a microscopic apartment again, this time with three kids, when we found it. Our farm. It’s a little over six acres with a creek running through. You’d drive right by it and not know it was there, and I did, literally, hundreds of times. It’s tucked behind a row of houses so it’s very private. We moved in three years ago on December fourth. Even though it was winter, the first thing we did was to plant a few trees that would be the start of a new, bigger, orchard. I can still see the neighbor’s faces as we were out there in the cold, digging. Or when we pulled in with the chicken tractor in tow. They’ve gotten used to us by now, though, which is good, because we are literally right behind them. We have an orchard here, and a garden, a berry patch and some nut trees. In the Spring we get a couple of pigs that occupy the freezer all winter. We have chickens, both meat and egg layers. And the sheep. We have four, all East Fresian Dairy sheep. You haven’t lived until you’ve have sheep milk yogurt—it’s like eating custard, it’s so rich. Some mornings I go out to do chores, grumbling about how I can’t believe I have to do this and other mornings I go out to do chores thinking I can’t believe I get to do this. Most times the only difference is my attitude. How about you—ever lived a dream you’ve spent your whole life praying for?