kids, Random thoughts, reasons to drink, Uncategorized

How We Define Ourselves


Tonight, as I kissed the forehead of my sleeping five-year-old daughter, I sat beside her bed in the half-lit room and looked down at this beautiful person who traveled halfway around the world and gave me, ME,  the gift of parenting her. Suddenly it struck me how fragile it all is.

How we can bring a child into our home and call them ours, or birth them and claim them as miniature versions of ourselves yet, neither is true. Kahlil said it best when he stated “You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backwards.”

God, I love that man…

His well of wisdom must have reached the Heavens.

I want so much for my daughters. I want this ideal world where judgement does not touch them, where their communities support them for who they are and that they receive relationship as honest as that they give. I want them to be empowered by those that surround them. Not made submissive. To be truly understood.

I want my girls to grow into women who do not define themselves by the perimeters of others, or society, or outdated religious ideals. I want nothing more but for them to be free to discover how blurry the line between mistake and empowerment is.

That they are two sides of the same coin and they will be free to define the two on their own terms.

They will live lives on individual paths and will not let others reroute them. That they will hold true to their own,

and will be good despite the lack of such that surrounds them. Even when every fiber of their being craves to creativly verbally assault someone. In public.

That they will be honest about their feelings.

Well, maybe not all the time…

But, YES, all the time! They will realize that their feelings are important and valid and, in that particular moment that they are felt, that they are the most true and beautiful part of themselves.

And, when they lay dying in old age, their regrets will not be in withholding themselves from the world.

Then I thought, fuck. That is not the world we live in.

I sighed, kissed my daughter yet again and silently promised to be her steady bow.


The mornings are for writing.



In attempt to become more intentional about finishing my books and promoting my writing I have outlined schedules and milestones that I consistently fail to meet. I find my days are packed with staff meetings, conferences, five hour round-trip drives to attend a single on-site class in Greeley Colorado, school assignments, family obligations and now freelance writing assignments as well. Although my good intentions have provided me reason to start the day, by the time the day darkens and the moon is once again bright in the sky, my books remained untouched and stagnent. My main project had remained at twenty something pages for way too long and project number two has existed purely as idea.

Then came last night.

Last night, when I was was laying myself down at 9.30pm, an exceptionally early time for a night owl such as myself,  ideas, and good ideas mind you, began to loom, then materialize, and rise up and form into thoughts. Now, I am no stranger to this divine sort of intervention. There are many times in my life where I can point to a person or an event and just know something about them or it. Something I should not know, but this  had yet to happen with my work until last night. So, there I was, laying in bed with an exhausted body but liberated mind. I rolled over and grabbed my phone to voice record these no-less-than-brilliant ideas. Last night, clothed in an old tee shirt and wrapped in warm plaid sheets, I solved the issues of scheduling, how to intertwine storylines in my book, and how to create the realism of the two women’s situations in a believable way.


Magic happened.

This morning I awoke knowing that the mornings are for writing and the afternoons are for walking.


I sat down at my desk after dropping my eldest off at middle school and I wrote for three hours straight. No stoping to edit or reread. No questioning the plot or the characters. No getting distracted by laundry of the fact that I was hosting ten women tomorrow evening and my house was a mess. In fact, the characters and plot wrote themselves without effort from me. The way the words effortlessly made there way to my screen was evidence that I had finally overcome my writer’s block. My six month writer’s block.

By noon I had added five pages to my novel and three to a short story.

I could finally go on my afternoon walk with Moose, my small black dog, and feel accomplished at something other than running errands. What a wonderful feeling it is.

Tonight I go to bed feeling fulfilled.






It’s National Novel Writing Month!

The aim is to write an entire novel in the month of November and, although I know that this particular goal is out of my reach, I do aim to finish one short story every week of this month. That means I will be four stories closer to book number two being finished! So now, the only question is which stories will I write? Which parts of my past are at the surface attempting to escape through the pen? What events am I ready to share? I have a few ideas.

Here is a little tase of what is to come over the next two weeks. Every week I will update with progress and excerpts of the short stories. At the end of the month I will open the blog up to questions and comments.


Now go write your November novel…



The Fallout of Love

Week 1

Title: The Self is Plural 

The reality of fighting depression and suicidal ideation of your child.

Week 2

Title: Shamed to Death

The perminant consequences of an unhealthy relationship.