A Writing Journey

I just published my first novel, but it all started with a poem.

I was in high school and my brother was leaving for college. I wrote him a poem, in pencil, on lined yellow ledger paper. He broke my heart by leaving me, but I knew that's how it had to be. We couldn't stay kids forever. We had to grow up. Writing to ease a broken heart seemed like a good thing to do at the time, and I took solace in the words.

Over the years, my writing has come from many places: joy, despair, confusion, introspection. I've written hundreds of poems, thousands of personal journal entries, 20 or so short stories, and several unfinished novels. It had always been about me and what was going on in my head at the time.

In 2006, I joined a local writer's group here in Cincinnati. We'd gather once a month, on Saturday afternoons at an English pub across the river in Kentucky. I drank Blue Moons, and they drank whisky and smoked cigarettes. We would share and peer review each other's works. My writing was amateurish at best, compared to the rest of the group. They talked about going on writing retreats and sharing a writing space downtown. I had babies at home and we were struggling financially. There was no way I could join in, even though it sounded amazing. They were professionals and I was just a hack pretending to know what I was doing. Eventually the group broke up and I left my writing career behind.

I guess when something's in your blood, it never really goes away. Five years later, my son was in kindergarten. It was Christmas, and he went shopping with his own money at Candy Cane Lane at the elementary school. He bought me a Cincinnati Bengals pencil. When I opened the gift, he said, "It's a pencil, Mommy. Now you can be a writer."

I don't think he really understood the impact that pencil and those words would have on me.

My writing bug resurfaced, and I began submitting my poetry and short stories to various contests around. I bought the Writer's Market and the Poet's Market (resources for connecting with publishers and agents). I took a few writing classes in hopes of upping my game. Writing was not a part of my formal education and I felt my skills were subpar. I bought books and books and books on writing. I bought software that would help you organize your thoughts into a coherent novel. And I read like crazy.

I would get an idea for a novel, I would be thoroughly excited about it, I would get about 25 pages in, and the magic would dissipate. I'd lose interest once I figured out how the rest of the story should go. Filling in the blanks became tedious and uninspiring.

I competed in NaNoWriMo a few times, but never finished the 50,000 words. I was in a writing rut that went on for years. Working on projects that went nowhere. Cranking out crap poetry and short stories just so I could feel like I finished something.

The expert writers tell you that you have to make yourself write something every day, and that will make you better. You just need more practice. You just need to make it a habit; part of your routine. You need to make it a priority.

I followed that advice. I made myself write for a few minutes every day and it became a chore. It was no longer something I looked forward to, but something I just did for the sake of doing. I felt like I wasn't getting any better, just getting faster at writing the same old crap. It was pretty disheartening.

Then last summer, I stumbled upon a Writer's conference in Lexington called the Books-In-Progress Conference. Lexington is an easy drive from Cincinnati, and the schedule looked pretty interesting. I'd never been to a writer's conference, so I decided to go.

It's been a long time since I felt like a newb at a conference. It was fantastic. The keynote speaker was a poet named Nikky Finney. She was amazing. I stood in line afterward to have a few words with her. She asked what kinds of things I wrote.

"Well, I wrote some tech books, but I don't count those. None of my fiction has been published. Nobody's paying me to write. I'm not a real writer," I said.

"Do you write words?" she said.

I laughed and said I'd been writing words for 25 years.

She took my hand and said , "Then you're a writer, darlin'. You don't need anyone's permission to call yourself that."

That was a revelation.

She was right, of course. I didn't need a paycheck or permission and neither do you. If you write words, then that by definition makes you a writer.

With this newfound confidence, I embraced a little story seed that was stashed away in my mind, and I let it out on paper. I no longer cared about "being a great writer." All I cared about was telling the story as it was in my mind.

The words flowed like they never had before. Writing was no longer about fixing my innards or trying to prove myself to the rest of the world. It sounds silly, but the writing became more about the experience than the story itself. I had a blast.

I didn't have to "make" myself write every day. I wrote every day because I wanted to. I was excited to. It was a treat. The story unfolded before my eyes, and I was simply the messenger.

I then decided I would create my own cover. I had gotten recommendations for professional designers from some writer friends, but selfishly, I wanted to try it myself. I decided I wanted to experience every piece of this process. I edited it myself and formatted it myself. I did the research and decided to publish it myself. I didn't need anyone's permission or approval. And I loved every minute of it.

I no longer worry about being judged. That was a huge obstacle for me. Writing is a very personal thing, and allowing others to read what you've written puts you in a pretty vulnerable spot. My writing might still be crap, but none of that matters. The experience was worth it. And if someone wants to take time out of their busy lives to read it, then that's pretty awesome. Even if they hated it.

I've already started the next novel, and I know what will happen in the next one after that. I also have a nugget of inspiration for the next whole series of books. I don't plan on quitting my day job, but it's all very exciting to me, and I can't wait to see how these things unfold.

My novel's called The Storytellers, and it's available on Kindle. Print version will be available soon.

2 Days in a Cabin

I’m going to tell you something you already know. Life is stressful sometimes. My days usually start at 6:00 am and end at 11:00 pm and there isn't much room for relaxing along the way. Between getting kids where they need to be with school, and football practices, and gymnastics, and other evening events, working, making dinners and doing other housey stuff, and finding a few minutes to work on my novel, there are some days when I feel completely spent. I know I’m not alone; millions of other people do it every day. It’s just how it goes.

I decided last week that I needed just 2 days. Just 2 days in a cabin away from all people, from the internet, from everything. I wanted to relax, and read, and write, and hike. Just me and my dog. "It'll be lovely," I said. "The world can live without me for 2 days," I said. So I found a cabin near Ashland, Kentucky, and made my reservations.

I woke on Thursday morning at 6:00 am, got my daughter to school, dropped off some stuff they'd need at their Dad's house, went back home, got my son up, printed off some things he needed from the internet for a school project, got him to school, dropped off more stuff at his Dad's house that we'd forgotten about. Then I got home, packed my bags, loaded them up and headed out with Raisin my dog in tow.

Then I exhaled.

The route assigned by the GPS took me down the Appalachian Highway, a road I hadn't been on since high school. Every year growing up, we used to make the trek to my grandparents' house in West Virginia via this road. Happy family memories came flooding back unexpectedly; I hadn't even made the connection that this was a road buried deep in my road trip memory. I passed a road called "De La Palma." My brother and I called it "Louie De La Palma" and cracked up every time. I know, it’s not that funny. We were big fans of Taxi, what can I say. I passed lots of other fun landmarks along the way, and I made more dumbass inside jokes in my head.

The weather was beautiful, and the dog had her head out the window as we zipped down the road, curving, and winding our way through the foothills of eastern Ohio. We passed quaint farmer's markets and gas stations where it was still cheaper to pay with cash. Life was grand. I was on my way to relaxing the shit out of my 2 days in a cabin.

Within the first hour of me getting settled in, I locked myself out of the cabin, the school nurse called to say she thought my son had a concussion, and I dropped my phone in a muddy creek while trying to take a picture. Yay for relaxation!

A little later, my dog got herself stuck under the cabin somehow, so I had to cut her free from her leash, then try and find a Walmart or store somewhere to get her another one. I drove 20 minutes to the nearest one, and while I was there, I heard them announce on the PA system "If you are a Walmart employee, and you received a 15 year certificate today, please make sure you picked up the right one. Thank you." So not only have you been working 15 years at a Walmart in Ashland, Kentucky, someone swipes your certificate to boot. I paid for the leash and left. My life was pretty awesome in comparison.

The rest of my time alone consisted of meditation, photography, nature hikes, writing, and campfires. By Friday afternoon I actually felt relaxed, and when I got the text that it would be $300 to fix my daughter’s broken school laptop, I was all “whatevs, yo. I saw a wild turkey today.”

Saturday morning, I got up early and headed back home to the Land of Grownup Stuff, refreshed, rejuvenated and recharged.

So what did I learn in 2 days?


I learned that somewhere in Wayne National Forest, the Easter Island head has a little brother.


I learned that Ron Webb really, really likes this rock.


I learned that Kentucky has some amazing sunsets.


I learned that when you drink wine out of a red solo cup, it’s really hard to determine what a typical pour would be, so you kind of end up drinking the whole bottle.

I also remembered a few things.


I remembered that when s’mores and campfires are involved, it really is all good.


I remembered that even the most trivial and ridiculous childhood memories deserve not to be forgotten.


I remembered that lakes are still amazing, serene, and teeming with life.


I remembered that love is everywhere just waiting for you to notice it.


I remembered there is no substitute for the feeling of moss under your feet.


I remembered that I am still boss at finding 4-leaf clovers (and I really am a lucky so and so.)


I remembered that dog really is man’s (and woman’s) best friend.

And finally, I remembered that the world really is fine without you for a few days.

Stop Drinking Spoiled Milk!