Kathryn Rankin CovingtonKathryn Rankin Covington

Be a creator, not a critic

What’s in a Name?

I love naming characters. LOVE it. A name tells so much about a person: where they are from, where their ancestors are from, the time they live in, the values of their parents, perhaps even religion or spiritual beliefs. The sound of the name as another character speaks it aloud can add so much melody to the story.

(You, as the reader, are audiating one character speak another character’s name aloud, by the way… Apologizies – I’m kicking into music teacher mode as another school year begins.)

Audiation: The comprehension and internal realization of music by an individual in the absence of any physical sound.

You can even audiate passages in the voice of a specific person. Please allow these two gentleman to help you audiate passages from “The Ripple of Stones.”

pg. 237, “The Ripple of Stones”
pg. 196 – “The Ripple of Stones”

The harmony or dissonance of the name beside another character’s name lends itself to the story. Take “The Ripple of Stones” for instance. Brigid and Gabe sound different in your mind than Brigid and Gabriel. And yet, the name meaning of Gabriel is “Hero” or “God is my strength.” Depending on your background, you may also think of the archangel Gabriel, whose story tracks with our Gabe Sherland.

I love the name Benjamin. It’s one of my favorite names. However, Brigid and Ben don’t work as well because said together, they have a “ba-da-da-DA” sound coming off the tongue. The short vowels and crisp ending consonants in each name gives their combination finality. Practicality. Brusqueness. Not qualities you want in star-crossed lovers. Brigid and Benny sound like A. a ripoff of “In the Heights” or B. a Disney Junior sitcom.

Brigid and Lynn do not blend or flow. You have to make completely different shapes inside and outside of your mouth and stop your vocalization entirely to get from the end of the name “Brigid” to the beginning of the name “Lynn.” But they do have the exact same internal vowel sounds. This was intentional.

(Also, the name Lynn comes from the Welsh and means “lake.” If Lynn were a surname, it would be of Old English or Gaelic origin, meaning family who lived near a body of water. This was also intentional.)

In the Prequel, I currently have nine main characters. My characters begin in a fictionalized version of an area in Quebec and migrate to Michigan. They are of English/Scottish/Irish/Welsh ancestry. The women’s names should harken back to Celtic Godesses. (See: Brigid) Finally, I am basing some of the plot on the life events of my great-great grandmother, so family names need to be represented. Given this criteria, you may imagine that my pool of name choices was more of a puddle.

False. (Did you audiate that in the voice of Dwight Schrute?? I bet you did.) I researched more than forty names for my nine characters. Thank you to my Facebook readers who helped!!

Do you know, I sat down to write a blog post about mapping out a plot, but considering that I spent two weeks figuring out character names, I believe this part of writing a novel deserves its own post. So… here’s a worksheet for you as you begin to name your characters:

  1. Write down some names you just LIKE.

2. Circle any that do not belong to anyone you know.

3. Where is the setting of your novel? Do you want the character’s names to reflect that setting? (Writing about a guy named Patrick O’Flannagan in a novel set in Buenos Aires would have implications)

4. Research names having to do with the setting and time period. Look up social security records for ideas (Thank you, Corynn for that suggestion!)

5. Begin making lists. Do you like the way the name looks in writing? Typed out?

6. Read the names aloud. How do they sound? How do they sound together?

7. Once you’ve settled on some, begin researching name meanings – that is where the real fun begins!! Do you have a dark and brooding guy? Perhaps the name Cole would do. How about the guy-next-door type who loves dogs? Try Connor.

8. Decide on some. Leave it for a few days.

9. Come back and rethink. Do you like this name enough to write it for like… years?? If you’re doing anything overly dramatic to your character which you will because #plot, can you take that seriously with the name you chose? (Love scenes, death scenes, pain scenes… if you’ve named a character going through this drama after your grandmother to whom you were incredibly close, are you going to be able to write honestly? Think long and hard. Your grandmother’s name. In a love scene…)

10. Just with baby names, once you’ve decided on the best name for your character, do NOT ask the opinions of others. They are your characters, it’s your book, you’re going to have to bring these names to life, and no one else needs to get in your head about your choices.

11. Unlike baby names, you can change it if you want as you write the story. : )

Good luck and feel free to reach out if you need some ideas or assistance!

P.S. – the image at the beginning was taken at the Dune Climb, Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore. Now, there are a myriad of reasons behind this actual place name, but the whole landscape would not seem as sweet if it were called The Achilles-Killer at U.S.A.’s Mound of Sand. My apologizes to Billy Shakespeare…

Book Signing Week!

It’s Book Signing Week, it’s Book Signing Week!!!! I’m so excited to have two signing events in the same week! Have I ever had a better excuse to go Up North? I think not. (Does anyone ever need an excuse to go Up North? I think not…)

Last year at this time, I was sitting by the lake struggling to finish the final Final FINAL draft of “The Ripple of Stones.” (P.S. – it wasn’t the final draft…) I knew I needed an editor, didn’t know how to find one, and felt the pandemic wrapping its dark, icy arms around me. School was starting soon and we had no idea what that would look like. The kids were stressed, I was stressed, it felt like every part of life was pulling at me, interrupting me, refusing to let me finish my novel. And also, what right did I have trying to do this anyway? I had a job I loved, I had kids, and no one gave me permission to call myself an author. Would I ever get this done? Would anyone ever stop talking to me long enough for me to think? Would I get COVID and have a cardiac complications without ever holding my published book? Would I get COVID and lay dying thinking about how I yelled at my loved ones to stop interrupting me while I worked on my book which I didn’t even manage to get published? Winter was coming and the question was – would I keep spinning worries and excuses until my time was up and I had failed?

We lost my grandfather after the New Year, 2020. As January 2021 dawned, I thought of the man who taught me the names of the trees, the man who taught me to sail, the man who quietly read poetry in an armchair while I sat at his feet and built cottages out of Lincoln Logs. He would never read my novel.

Another birthday passed. Thirty-seven years on this Earth and what had I done for the thirteen-year-old girl who dreamed big dreams? Did hard work count if you never held the results in your hand? A lyric from Hamilton wove through the air: “Legacy, what is a legacy?/It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see.” It’s a beautiful idea, and it always makes me cry when I hear it in the song. I think of this lyric every year I send a group of fifth graders off into the world, hoping that something we did in Music Class will stay with them.

But with my book?

I wanted to smell the damn flowers.

One of my favorite parts of these book signing events is meeting people who love Up North as much as I do. Up North is not so much of a place as an idea. Everyone’s Up North is different, and everyone’s is infused with magic. I almost don’t want to describe it because it would trivialize your experience. You know what “your” place smells like when you walk in after the long drive and weary work week. You know the particular sparkle of “your” lake. You know where you go for a donut, a good book, an ice cream, a meal, a drink. You know what the fields smell like in the spring as you drive down the country roads with the windows open.

Allow me to share a bit of my Up North with you this week. And please come say hi – even if you’ve already bought a book or if I’ve already signed it. Let’s take a moment to remember that we’re still here under the late summer sunshine, and there’s still time to dream our dreams.

Book Signing, Word Love Goods

Wednesday, August 11th, 6:00 – 9:00 pm

Part of the Evening on River Street Series

As you are strolling down River St enjoying live music, local cuisine, and the soft Lake Michigan breeze, come down to Word Love Goods, the sweetest little book and home goods shop in adorable Elk Rapids, MI! I will be outside signing books – bring your copy or buy one today. Our gorgeous Word Love Goods store owner decorated her doorway with succulents and moss so you just know this store is one you can’t miss!

Book Signing, Yard & Lake

Friday, August 13th, 2021

11:00 am – 12:30 pm

From the proprietors of Enjoy Michigan and Porcupine Cabin, the best new outdoor store in Leelanau County is coming in hot in early August! I’m so thrilled that the owner has asked me to be a part of the store’s opening events! Y’all, I have been eagerly watching all of her marketing on Instagram and there is SAILBOAT merch!! You can pop by for a book and head on down for some fresh produce and local goods from the Farmers Market!

Yard & Lake

215 N. Mill St @ W. Third St.

Northport, MI 49670

I can’t wait to see you Up North. Tell me about yours.

Part One: The Dream

“Let’s start at the very beginning. A very good place to start. When you read, you begin with A B C. When you sing, you begin with Do Re Mi…”

Somebody called Julie sang that once, and I think she made a solid point. The beginning of writing a novel is an idea. A question. A picture in your head that just won’t leave. When I began writing “The Ripple of Stones” I couldn’t get this question out of my head: who would we be if we could let go of who we were “supposed” to be? As the idea developed, other questions gnawed at me:

“How can a series of misunderstandings lead to heartbreak?”

“Why is it easier to put up barriers than be truthful?”

“What would star-crossed-lovers look like in modern times? How do we legitimize that trope and allow them to overcome?”

“Where does the obsession come from for Michigan beach stones? Is there something more there? Something deeper? What would that look like?”

A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of sitting in my parents’ living room chatting with them about “The Ripple of Stones” and my Dad was telling me all of his favorite parts and quotes. Spoiler alert, the love scenes were not my father’s favorite parts of my book…

He began to nudge me about the sequel. More magic, he said. More of the sitting on the dock and stretching the sunlight. Less heartwarming schlock. Definitely less kissing. Maybe next time, he suggested, there could be a troll under the bridge, or a dragon flying down from the Upper Peninsula. “These are excellent ideas,” I said, laughing. “Feel free to write your book: ‘The Dragon of the UP’ sounds fantastic.”

Now that “The Ripple of Stones” is sold in stores throughout Michigan as well as online, I am beginning a new novel. The second. The Prequel. I invite you to join me as we walk through the process of writing a novel together. You will need a notebook or notepad, a writing utensil, your voice-to-notes app on your phone, and an unfettered imagination.

In my process, I can’t begin anything until I begin to meet and create my main character. So, let’s meet yours as well. As you begin, answer the following questions. (My main character will identify as female. Please feel free to adjust your pronouns as needed:

*What is her name?

*Why is that her name?

*What culture is that from?

*Why?

*What does the name mean?

*What is the etymology of the name?

*Where does she live when we first meet her?

*What does it look like, smell like?

*What does the air feel like when it brushes her skin?

See my sketch below:

Next, close your eyes and let your mind wander. (Give the dog a bone, give the spouse the remote, give the kids a screen, go lock yourself in your car… whatever it takes to get some quiet in your brain so you can imagine….) Make some notes. Write down every idea. Don’t question and definitely don’t judge. Just scribble.

(Below, I’m going to show you some of my scribbles. I trust you. I like you. I know you’re not going to lift any of these ideas verbatim because I know you have your own even more brilliant and interesting ones! Thank you for helping me create an environment of honesty and respect as we share and work on our ideas together!)

I might use some of these ideas, I might use none of them. But if I don’t write them down, I’ll forget them. For “The Ripple of Stones,” I wrote down “what’s that thing people do with rocks in a tower – a cairn I think?” I intended it to be a unique but miniscule feature of the cottage driveway; it ended up being a centerpiece of the entire plot.

…Glad I wrote it down.

Ah… and speaking of PLOT! Did you know books need a plot? When I was writing “The Ripple of Stones,” I knew this in theory, but not in practice. I wrote five pages of musing that I was convinced were brilliant. As I was writing, I thought to myself, “Katy, you have written the next ‘The Goldfinch.” Perhaps the next ‘Jane Eyre.’ This is tragic. It’s heartbreaking. It shows the true core of your character’s heart and soul.” I read these five pages back and guess what? They were absolutely terrible. Do you know why? No plot. No action. And therefore, no story. Jane Eyre has a plot: orphaned, angst, bad job, meet-cute with dark and brooding dude, crazy wife locked in the attic, house on fire, running away in the rain, nearly dying of being wet and cold, almost marrying the wrong guy, more fire, blindness, and finally, marriage. A plot.

According to the experts, there are 7 to 9 basic plots. Here are some of the articles I read when I was researching:

Wikipedia (I know, I know, but I like that it gives concrete examples and concise explanations)

How-to-Write-a-Book-Now

Reedsy Blog (more jargony, but you’re smart; you can handle it. Plus, it’s why I put this one 3rd.)

If you hit on one you like, start doing an image search. “Overcoming the Monster Plot Structure” or “Three Act Plot Structure” or “A Hero’s Journey Plot Structure” I love the image searches!

For the Prequel, I picked “A Hero’s Journey.” Because I cannot retain a scrap of information without writing it down, I copied a few different charts.


I did begin writing “The Ripple of Stones” using A Hero’s Journey Plot Structure, but ultimately changed to Three Act Plot Structure. Always allow yourself room to make changes as the story develops.

So there you go! If you’ve got some initial ideas written down, and have learned about and chosen an initial plot structure, you are well on your way!! (Pro tip – the title comes waaaaaaaaay later, after you figure out what you are actually writing about.)

“But Katy,” you say, “What if I have more ideas later? What if I’m at my day job or driving the car or helping my kids or feeding my hedgehog or mid-nap and I can’t get to my Precious Writer’s Notebook???” That is where the voice-to-text comes in! I know you have your phone on you. It’s right there. Don’t play. Give that thought to Siri! Right now!

“Hey Siri, make a Note.” Then say whatever you have to say. When your colleagues/passengers/kids/hedgehog/dream dragon of the upper peninsula look at you askance, shrug and say,

“Hey. I’m writing my book.”

The Ripple of Stones Front Cover

Now Available! “The Ripple of Stones”

CLICK HERE TO BUY NOW!!

I am so thrilled to announce that my debut novel, “The Ripple of Stones” is available now in eBook and paperback from Amazon*! I’ve wanted to write a book since I read Little Women at age nine and wanted to be Jo (and also Meg and sort of Amy but secretly feared I might be Beth…). I started my first book when I was thirteen and it was pretty terrible. I started this one in 2018 after moving back home to Michigan. Three years later, I have a professional editor in Aimé Merizon, made friends with a professional Canadian artist (and fellow #teachermama) Nicole Warrington who created the cover art, and received immeasurable support and help from the tribe around me. I hope you love reading this novel as much as loved creating it.

The Ripple of Stones Front Cover

5 star-rated on Amazon! Read reviews here!

“The Ripple of Stones is a perfect book to reminisce about summers gone by and life to come, with a twist of mystery and magic. Explores the complications of relationships and dreams. The author brings you on the journey with such mastery that you can feel yourself in the scenes with the emotions of each character. Truly a treasure – don’t miss out!”

“The perfect book to kick off my summer reading! The story line is a bit of mystery and romance meets the ever relatable family drama. It’s got just the right twist in the plot to set itself apart from other books in its genre. The authors detail made me completely envision the Up North charm and painted a complete picture of the quaint family cottage where the story takes place. Anyone who loves a good read while sitting on a dock sipping a drink in the sun will love this book.”

Read the summary here:

Teacher Brigid dares to break the estrangement between her mother and grandfather and stay at tranquil Cairn Cottage for the summer. A sailboat is delivered to a neighboring cottage and a man named Gabe walks into her life, making her feel something she has never felt before. As Brigid and Gabe quickly fall for each other, and incur the inexplicable wrath of Brigid’s mother, Brigid discovers that things at Cairn Cottage are not what they seem. She begins to uncover the secret mystical Stone Society and her role in it, all of which threaten the life she knows…or open the doors to the life she was always meant to live.

With roots in magical realism and romance with a dose of family drama, this book will connect with readers across genres. The mystery revolving around lake stones and the Society that venerates nature is both timeless and trendy, and will connect to any reader interested in preserving the earth.

If you love “The Notebook,” you will love this book.

If you are tired of the confines of life’s mundanities, you will love watching Brigid struggle with and overcome hers.

If you have a sneaking (or bold) interest in the mystical properties of stones, you will love this book.

If you are curious about (or practice) Earth-based spirituality, you will love this book.

If you like mysteries minus murder and death and gore, you will love this book.

If you have a family member or friend with whom you seem to be in constant conflict, you will love this book.

If you are a native Michigander who knows the joy of finding the perfect Petoskey stone on a sandy beach and can just feel the softness of an Up North summer breeze on your cheek, you will love this book.

If you long for that place, that home, that spot among the trees that seems to be lost to the past, you will love this book.

“The Ripple of Stones” is a story of self-discovery, love, and what could be if we only were brave enough to open up our hearts.

CLICK HERE FOR YOUR NEW FAVORITE SUMMER READ!

*Expanded distribution to Apple Books, Nook, and other fine retailers coming soon! Enter your email for these and further updates! I solemnly swear not to spam you or sell your email!

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The Ripple of Stones Front Cover

Launch Date: The Ripple of Stones

I cannot believe I am typing this. BUT…

WE HAVE A LAUNCH DATE FOR MY DEBUT NOVEL!!!

The Ripple of Stones will be available in paperback and eBook on Amazon on May 18th, 2021!

The Ripple of Stones Front Cover

Teacher Brigid dares to break the estrangement between her mother and grandfather and stay at tranquil Cairn Cottage for the summer. A sailboat is delivered to a neighboring cottage and a man named Gabe walks into her life, making her feel something she has never felt before. As Brigid and Gabe quickly fall for each other incurring the inexplicable wrath of Brigid’s mother, Brigid discovers that things at Cairn Cottage are not what they seem… She begins to uncover the secret mystical Stone Society and her role in it, all of which threaten the life she knows… or open the doors to the life she was always meant to live.

With roots in magical realism and romance with a dose of family drama, this book will connect with readers across genres. The mystery revolving around lake stones and the Society venerating nature is both timeless and trendy, and will connect to any reader interested in preserving the earth.

If you love “The Notebook,” you will love this book.

If you are tired of the confines of life’s mundanities, you will love watching Brigid struggle with and overcome hers.

If you have a sneaking (or bold) interest in the mystical properties of stones, you will love this book.

If you are curious about (or practice) Earth-based spirituality, you will love this book.

If you like mysteries minus murder and death and gore, you will love this book.

If you have a family member or friend with whom you seem to be in constant conflict, you will love this book.

If you are a native Michigander who knows the joy of finding the perfect Petoskey stone on a sandy beach and can just feel the softness of an Up North summer breeze on your cheek, you will love this book.

If you long for that place, that home, that spot among the trees that seems to be lost to the past, you will love this book.

“The Ripple of Stones” is a story of self-discovery, love, and what could be if we only were brave enough to open up our hearts.

I hope you love it.

(By the way, that cover art is amazing, huh? Go check out Nicole Warrington. She’s a Canadian artist (and mom) who is out there being a professional artist, teacher, and creator. I’ve been buying her smaller pieces for years, and I worked up the courage to see if she would be interested in collaborating on this work. She said yes and working with her has been incredible.)

The Ripple of Stones

Discover more here!!

Chapter 8

Readers! Welcome to the Peninsula, where sparkling inland lakes dot the landscape among farms, orchards, and small towns. The Peninsula is surrounded by Big Omann Lake, and nearby is the area’s major city, Domhnall Hills. On this lovely June evening, we find our 24-year-old protagonist Brigid in her room at Cairn Cottage, where she is spending the summer with her nearly-estranged grandfather Morgan. Melodramatic Grandpa Morgan and peaceful Brigid get along famously, and are very much enjoying getting to reconnect, although he seems to be unreasonably obsessed by lake stones, especially those that are polished and set into jewelry. Brigid is getting ready for her first official date with Gabe, a cherry orchard owner and sometime-boat-delivery-guy who she met when he delivered a neighbor’s new Sunfish sailboat. They had a true, Earth-stopping romantic encounter already, but that’s Chapter 6.

This scene was written well before our lives were infected by COVID-19, and I had a particular joy editing it recently. I’d love to step into Brigid and Gabe’s healthy and safe world, as they go in and out of restaurants and tiny concert halls with carefree abandon. I thought you might like to escape there as well.

If you are a fan of heart-warming schlock, the end of this chapter is for you. If you’re not, never fear… the romance storyline is only one element in this novel full of mystery, family drama, Earth-based spirituality, and self-realization.

CHAPTER 8

He had called the next morning.   A smile illuminated her face as she slid deeper under the covers, shivering at the memory.  The stone at her throat caught the light filtering through smudged window pane. 

Domhnall Symphony Orchestra was playing an outreach concert in Birch Glen, the little fishing village nearby. The Pines of Rome.  He had tickets and could pick her up at seven. 

At five minutes to seven, she had raced down the stairs to find her purse, her shoes, her phone.  Morgan stood at the kitchen island, a whiskey and water in his hand.  He smiled at Brigid and waved her over before placing a folded handkerchief on the counter.  Oblivious to his granddaughter’s rush, he unfolded the cloth with reverence. Pulsing vermilion and raven silver sparkled in the light.  “Your grandmother’s,” Morgan said.  “It was a special bracelet.  The most special one. Look.” His gnarled finger tapped the stones.  “Jasper. This Jasper pulled from Big Omann Lake.  Jasper will bring passion, but also steadfastness.” 

Brigid forced herself to stop, give him her attention. Her fingers brushed a cinnamon-colored stone.  “Ah,” said Morgan.  “That is Hessonite.  Hessonite, so you remember your worth.”  He patted her hand.  “You are worthy, Brigid.”  She covered the choke of emotion with a tight smile.  Worthy?  No one spoke to her like this.  To push the embarrassment away, she pointed to the jagged black stones.  They seemed out of place in this warm, resonant bracelet. 

“What are these?” she asked.

“Those stones were birthed from volcanoes that once existed under these waters,” Morgan said, proud with the knowledge.  “The red stones represent the fire, but this stone… she is made from the fire.”

Brigid subtly looked down at her watch.  This supply of odd jewelry seemed to be bottomless.  She could hear Gabe’s truck rumbling down the driveway and she still hadn’t located her shoes.  “It’s beautiful, Grandpa.  I’d love to look at it in more detail later.”

“Oh, you misunderstand me, sweet girl,” said Morgan.  “I brought it out to give to you.”  He pushed it across the countertop.  “Wear it, Brigid.”  He clasped her hand again, searching her eyes. 

“I couldn’t,” she said, with a tone she hoped was polite yet firm.  The bracelet was certainly interesting, but it didn’t quite go with her meticulously planned outfit.

“Take it.”  Morgan waved away her refusal, and, taking up her slim wrist, fixed the gold filigree clasp.  “It is meant to be yours”.”  She looked across the counter at her grandfather, feeling a shiver run up her arm as he clasped her hand in his own.

A knock on the back door turned the old man gregarious, and he bustled down to the hall to welcome Gabe. The men shook hands before Morgan took Brigid to him and kissed her forehead.  “Have a lovely evening with your gentleman.” Brigid couldn’t suppress a grin and she hugged her grandfather back before turning to leave with Gabe.  Morgan followed them to the back porch, waving them off.

The ride down the curvy roads was alive with laughter and twenty minute drive to Birch Glen passed in a flash.  When they arrived at the renovated schoolhouse, Gabe ushered Brigid to their seats, his hand warm on the small of her back. The interior was cavernous; the simple clapboard walls adorned with landscapes created by worshipful local artists.  The orchestra trilled and stretched rainbows of sound as they warmed up.

“I actually played the viola in middle school,” Brigid whispered.

“Oh yeah?” Gabe grinned at her.  “Which one is the viola?”

Brigid pointed discreetly at the orchestra. “The violists are in the middle.  It’s a slightly bigger instrument than the violin, with a richer timbre.”

“Why the viola?” asked Gabe. 

“Well, the violin is what everyone chooses.” She gestured conspiratorially.   “Then the cello  – the cello is very popular; very intellectual.  Sort of sexy,” she said, meeting his eyes.

“Hmm, I see,” he said.  “In that case, I’m shocked that you’re not the female Yo Yo Ma.”  Brigid blushed and rolled her eyes. 

Gabe winked at her and looked out at the orchestra.  “What about the double bass?” he asked.  “No bass for you?”

 “Oh please,” Brigid said.  “I don’t have the stamina to carry the bass.  It would’ve been great though, because it’s different.  My main goal was not to be ordinary.  Anything is better than be ordinary.  So, the viola it was.”

“I bet you were really good,” Gabe said.

“Oh my God, I was terrible!”  Brigid laughed. “My pinkie finger is abnormally short – look at this.” She lifted her left hand to show him. “Every time I would play a scale, the first four notes would be perfect and the fifth would be so flat.  My teacher would say, ‘Tune that instrument, Brigid!’  Use your ears!'”

“I don’t believe you,” said Gabe.  “Let me see this rogue pinkie.”  He made a spectacle of measuring her pinkie and ring fingers, comparing them to his own, placing his hand palm to palm with hers. Suddenly the room erupted in applause. They both looked up to see the conductor ascending the podium and their hands separated to join in the ovation.  The conductor bowed to the room, turned to the orchestra, and struck the air. As the woodwinds glittered through the air in Respighi’s opening salvo, Gabe reached for her hand.

The fluttering intensity of the music barely registered in her racing body.  Brigid peeked at Gabe. He was so confident, seeming to always know what to say, when to look, how to smile.  She was smart enough to have reserve, to sense a game.  Surely it was ridiculous to think she was falling for anyone so soon.  And that he could possibly be falling for her.  But he was kind.  And the way he looked at her, for a fraction of a second longer than he should…   Brigid forced herself to relax into the music, feeling his warm, calloused hand on her skin.  Just as she surrendered in the rapture of the crescendo, the horns blasted their interruption.  Gabe and Brigid startled together, involuntarily gripping hands.  He looked down and her and all composure broke. His shoulders fell and his tightened bicep relaxed.  Collapsing into stifled giggles, they leaned into their own elated reality.

After the concert, they walked hand in hand along the harbor, peeking into the fishing boats of the locals and the polished pleasure craft of the summer residents.  Both unwilling for the evening to end, they landed at the Captain’s Seat, a greasy-spoon restaurant with an outdoor patio overlooking the harbor.  The bartender watched their laughter and non-stop banter, deciding not to push them out at the official closing time.  Smiling at the besotted couple, he poured himself a nightcap and ignored the clock. 

The moon was high by the time they drove back to Cairn Cottage.  At ten minutes before midnight, he stopped the truck on the main road, on the edge of the long driveway.  Her heart raced as she prepared herself for his kiss. Before she could decide how to react, he was out of the cab and opening her door, offering her a hand that already seemed like a part of her life.  As he handed her down, she said, “Not escorting me to the door, sir?” A teasing smile played at her lips.  “I thought you were a gentleman.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely escorting you to the door.  I just am not going to shine the headlights all the way down that driveway into the bedroom windows of your sleeping neighbors.”  He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and smiled down at her as they walked down the moonlit driveway.  Far too soon, the path ended at her late grandmother’s garden.  He looked at the tiny purple-bordered buds, indigo heart and sunshine soul reaching to the moon. “I thought those were violas,” he said.

“They are.”  Brigid could feel her heart racing in her chest.

“But you played the viola… I’m so confused,” he said, smiling.  Brigid saw his feet shifting in the sandy dirt and smiled to herself. He was stalling.   

She playfully punched his hard arm with her other hand. “You’re just hilarious,” she said.

Gabe turned toward her.  He released their hands and slid his fingers to the small of her back.  The other hand found her cheekbone and wove its way into her hair.  Without thinking, she echoed his movement, brushing her hands up his broad chest and wrapping them around his neck.  The undulating light of the moon passed through the veil of clouds and adorned her face.

 Looking down at her, a feeling like lightening shot through him, and he had to root his feet to the earth to hold onto the embrace. 

“Can I kiss you?” he whispered

Brigid answered by rising to her tiptoes and touched her lips to his.

All thought left her mind as she surrendered to his gentle kiss. Every worry, every question of being enough melted away in the softness of his lips. She felt his arms encircle her back, steady like the branches of the trees that bowed over the long country roads.   His tongue opened her mouth, gently.  She clung to him, specks of stardust sparking through her nerves, reaching, joining. Nothing in the world mattered except this moment, the taste of his mouth upon hers, her body cradled in his arms. 

The low, mournful call of a loon burst through their reverie

Slowly, shaking, they drew themselves apart.  Brigid gazed up at him.

“What now?”

Ursula Gets Her Wish

A green haze drifted up from the murky bottom of the ocean, carrying the scent of inadequacy.

“One wish,” the voice croaked out.

“But I rubbed the lamp! I should get three!” The eel stroked the brass with her decimated forehead.

“You have scared too many children.” The voice shook with fury. “And so have I. The rules were bent for those such as us.”

The eel slithered to the bottom, sending up a cloud of silt.

“Make your wish,” the voice bellowed with as much power as a waft of smoke could produce. “Choose wisely, oh shamed one, for a well-spoken wish could change…” The lamp rattled and the eel thought she could hear a parrot squawk.

“QUIET, YOU!”

The eel shrank away.

“MAKE YOUR WISH, YOU SLIMY PEON!”

The eel took a deep breath. “I just want to go back to before.” She sighed. “But with a better voice.”

“Very well.”

“Night fell, but at the bottom of the ocean, who could really tell?”

Read On

R.S.V.P.

Dear Jake and Jenny,

I’m writing to inform you that I will be attending the Thanksgiving dinner.  The invitation you sent to the computer was very bright. I also received it quite late. I assumed that tradition dictated my attendance, but I know how you young people like to change things up.

Nevertheless, I was pleased to receive my invitation (if that’s what you call a dancing cartoon sent to a computer…). I have decided against texting as you suggest. I trust that the United States Postal Service will deliver my R.S.V.P., as they have been delivering mail to all American citizens since 1775.

Whilst I was looking at the “invitation,” on the computer, I took the opportunity to peruse the Facebooks. Your Facebook, Jenny, is quite radical. I see you’ve put up many articles about giving things up. Downsizing. Wanting “experiences.”

I, myself, am an experience. And I’ve had experience! Let me tell you, the situations I’ve been thrown into in my lifetime have given me fortitude. Strength. Longevity.  I’ve been in a stew (quite a few!). I’ve been canned. Some people have caused me to be sweet as pie, while others left me sour as vinegar. Of course, the best times were with a jigger of bourbon!

And yes, I’ve been known to be tart a time or two. But that’s just who I am. I don’t apologize for that. In my opinion, people need a little tartness these days. A little truth. Swallow the tart with the sweet, that’s what I say! The sweet and tart together; that’s what makes a true life experience.

If the other guests don’t “prefer” me,” that’s just tough. Thanksgiving dinner wouldn’t be the same without me. Sure, another addition might be more “modern,” more “healthy,” more “trendy.”  But you know as well as I do that I have to be there.

I’m tradition.

Regards,

The Cranberry Sauce

Ruffled Feathers

Joslyn’s hand flew to her mouth. The pictures on the placecards. It was so blantant. Her lips screwed up into a pout as she gnawed on her thumbnail.

Arnold heard the familar sound of tooth on nail. Tapping a meaty finger on his wife’s shoulder, he leaned in. “Take it easy, Josey.”

Joslyn lifted each placecard to peer at the pictures before slamming each one back onto the table. Her hands shook. Arnold glanced around the wide hall. Other people were beginning to stare.

“It’s that g.d. dog,” hissed Joslyn.

“Don’t swear at a wedding,” Arnold hissed back. Joslyn wheeled around to face her husband. “I didn’t! That’s why I said g.d.!”

Arnold wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. He hadn’t worn them in a year and they were squeezing his midsection. “Ok, honey,” he said, louder than necessary. “Looks like we’re at Table 13. Let’s take a seat.”

“Table 13. The crap table,” muttered Joslyn as her husband led her away.

The reception hall was beautiful. Vases of flowers towered over the tables. A band played old-fashioned swing music as smiling servers passed trays of bacon-wrapped shrimp. The floral arrangements were inflaming Arnold’s allergies, but he hoped they might distract his wife. “Look at these star-flower thingies, Josey! They got them all: the orange ones, the yellow ones, the white ones – “

“What in the heck are you talking about?” Joslyn scratched at her polyester lace sleeve.

“The flowers with the spikes sticking out of the middle!”

“Those are lilies.”

“Lilies,” echoed Arnold, ignoring his wife’s sneer. “Pretty.”

“That stupid dog.” Joslyn ground her teeth.

The bride and groom entered in a haze of pomp and pop music. Aleeseya rode on her new husband’s shoulders, all bleached teeth and jutting collarbones. The crumb-coat cake was cut to thunderous applause, and soon the nubile newlyweds fell into each other’s arms for the first dance.

At Table 13, Joslyn was fuming. “They could’ve acknowledged her. On the invitations. Her name, or a picture even. I just can’t believe they didn’t send anything. Not a sympathy card, not a payment, not anything. Not even an ‘I’m sorry’ text! I mean, how hard is a text?”

“What happened, Joslyn?” Arnold’s eyes widened. Cheryl was a neighbor of the bride’s parents. He didn’t want it getting back to them that Joslyn was making a big deal of the situation at the wedding. He looked askance at the young couple circling the tables. Surely they would arrive at Table 13 soon. Aleeseya could take the opportunity to say something, offer an apology. Heck, he thought. Maybe it could be part of the toast.

The salad course was served. When Joslyn took note of the sliced boiled eggs and tears sprung to her eyes. Cheryl simpered at her. “Weddings make me emotional too.” She dug around in her purse and handed Joslyn a tissue. “All the love.”

“All the hate, you mean,” Joslyn spat. “All the hate that has to be in a person’s heart to not acknowledge a person’s pain. And my beautiful, beautiful Pearl.”

“Oh no, who was Pearl?” Arnold looked daggers at Cheryl, willing her to stop this line of questioning.

“Her coloring was as golden as the May sunshine,” Joslyn dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “Truly, you’ve never seen anything like it. No one has.” Cheryl nodded sympathetically and took a sip of her drink. Joslyn poured the remainder of her drink down her throat. “They took her from me. They took her.” Joslyn lifted her glass again, surprised to find it empty. “I’m gonna get a refill.”

Arnold heaved himself up. “I’ll get it.”

Cheryl batted her eyes at him. “What a gentleman!”

The father of the bride raised an eyebrow as Arnold rumbled across the hall, two glasses in hand.

“Did we really need to invite them?” Gus asked his wife.

“She’s my cousin,” Beth said gently. “Besides, they’d cause a bigger fuss if they hadn’t been invited.”

Gus rolled his eyes. “Look at her. I can hear her from here. If I can hear her, I’m sure everyone else can too.”

“Not an apology, not anything!!” Joslyn yelped. Beth winced. Joslyn was getting awfully loud. “And they killed her! My baby!!”

Cheryl gasped. She reached an hand out to steady Joslyn’s glass.

“Uncle Arnold!” Aleeseya flashed a brilliant smile as she approached the Table 13 with her new husband. Arnold raised his head from his hands.

Joslyn lurched forward and grabbed a fistful of silk. Aleeseya stumbled as Joslyn yanked on the wedding dress. “You! You will pay for what that beast did to my baby! You let it out without a leash and it mauled my Pearl!”

The entire room was staring now. “That’s it.” Gus stood up and slammed his chair on the floor. He marched over to Table 13.

“The entrée is served!” The amplied voice of the head chef rang out over the room. Two immaculately-clad servers brought forth an enormous silver platter.

“My baby,” wailed Joslyn, sinking to her knees. Arnold stumbled out of his chair and put a meaty hand under her arm. He pulled with all his strength, but he couldn’t haul her up.

“We wanted to apologize for Xander’s little mistake,” Aleeseya said brightly. She motioned to the bandleader, who brought the microphone. She took it in her manicured hand and turned to the crowd. “Our little fluffer-pup, Xander, was a naughty little dude last month. Aunt Jos and Uncle Arnie had us over for dinner to give us their gift. We couldn’t leave Xander at home. I mean, look at how cute this baby is!” Aleesya reached over the prone Joslyn and snatched up a placecard. “Isn’t he the cutest?” A collective sigh washed over the room as the guests gazed at photos of the dog on their own placecards. Aleesya’s laugh was amplified in the air.

“Anyway, Xander made an oopsie. He got out and…” She leaned her blushing cheek on her husband’s broad shoulder. “He maybe ate…” That smile again. So arresting. So sweet. Tears of nostalgia graced the corners of Cheryl’s eyes to see it.

“He ate Aunt Joslyn’s chicken.” Gentle laughter broke out among the guests. “He’s a dog, you know?” Aleeseya brushed a curl from her brow. “He can’t help his instincts and it’s really not our job to control him.” The guests murmurred in agreement. “But hey, we were really sorry about it. And, we wanted to give Aunt Joslyn credit! It was a really good chicken.” She gestured to the servers still holding the tray aloft. “As a special treat, a little bite of Aunt Joslyn’s prize chicken is on each of your plates!”

Applause broke out across the big hall. Arnold looked at his wife in horror. There was no way he was going to be able to drag her out of the room. The ruffled polyester dress was so slippery that he couldn’t get a good grip.

Joslyn lifted her tear-stained face, black eyeliner and mascara tracing rivulets down her cheeks. Her mouth fell open and she yanked her arm from her husband’s grip. Arnold covered his ears.

The guests were beginning to stand. Joslyn gazed around. The applause thundered in her ears. Mouths stretched into wide grins as the guests began to tower over her. Joslyn could think of nothing else to do. Pushing against the hard floor, she heaved herself up. The servers were now standing next to her, and the smell of chicken chevre Florentine wafted through the air. Joslyn grabbed the napkin from the chair and swiped at her eyes. Everyone really was standing up. Every last person. On their feet, applauding. For Pearl.

For her.

Joslyn burst into a grin. She raised her arms, clasping her hands together like a winning prizefighter. People continued to clap. With a flourish, Joslyn grasped the edges of her skirt and took a bow. She turned to one of the servers who stumbled at the sight of her make-up smeared face. Surveying the plated entrees, her eyes rested on one with gravy swirled in the shape of miniature hearts. This plate was obviously for the bride. Joslyn saw the tiny bit of chicken speared by an artisanal toothpick. Before the server could stop her, she seized it up and popped it into her mouth.

Grabbing the microphone from Aleeseya, she beamed at the crowd. Swallowing hard, she said,

“Delicious.”

“The Wives of Sunset” Chapter 2: Urban Chickens

A rooster crow blared through the sound of early morning traffic.  Marissa smiled and stretched underneath her organic cotton duvet. Beside her, Dane’s muscular, tattooed arm draped over their son.  Oliver had crawled into their bed last night with his peach blankie and stuffed sloth, a victim of another nightmare.  Dane was so good with him. And he was a model father. As a session musician, he was able to stay home most days with Oliver, writing his own music in his basement studio.  It made her proud.

The rooster crowed again, insisting that Marissa put her feet to the floor.  She loved this house. They bought ten years ago for an amazing deal. The sellers, poor folks, had gotten in way over their heads financially and sunk further when the Recession hit. They were saved from bankruptcy when Marissa and Dane bought the house.  Over the years, Marissa had finished it Earth-conscious materials. Sustainable wood flooring, solar panels on the roof.  Even the paint was non-toxic. Last summer, they had gotten the chickens. Dane had built the hen house himself.  

You can’t control women.

Read On

The Wives of Sunset – The Pie

The Pie

Her bare foot made contact with the yellow plastic blade. Grasping for the railing, she watched the toy bulldozer escape the crush of her toes and tumble down the stairs. The cherry pie wobbled in her palm. She executed a clumsy jump over the last few steps in an attempt to keep herself upright, but her head slammed into the drop ceiling. A screeching pain brought her to her knees.

The pie flew through the air. Jessie watched it land upside down on the tile floor of the basement, ruby-colored juice flowing over scattered bits of dog hair and dust.

“Damnit.”

Jessie rubbed her head, feeling the gunk of three-days worth of dry shampoo in her red hair.

“Mama!!!” Two little voices floated down the stairs. Why were they awake this early? She sighed as she heaved herself up off the floor. Four black paws came scrambling down the stairs, canine eyes popping at the sight of a free dessert. Jessie rolled her eyes to stop the tears as she watched the dog lap up the twenty-dollar pie. Serves me right for buying it, she thought. If I were better at this, I would’ve made one.

The calls from the living room were becoming more insistent. Shoulders slumped, Jessie made her way up from the basement to get the paper towels and the dish soap. God, she was sick of cleaning.

The children were curled up in the corner of the couch, faces shining the early morning sunrise. Despite the pie, she smiled. The kids were so cute. They had sat like this since they were toddlers, never touching, but right beside each other.

“Mama! Mom!” It was always a demand.

Jessie forced her voice to be soft. “What’s up, loves?”

“Can you hand me the remote? Please.”

“It’s my turn!” Benny’s little voice piped in indignation. “She’s been watching Mermaid Millie forever and I woke up first!” Jessie lifted the remote from the coffee table she had refinished last summer. The trendy ebony paint was chipping along the sides and there was a line of Sharpie across the carefully refinished top. She covered the Sharpie mark with a coaster.

“Avonlea, how many have you watched?” she asked, longing for this negotiation to end so she could pour a cup of coffee.

“What??” her daughter protested. “He just got here and I was watching it!”

“That wasn’t my question,” Jessie said, holding the remote close to her chest.

“She’s watched one million of them and the whale guy is scary!” Benny whined.

“Avonlea.” Warning lay in Jessie’s tone.

“It’s not fair.” Nine-year-old Avonlea glared at her brother with the venom of a teenager.

“Life isn’t fair,” Jessie said through clenched teeth. “Here Benny.” Jessie proffered the remote. “Avonlea, he can watch a show, and then you can watch another Mermaid show. But I need your help after that.”

“But MOM!!” The little frenemies united in protest.
“Enough! I can’t take it!” Her tone startled them both and the look in their eyes piled onto her guilt. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just dropped that pie we bought and I need to go clean it up. And I guess figure out something for dessert…”

“It’s okay,” Benny said soothingly. “We don’t like pie.”

“Sorry Mama,” said Avonlea. “Maybe we can have Oreos.”

“We can’t bring Oreos to the block party,” Jessie muttered. She heard the neighbor’s rooster crow and sighed. She could strangle that stupid bird. It wasn’t even eight a.m. and she had already failed.

The Wives of Sunset

The Blurb…

Life looks good in the storybook town of Oakville. People bike, walk their dogs, and enjoy beautifully-manicured lives with their families. A perfect balance between urban and country living, people flock to this neighborhood where every house has treed backyard and walkability to the picturesque downtown.

Jessie, Marissa, Tig and Anna find themselves living on Sunset Street with their families in tow. On the outside, they lead similar lives: trying to balance work, home, family, and keeping up appearances. But when an accident during the annual summer block party causes a minor tragedy, the veneer begins to crack. Friendships are threatened as masks come off, and the polite peace that reigns over the neighborhood is disrupted when the truths that lie behind closed doors are revealed.

Witty and authentic, “The Wives of Sunset” reveals a slice of the American experience in 2019. As the four women struggle to meet the astronomical expectations of a “perfect American life,” they expose the deep fault lines just beneath the surface. “The Wives of Sunset” is a story of friendship and cultures, of confronting the truth and letting it bind, rather divide us.

“The Wives of Sunset” will be published for free in serial form on this blog. Please watch for my first published novel “A Ripple of Stones,” soon to be available wherever you buy your books.

“The Wives of Sunset” is a work of fiction. None of the characters are based on actual people, and any resemblance is purely coincidental.

Summertime

It’s almost upon us.

In Michigan, the trees have burst into full bloom and color has saturated the landscape. That nearly-forgotten brush of heat strokes our bare shoulders when we step into the sunlight.

Our kids are holding impromptu baseball games in backyards, racing through the twilight on bikes, begging to delay bedtime just ten minutes more.

Students are torrents of emotion, finishing those last lessons and holding tight to the community they’ve built with their teachers over the last nine months, even as their words say they can’t WAIT for school to be over.

As parents, we look forward to time with our babies, big and small. Our stress begins to melt as we look at calendars that aren’t packed with events from dawn til dusk. Some of us look forward to a bit of travel, some of us prepare that pool bag, and some of us look longingly at weeks of camp ahead. Regardless of our family plans, we are all about to transition. It’s summer: we’re supposed to feel excitement and relief! And yet, trepidation hides in the shadows.

Summertime can be driven by the things that make you happy.

Read On

What Comes Next?

Alrighty, my lovely reader. I’ve written about moving home, minimalism, mothering, kids, creating stuff, writing a novel. Each month I feel like I have a brand new idea. Actually, I have lots of ideas, but many of them fit into my Won’t Write About That Publicly File.

Such non-starters include:

*Explicit stories about my kids’ private thoughts and lives (too many future therapy bills)

*Dragging strangers over the coals to be funny (trying to spread kindness here, even though I feel like there could be a bitingly wonderful blog post about that one woman who moans throughout an entire yoga class…)

*The Basic Mommy Blog that goes “I hate my life and my choices and my children with a burning passion for 8 paragraphs except for the last paragraph where everything is sunshine and rainbows because I now I feel guilty let’s publish this yeah!” (Those are inauthentic, disturbing, and sappy all congealed together in a burning crockpot of slop. Not to mention the fact that I like my life and my choices and my children and I would like them all to like me back…)

*My teaching job (dancing on the edge of ethics and also against the actual law in many instances)

I’ll tell you a secret. Something that has interested me for awhile would be an online book, published chapter by chapter in monthly increments. You can read for free, get a taste of my storytelling abilities, and then, Godwilling, when I finishing Draft 2 of The Ripple of Stones, find an editor, the editor finds a publisher, and the thing actually comes into being, you may want to actually spend a small bit of $ to buy the thing! After all, you’ve already read one! Why not another? Really, it’d be a twofer.

But still. You’ve stuck with me this long. I would like to know what interests you. What is valuable to your time and attention when you receive these tomes in your inbox each month?

So for this month’s installment, we’re going to turn this blog into a Goosebumps-themed Choose Your Own Adventure! My darling reader, would you please take this lovely poll?

Subscribers, you may have to click over to the website to take the poll. Thanks for the extra click!!

As always, thank you for reading. See you in June!

Minimalist Kids

4:42 p.m

We pile into the house and my voice echoes in the living room. A daily admonishment to put the shoes away, hang the coats. I pull the half-bent folders out of the backpacks, wiping the strawberry smear off of the shiny cover of one of them. There are papers to sign, flyers asking for donations of money and time, more decisions to make and events to squish into a packed calendar. Notes from friends flutter to the floor. My son’s folder is crammed with “seat work,” adorable bears and narwhals counted and sorted and colored with crayons.

In exactly forty-eight minutes, my daughter is due on a soccer field across town. She is to be fed, clothed in layers of sports frocks, hair pulled up (that’ll be a battle…), and carrying her bag, ball, and bottle of water. Do her earrings need to be out for practice or just games? I can’t remember.

I’ve been exhausted since I was thirty. Everyone’s exhausted.”

Read On

Unburied

I gazed at the mountain of plastic bags and felt anger flow through my veins. We’d spent months donating and selling our stuff.  An actual truck had come to haul half a house of furniture away. How was there this much left for the landfill? All of the plastic plush precious things I thought were so important were now shoved in black bags, off to pollute the Earth.  I shook my head.

What had we been doing?

When the good husband and I got married, we combined our lives into one unified household, stuffing the past in the basement. As our lives expanded, the boxes of stuff accumulated and got put away in bigger and bigger basements.  Eight years later, we made the big decision to move home to Michigan.  We also made the choice to value location over square footage. This meant a big downsize.  

It was time to face the Stuff.


“It doesn’t matter what objects leave our lives; the experiences are still there.”

Read On

IMDb For Books

Volume 1

The good husband had a brilliant thought this week: what if there was an IMDb for books?

You know when you finish a movie or – le gasp – a TV series and you’re in denial that it’s actually over, so you hop onto IMDb to read all the trivia?

Would this not be so much fun???

Wouldn’t it be cool to know if Harry Potter’s name was originally Steve? Or if J.R.R. Tolkien’s famous ring was based on toe-ring his wife bought on their honeymoon? Or, what if the publisher of “Little Women” had really pressured Ms. Alcott to change her title to “Dutiful Girls” but she was a pioneering feminist who said “No, these characters are strong, independent women, even if they are young?”

I visited the Gone With the Wind Museum with one of my best friends and found out that Margaret Mitchell broke her leg, got bored sitting around and was like, “Eh, maybe I’ll write a book.”

Are you kidding me????


Read On

Red Flags

R

You know what’s fun about editing your novel? Reading through the passages you wrote months ago, especially all the character development and sweet meet-cutes.

You know what’s less fun? Realizing that the Love Interest’s flaws would completely scare the Main Character away based on small but integral incidents that influence her internal journey written in the beginning of the book. Incidents you completely forgot that you wrote.

A believable Love Interest has to have flaws. These flaws inevitably create conflict and shape major drama throughout the romantic story arc. Love Interest’s flaws might be forgivable to you, the author, but it’s really super great when you realize that these flaws are not at all forgivable to Main Character.

We’re getting close to Valentine’s Day. I don’t know where you are on your romantic journey, but I feel pretty confident that we all have one or two “what the **** was I thinking?!?” experiences. Because I need a new flaw for my Love Interest (or a new character history for my Main Character…)I made this little poll.

(side note – I learned how to embed a poll INTO the website. And GIFs -did you notice??? I’m basically Steve Jobs now.)

In honor of Love Interest’s Flaws, and those relationship flaws we’d rather forget, I invite you to participate!

Which Red Flag trait in a potential romantic partner would absolutely send you running for the hills? All responses anonymous – dig some love-based fury out of your heart and throw it on the blog. Have fun and as always, THANK YOU FOR READING!!

I Just Decided To

The worst last words are, ” I wish I would’ve…”

These things we plan for When: when we have time, when we have money, when we retire… what are they?

During the minimalist ritual of Throwing Out The Stuff, I discovered an old notebook, buried deep in a box. It is truly a beautiful object. My dad brought it back from a business trip to India years ago. The textured sepia cover features an inset picture painted on hand-crafted paper. A lady dances by a stream, her crimson sari waving in the breeze. You have to look closely to see all the little details; the cover almost begging to be opened.

Inside, I found my younger self, scrawled in purple ink. I had even given my little book a title: “Random Words.”

I was so deep at fifteen.

Settling myself on the cold cement floor of the basement storage room, I leafed through more pages. Pencil sketches of wide-brimmed trees, lakes with rivers leading into the horizon, a portrait of a friend. Each drawing accompanied a poem I had written. The purple scrawl told of maiden heartbreak, the tribulations of adolescence. Death, who came for a friend much too soon.

The illustrations I had drawn were rough, but the words… my words, even teeming as they were with teenage angst… They held truth.

“It was gnawing at me from Someday, aching to be created.”

Read On

Creative Spaces

Virginia Woolf said “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” J.K. Rowling recently got trolled on Twitter as an elitist for mentioning her writing room in her little Scottish castle. Let me tell you, if “The Ripple of Stones”

A. gets published,

B. I turn it into a series,

C. Hollywood options it for a blockbuster franchise and

D. It become a cultural phenomenon with its very own theme park,

I too will have myself a writing room in a castle in Scotland. Y’all can come visit.

Read On

The Road Home



I gazed out of the car window, trying not to sigh audibly. The landscape was dismal and gray, no semblance of sun. When we left Atlanta that morning, the airplane rose gracefully over fields of fuchsia crepe myrtle and creamy silk magnolia blooms winking among the dark waxy leaves. Spring arrives early in the South, waltzing beautifully in after short, mild winters.

But I was no longer in the South. I was home. In Michigan.

…in March.

Everything was weary, from the clouded sky to the dead ground to the haggard, frustrated face of the puffer-coat swathed woman who had snapped at my children as we shivered in the cold, awaiting my husband’s arrival.

The drive to my husband’s hometown, what was to be our new hometown, was mercifully brief. I looked up at the gray trees and tried to imagine them as they would be in Michigan spring, two months hence. Delicate green and yellow leaves, flecked birch bark, the distinct sweetness of fragile Michigan warmth in the air. A bit of white on the dormant trees caught my eye and I smiled. Perhaps it had snowed. Our young kids would love the snow. Sledding, skiing, building snowmen; these were their inheritance. Maybe this would all be ok.

“I laid down a life-long shackle: fear.”

Read On

✕

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