Author of the novel WHEN YOU LOSE CONTROL

This was a strange and interesting year to put it mildly.  In February, I started my novel, in June, I finished the first draft. During the summer and the fall I learned the heartbreak and ache of querying.  I started blogging again and doing creative things; including needle felting, making earrings, and making ornaments.  Concerts came back and I saw Billy Joel for the 11th time, Guns N Roses for the 2nd, and The Monkees for the last.   It was largely a really good year and I hope, so sincerely, that this coming year is going to be even better.  Happy New Year!

Let's see if I actually keep these new year's resolutions: See my novel published Take care of myself- mentally and with pedicures. Also, eating better because I've eaten a lot of garbage this year and it shows. Be nicer and more sensitive. Be curious, not judgemental.  Follow-through on house projects. 

It's 80° with no humidity and the perfect blend of sun and clouds.  There's a beach with clean, magenta and tan sand that leads to very warm calm, waves.  A luxe and heavy towel is laid flat and stays spread out, never blowing away or finding itself out of place.  There's a chair and thatched roof awning that shields a stack of books and thick coconut drinks.  A hut with a deep tub and cozy bed are off to the right.  No one is around and I am free to watch scampering lizards in a bug free paradise.  Somehow, it is always an hour until sunset and cold isn't a word here. It is timeless and free from sadness or fear or anxiety.  The ultimate fantastical getaway. 

My husband got me a Cameo of Barry Williams for Christmas, and it was...exquisite. Best Christmas gift I've ever received. I've loved Greg and the Bunch since I was about four or five, so for 30+ years.  Mr. Williams was delightful, kind, cheery, and completely adorable. It made my life, not just my Christmas.  He also wished me well on my novel, which was a shocking surprise and made me tear up. What's even better is he congratulated me on my book before my parents. Greg Brady commented on my novel before my parents. Love. It.  Happy Holidays, all. #BarryWilliams #GregBrady #cameo 

This Festivus season remember: Don't let the tinsel distract you Don't be a scab Don't reign blows down on someones head Do air your grievances Do watch your lighting Do celebrate the rest of us Happy Festivus to all, and to all a successful feats of strength!

Recently, my dad stopped by my house to drop off a couple of boxes full of things from my childhood. It was primarily drawings I had made and coloring books I had filled.  As I picked up one drawing from when I was about seven, judging by the date, I couldn't help but say, "I wish my art had been encouraged." The drawing was good, and it made me sad that I was never allowed to take any sort of art lesson, class, or be involved in any sort of arts program. My parents never encouraged any of my strengths, my ability to read far above my grade level, my artistic talents, and they certainly never gave a shit about my severe, life-affecting, crippling anxiety. Caring, noticing, and effort was never apart of their repertoire. I stood there with the paper in my hand and felt a regret for the loss of time and unfostered ability. With a scowl, my dad barked, "You had crayons!"

Yesterday, my husband and I were brushing our cat's teeth. We do it per the instructions of our veterinarian, and get it done every Saturday morning. All 5 of our cats hate it, but we get it done quickly and efficiently. (Years ago, one of our cats, who had horrible teeth when we got him, needed $900 worth of dental surgery to fix his problems.) So, in the interest of not making our cats experience a dental surgery, we brush their teeth.  Anyway, back to Saturday morning.  We brushed the teeth of our first 4 cats and couldn't find our 5th. Our house is exceedingly small, so we were a little confused because there's only so many places he could be.   We searched every room, even looking in places we knew he wouldn't be able to fit. Couldnt find him. After a couple of hours, I told my husband I found the cat, he was sitting on the bed. Great, let's brush his teeth and leave him be. I go to grab my cat off the top of the bed and he scurries away and disappears in the b

I love my button ring and I've had it since 2007. It's one of the few feminine things I actually like. I'm pretty butch and get teased for it and hilariously today I just learned today that: " In ancient times, the body piercing was a sign of manliness and courage. According to some sources, Egyptian pharaohs believed that navel rings  were emblems of the ritual transition from life on earth to eternity ." I love it, haha. Besides, gender norms are stupid. 

Perhaps there's something to This manifesting thing Perhaps I wasn't foolish to dream This just may take wing  Perhaps this is it This is my happiness about to ring Perhaps I have done it This makes my heart want to sing

I curled up under The Christmas tree Laying beneath  The fake crinkly branches Looking up at White lights And over At the hockey game The sounds of UPN And Neely to Oates The smells of dust And attic Decades later I stretch out On my own couch To enjoy the view Of playful cats  Settling into A green and sparkly Cuddly space Maybe this time of year Isn't so bad If the focus remains On the sweet and fleeting Moments 

Forty-three days ago I was so excited But I also knew  It was the end That farewell Meant just that I wore my decades old dress Took the last few straws Of childhood  And had one last brush With the long ago No guitar Only smiles and song A love of thirty years And yours of many more Two heroes of my youth My always Truth be told So I did my parting Fuller and happy Doleful and nostalgic  Went about the world Still listening I know I'll never stop In a mix of mushy snow I thought of October The love you bring Wondering when  Dreading it The intuition planted  And so the pass The end An inevitable I was dreading My heart a drum beat As I searched for the truth And then confirmed it He was looking For the door To the next For he has all that he needs RIP, Mike Nesmith. Gone but never forgotten. 

She peered into  The second story  Gable window At the tall boy Penny pencil in hand Bent over  His words, his world Gold rimmed glasses Framed his  Handsome face As a dreamy smile Was on his lips He seemed to glow Brighter than the afternoon She longed to feel To escape Or create  The way he did  But what, she wondered, Could he possibly need To get away from He lived in a lovely home On a welcoming farm With pleasant people The kind mother who baked The strong father who provided Six brothers and sisters His life seemed perfect She sighed as she walked away Time to return to where She never wanted to be Dust covering her feet Ache hardening her heart Sadness, grief for what wasn't   Yearning to climb through that window

I looked at my Fitbit. It was 1:00. Fredrick would sleep until about 2:30. We would leave to pick up Francis from preschool at 2:45. I had time to start another load of laundry. I should probably add Fredricks' clothes in as well; he went through onesies like crazy. I gazed down the foyer, then up the tan carpeted stairs. I wanted to pass out from exhaustion just thinking about climbing up to the second floor and making my way into the baby's room. I sighed but started walking. I paused at the foot of the staircase. I felt my eyes closing as I began to dredge myself up. I was using the railing excessively, but that only made my arms as tired as my legs and the rest of my body.  When I finally reached the top, I wanted to cry. Something was very wrong. I'd been exhausted before, but not like this. I looked down the hallway. There was no way I could make it to Fredricks' room to collect his laundry, and I certainly couldn't make the journey back down the stairs.   Sen

Two hearts knit together  In quarantined Manhattan Sorry for the social climate In love but scared, found yet lost But hopeful, holding on to precious love They had each other and much more  Both shared their guilt and fear Tried to use their voices Though they shook, they spoke Never wanting things to be the same Each morning thankful for logic and heroes  Belief and trust in science The actor a reader, the writer acting Not knowing the way out in the end Doubtful but confident of much and more I shall be say this with an eyeroll As of yet their story remains known only to me Two hearts, three, with mine I try each and every day to share  This novel, their story, the world will know someday (Heavily inspired by the Robert Frost poem The Road Not Taken)

My heart is beating So loudly It hurts my ears Fingers shaking Ten tiny earthquakes The room is spinning I can't breathe But in a good way An exhilarating way I'm on the brink Maybe this is it Perhaps verging closer To success A long time coming  A lot of aching Trying, failing, giving up But trying again Having hope Resilience And now, just maybe, A Scarsdale surprise 

Five days every week Spent away from what I love  I want to go home  It takes all my spoons  The lonely highway commute Unfulfilling job 

After taking a DNA test a couple of years ago, I found out I'm 4% Ashkenazi Jewish. I was surprised and proud; I had no idea I was Jewish! For as long as I can remember, I had been drawn to Jewish culture and traditions, so I thought it was pretty cool that I actually was part Jewish.  Having never been to Temple and obviously never been mitzvahed, I wasn't sure what to make of my newly discovered heritage. It was great, but for lack of a better word, was I 'allowed' to celebrate this part of myself? I understand 4% isn't a lot, but regardless, it meant (means) a lot to me. When I wrote my novel, I based the main character loosely on myself. As the story in my book approached the Hanukkah season, I felt my character would be in a similar situation, Jewish and proud, yet still unsure how to enjoy that part of her heritage. It was a perfect bridge to help me understand this part of myself.  One of my favorite passages to write in the book was how part-Jewish Marla cel

I used to guest write on a blog called Sox Talks. Please enjoy four excerpts from an  April 2010 entry... Sp eechless in Seattle Boston "The 2010 Red Sox season has been underway for almost exactly one month, and I still don’t know what to say or what to make of them.  I had more of an opinion in the off-season.  Now, I just find myself stumped. What do I make of these guys?  The opening day game had me calling everyone a bum.  Sheesh, I usually save that kind of talk for late August or September." "Look at the stat board; they’re in fourth place in the AL East, and they’re three games under 500...So, what’s the problem? I guess the most obvious problem is the partial loss of Tek.  No one can call a game as he does, and it shows."  "As much as I hate to say it, look at the Yankees.  How many big guys are on the team? They’ve got Jeter, A-Rod, Teixeira, Posada…these are some major producers.  Who do we have on the Sox?" "The Sox season is supposed to

It's chilly Twilight  Perhaps panic My heart Beat-ing Beat-ing I can't move There's weight  I force my Eyes open Thump-ing Thump-ing I see  Only white Not fear  Not mine Puls-ing Puls-ing Like a scarf My cat His heart My ear Thud-ding Thud-ding

As a neglected child I learned to  Fear And hate Attention  Because if someone Wasn't ignoring you They were Yelling Or belittling  So I became  The shadows Silent and cold Or a doormat Stepped on Scraped Afraid of sounds Dreading conflict  Yet somehow Silence unnerved me Like a calm Before a  Violent storm Anguish, sadness, and pain Woven together in  A long braid A childhood As an open wound And still Much later I bleed

Ruxin A baby and a man Soft white thumbs Padding down the hall Loki Fluffy, floofy, feline Tawny or ginger or orange Proper English gentleman  Spike Brooklyn born House panther bound Stealing all the food Fred Aptly named Small pawed trickster  Purring, snow colored, scarf George The other half of the duo Unamused loaf of bread Hiding in a cupboard 

"Too real is this feeling of make believe" But what else do I know?  Fake it till you make it. How much longer do I have to fake it? I've been doing this my whole life to no avail.  I wouldn't know how to stop faking it. 

I find that I am always  Where I don't want to be  Nothing is as it should I have no control in me Overlooked and ignored  The bottom of a slush pile Will it ever happen  Or am I doomed to fake my smile Unsatisfied all the time A life so bland, so vanilla I have the princess Diana of jobs But I want the Camilla  I just want so much more To be able to create and enjoy Finding value rather than   Destined to watch my soul destroy 

After hanging up our coats and my purse, Enzo gestured around,      "It's not much, but the rent is sky high and the kitchen sink clogs once a month!" I let out a little laugh,      "It's nice! And I love the view. The city looks so beautiful from up here." I couldn't help but smile as I looked out the window at the people on the sidewalk, and listened to the cars and tourists. The wind blew in and I breathed the smell of autumn, subway, and metal windowscreen. I turned around to see Enzo smiling at me. "What?"      "Nothing." He shrugged a little, then reached out one hand. I took it, and he pulled me close and kissed me. When he leaned back he said,      "I'd give you the tour of the rest of my apartment but," He motioned around, "This is it."       "But what about the bedroom?" I turned redder than my sweater as soon as I said it, immediately shutting my eyes in embarasment.  Enzo laughed out loud.

I scream. The kind of scream that bellows and pans out and out and out over the world and spans the universe.  I look down. The tip of my pinkie throbs and balloons up, looking like a fat purple gumdrop.  I feel revolted at the thought of the wasp stinger which has just been lodged deep in my flesh. I am poisoned by venom and memory. I begin to wheeze and awkwardly crash to the cement, which is cooking in the sun and burns my legs. I see my grape gumdrop is joined by small strawberry gumdrops, little pink candies, spreading over my hands and arms.  I look up and see sky. Soft white, baby blue, black.

I zig zagged in between an endless maze of tables, and finally caught sight of the yellow dress again. There she was. I walked up to her just as she was starting to stand up. She didn't hear or see me and seemed quite startled as I got close and said,       "Hi, I'm Jason."  She stared into my eyes, her mouth open, her cheeks flushed. She tried to stand up all the way and simultaneously looked ecstatic and mortified. She stumbled against her chair, fell into the butter on the table, and made no sound. Part of me wanted to run away because I felt terrible, the other part wondered if she was deaf, and maybe thats why she was startled and hadn't spoken. I quickly racked my memory, then slowly signed,      "Hi, my name is Jason."  She started to sign back, but then, she she shook her head and spoke,      "I'm Melody."  I almost had to have her repeat her name, I was so enamored with her eyes. They were green, startlingly green, like the color o

Shuffle crunch  Twigs snap Leaves rustle A rock plops in the river  Hike up Wind whirls  Acorns fall A dog shakes off the water Green way Mud patches  Sun glistens  A red and amber field

Curly haired drummer For decades, the face and voice Laughing unrestrained  Tall bard, Texas twang The leader in emerald hat Profound gratitude  Of February  Quiet and shy the act Bass guitar and never far Just because I'm short The British knight on his steed  First to say goodbye 

Bent over his work A cispontine cordwainer  He is unhappy 

An agent I queried months ago, who rejected me months ago, sent me an email yesterday saying (I'm paraphrasing): In case you missed my last email, you're rejected and I can't offer you representation.  They then went on to state that this email was because they think they may have had some sort of computer glitch. Yeah, okay. Funnily enough, the query process has been an excruciating procedure of putting all my hope and dream eggs into your inconsiderate basket, so belive it or not, I paid very close attention to any correspondence regarding queries.  I honestly didn't think this process could get any worse, but here we are.  In querying, a lot of agencies say they'll get back to you within X amount of time and if they don't, it's a no. It's pretty standard. I already received the rejection email, from an email address that was a "do not reply" and either way, we were way past the time frame.  November happens to be national novel writing month

Halloween is over, daylight savings ends on Sunday, and everyone is effectively celebrating Christmas. This is my least favorite time of year. I'm trying to not be depressed, I'm trying to smile and not roll my eyes when I see the tacky red and green decorations, I'm trying to feign happiness and contentment but I don't think I'm succeeding.  It's hard to fake it when I know I'll be freezing until April...when the sun sets before dinner...when snow is coming...and my novel, which once made me kind of happy again...is now the bane of my existence. I'm embarrassed I announced to the world that I wrote a novel, since no one wants to read it or will have anything to do with it.  I was a depressed, miserable, negative, anxious mess in high school, worse than a dumpster fire. I'm rapidly falling back into that, after swearing I never would.  Life isn't what I expected or planned. I'm completely unfulfilled. I feel like a loser at all times. It'

Last night was my third, and possibly last, time seeing Micky Dolenz in concert. I was at Mohegan Sun for The Monkees Farewell Tour/The Mike and Micky Show.  I've been a huge Micky fan since I was about five. I grew up watching The Monkees reruns on Nick at Nite, read Micky Dolenz biography, and often wore a Monkees shirt as a kid. Now, as an adult with a house, I have my stash of vintage Monkees magazines and autographed Micky Dolenz drumsticks.  In my mind, The Monkees are all alive and perpetually 20 somethings. They're all together, making us laugh and up to crazy/hippie/60s/boy band shenanigans. But, that is not reality and that is okay.  Micky and Mike are the last surviving members and both are in their late 70s. They seem grateful, seasoned, and remain playful. Mickys voice, miraculously, still sounds the same and it provides deep comfort, a voice I've counted on for 30 years. Mike has lost some of his Texas twang, but made up for it with his adorable, grandpa-like

Wrapping up my BSC essays, I thought it was only fair to mention some of the supporting actors who've really done an amazing job.  Marc Evan Jackson as Richard has been the surprise hit of the series for me. I think his character updates have been some of the best in the whole show. Richard in the books felt a bit...much. He was over the top in just about every way and it never quite made sense way he and Sharon were attracted to each other. (Yes, they were high school sweethearts, but why?) In the show, he comes off real and relatable. Still uptight, but much more believable. I also loved the bond he formed with Dawn about preferring things neat and orderly and the importance of letting go. I absolutely loved Richard in this series and hope they'll eventually follow the Richard and Sharon story line.  Watson is another character from the books whom I never really liked. I appreciated that it was hard to meld his and Elizabeth's families but...I don't know he never real

Anais Lee plays Jessi and she is incredibly talented, absolutely shining in her role. She does a great job bringing the 11 year old, practically professional ballerina, to life.  Jessi in the books, like a lot of the other characters, sometimes came off way too mature and accomplished for her age. The show and the actress both humanize Jessi very well and make her believable.  This season we finally met Jessi's family and they too come off much more believable in the show. Aunt Ceceilia was left out and honestly, I think it's for the best. In the books all she did was take out her frustrations on the Jessi and her siblings, with Jessi and Becca getting the worst of it and 99% of the time they didn't deserve it. Interestingly, *SPOILER* they kept the Jessi and Derek Masters plot line. Derek has been updated to be an internet star and momentarily, Jessi wants to join him, or at least try.  Side note, Jessi very briefly tries to join Derek in his endeavors and her mom calls he

Growing up, I was a Mallory, I wanted to be a Stacey. I remember loathing my glasses and braces and cursing the fact that I wasn't able to resemble my favorite character in any way, but I digress.  Mallory is played by Vivian Watson and she does such a lovely job. At first this season, I wasn't sure why Mallory was coming off as annoying but when I thought about it, it makes sense. She's younger than the other girls and she wants to fit in and make a good impression, so she comes off strong.  I love that Mallory is this excitable go-getter in the show and that her personality isn't defined by glasses, braces, and having a million siblings.  It's also nice to see Mallory coming off more real. In the books she acts like a 16 year old in terms of maturity and seems like she's a practically a prodigy. While yes, of course there are people like that, sometimes Mallory came off not believable in the books. The show humanizes her. The show has definitely focused on the

I am so stoked about all the Dawn changes that have been made! I adore that she's Latina and I think having her dad be gay made her story so much more interesting! I am so here for all the representation.  Getting right into it, the way Dawn casually mentioned *SPOILER* that she's pansexual and the kind way that Mary-Anne was nothing but supportive was probably my favorite moment in the entire series. Wow. I pride myself on having a cold, dead, heart but this ice queen melted. Well done, BSC! I hope anyone who comes out has as good of an experience as Dawn did. That's how coming out stories should go, love and acceptance. Amazing. I also think the changes they made to Dawn's mom, Sharon have been great. She almost seemed a little too 'scatterbrained' in the books to function, and the series makes her seem more realistic and less like an over the top character. It's trance sort of strange how they got rid of Jeff altogether but I get it, if you only have 10 e

Women crush Wednesday! Oh my god, I have wanted to be Stacey McGill since I started reading the books in kindergarten/late 1991. She's always been my favorite character, with Claudia as a close second.  Stacey was everything I wasn't; great at math, fashionable, confident, pretty, blonde, posh, metropolitan, I could go on and on. I remember thinking her perms were so cool and grown up and I longed to be her. Even her diabetes didn't get her down, sometimes it would land her in the hospital, but she would learn from it, manage her disease better, and get stronger. She was my hero as a kid. I'm so glad that Stacey remained largely unchanged in the new series. Probably the only big difference is Stacey has an insulin pump now. Love the modern take! All of the BSC characters, in the books, were always wise/mature beyond their age, Stacey especially. She was able to navigate NYC and live her life like a full grown adult, so it made sense *SPOILER* for the series to have her

I have to start by saying that Malia Baker is just perfectly cast as Mary-Anne! In my opinion, all of the updates to Mary-Anne have been very well crafted. I love that she's half black and half white. I love how her narrative was written- the way she balances being really shy and hating conflict with standing up for the kids she babysits or herself feels modern and realistic.  I also adore how they've celebrated Mary-Anne's natural hair. As someone who was born with very hard to manage, 2B, hair, I always felt bad about it growing up. All the cool girls had pin straight hair, hair like mine was either looked down on or made fun of and having someone like Mary-Anne on TV when I was a kid definitely would've helped me accept myself. I say it a lot, representation matters! (Side note, in the books, when Mary-Anne got her makeover, I thought it was cool and ballsy,  but then looking at her haircut on the cover kind of negated it for me. Short hair can be awesome, and I'

Continuing with my BSC essay series, today's entry is all about Stoneybrook's favorite artist.  Vice President of the BSC, Claudia Kishi, has always been so damn cool. She's got a rich, Japanese, heritage, she's an amazing artist, she dresses like a unique badass, and just like me, she's terrible at math. I always wanted to be as cool as Claudia. Momona Tamada is the exact embodiment of Claudia and really shines on the show. All the actresses who've played Claudia (HBO series and 90's movie) have been great, but Momona is exceptional. It's been a delight seeing such a great character come to life.  In *SPOILER* sad episodes, like when Mimi passes away, Momona effortlessly conveys all the sadness and heartache Claudia is experiencing. (30 years later and Mimi dying is still so sad!) Like Kristy, Claudia hasn't had lots of updates, but she hasn't really needed them. One of the only major changes to the character is her wardrobe. Claudia dressed muc

**Spoilers for Season 2 of The BSC on Netflix** Kristy Thomas, BSC president and founder. Fearless leader, tomboy, and the shortest girl in her grade.  In the books, Kristy, though just 13, was basically a forty year old adult in terms of management and business skills. Full-time middle school student, practically a full-time babysitter, and she founded a little league-esq softball team for kids.  In the series, Kristy is perfectly played by the actress Sophie Grace. We've yet to see Kristy's softball team, the Krushers, but she's otherwise extremely similar to her book character. One of the major differences is in the books Kristy is a Mets fan and on the show (much to my delight) she's a Red Sox fan.  I think it's really comforting that Kristy has been fairly the same in each adaption of the BSC- the HBO show, the movie, and now the Netflix show. Fans know that Kristy can be counted on to have a baseball cap with a collie dog on it, don her trusty turtleneck, and

As I've previously mentioned, The Baby-Sitrers Club series has meant an awful lot to me since I was about five or so. The girls were everything I wanted to be and became like real friends. The books and dolls were some of the only things I kept from my childhood, that I still have today.  When it was announced that the series was getting re-booted, I was ecstatic and really nervous. What if my beloved series was totally ruined, just another failed revamp? Thankfully, I've had nothing to worry about. Just like season one, season two had me crying, a few times. It was partially do to brilliant writing and partially due to my happiness in knowing future generations will get to know these girls and their uplifting friendship stories.  As a life long fan of the franchise, I'm overjoyed with the outcome. Since  Ann M. Martin, the BSC creator, made me to be an author, (with some help from Judy Blume and a little help from Paul Zindel) with her amazing series, I thought it would be

I'm Linda Belcher, just replace the wine with coffee. I'm Daria Morgendorfer, just minus the privilege.  I'm Chandler Bing, just with different parents. I'm April Ludgate, just with a different job. I'm not where I thought I'd be. I'm rejected; novel, poems, and art. I'm not in the job I want. I'm trying, really hard, to stay positive. 

I attended my first writers group last night.  Nine people registered, three of us showed up, one more joined in much later. Of the authors, one was an already published person with a second book on the way, one had begun writing a mysterious historical fiction, one had started a dystopian utopian YA fiction novel, and then there was me. Socially awkward doesn't begin to describe me...and then my laptop wouldn't work...and then my phone froze and I couldn't unmute myself, etc. etc. However, I'm glad I went, I'm proud I tried. The post finishing a novel life has been very depressing, disheartening, and soul sucking, so im impressed that I'm still standing, still trying. ☆~Illegitimi non carborundum~☆

Traveling is one of my favorite things to do and I haven't been able to do it since the very end of January 2020.  Oftentimes, I find myself fantasizing about Greece or Spain or Hawaii. Anyplace that's different from New England, really.  On my way home from work today, I started to daydream about a vacation, and remembered a funny story from a plane ride six years ago. At the time, I was working at a daycare. My husband and I had Friday-Friday off. I was so excited for sunshine, beaches, and quiet- a stark contrast from the small, dimly lit preschool, with wood chip covered playgrounds and constant noise.  Elated, instead of usual nervous flyer self, I happily made my way to my seat and settled in. I took out my headphones and plugged them in, ready to mindlessly watch a movie and zone out.  My TV was broken. It was stuck, loudly, on Doc McStuffins.

Grey backdrop for my pain No more dreams to entertain  Words poured from my heart are slain I guess I'm meant for the mundane  Perhaps I was quite insane To venture on my strange campaign I resent it all, so much disdain  To the world, what does hope pertain? Like the moon, ambition will wane Back it goes, right down the drain Confidence I shan't regain For everything, all done in vain

Anxious anxiety Never ceases  Biting lips Panic increases  Chronic worry Constant torment Persistent rumination  Placid lament  Buried face Unwanted thinking Great pretender Capability sinking Doesn't stop Won't leave Perpetual obstacle  Not undeceive

I came here to post a poem I finished this morning, but instead I submitted it to a magazine! It feels so good and so strange to be actually putting myself out there and trying to write again.  Scary, but oddly freeing.  Wish me luck! And good luck to all the other authors and poets trying to get their work out and into the world!

My mother taught me That all dogs were Scary She said Evey dog would try and Bite me She ran If we saw one, Leaving me She told Frightening stories about Mean dogs Now I go to bed Every night Cuddling two My big, blue-eyed  Catahoula Leopard  Dog My smaller, silly Lemon beagle and Hound mix They are the Kindest  Dogs  And they are The very best Snugglers It's neither the first Nor the last time She is wrong

Since my long and formal edit/overhaul of my novel, I have submitted 5 more queries. The last 4 were sent through to the 2021 PitMad event.  I've done a total of 45 queries now. I've received 16 rejections. 10 sounded like they never read my work and/or they were the basic automated "thanks, but no thanks." 5 were nice and came with some compliments. 1 was amazing and I actually saved it. The agent ended the email with a personalized message and told me to keep at, that they believed I'd realize my publishing dreams and they would be very interested in my future writing projects. The querying road is long and lonely, but I really hope it leads somewhere happy and fulfilling. I kind of feel like Dorothy, except I'm trying to get to Oz and stay there.

Slow down and take the time to listen, really listen.  Maybe it's taking time to sit down with a song you've heard a thousand times and really, deeply, listen to it. Really hear the words, the meaning. Maybe learn the story behind it. 

I hate querying. I hate putting myself out there. I hate that the numbers are incredibly stacked against me and there's little to no chance that an agent even reads my submission, let alone reads it and makes a full request.  I hate that someone, some stranger, has so much power over my life and my dream. I hate not having control. I hate that I'm questioning being good enough to self publish but knowing I need an editior and I just hate this process. I hate that because of some stranger my work, my soul, is in a slush pile. That I could self publish but then just end up ignored in the abyss of Amazon.  I hate that I know I won't feel this was worthwhile or successful until an agent, some stranger, actually takes notice and a chance. I hate that writing my novel felt like I was in a dream, a good dream, a movie even, and now I just feel upset and disgruntled and disenchanted. I wrote my novel because I had to. Something came over me, a story came over me, and I had to get i

Speak it into existence.  I realized that whispering "my novel will be published" was not the same as speaking it. I sat in the library parking lot and said, actually spoke the words out loud, in a confident voice, "my novel will be published." How many tries will it take? How long until my statement becomes "my novel is published," I wonder? Do my whispers count? What about all the times I've repeated it in my head? Does ESP count when one attempts to speak something into existence? I've done the work. I sat down, wrote my novel, and edited my novel. A lot. Like, a lot. For two weeks I did nothing but. I have a degree in writing. I've tried querying, PitMad, networking and making social media accounts... My novel will be published.  Couldn't hurt to write it down, could it?

Sensitive to sounds Too much clamor Cut to imagine of The Grinch Noise, noise, noise  It's not like I need silence More, an absence  Of the pounding against the floor Slam, slam, slam Maybe just a break From incessant words Constant, squeaking, racket Shrill, shrill, shrill Fade away, away Sounds become light music The wind, a rustle, gravel Hush, quiet, still

The library was my happy place as a kid. To this day, I adore the smell of paperback books and the tapping sound a plastic mat makes against industrial carpet as someone walks over it. I still find comfort in seeing stacks and stacks of books, and I adore the blissful hush among all the words, ideas, and text.  A few days ago, I was at the library with the kids I nanny. I was explaining to the three year old that while yes, he loves dinosaurs, he probably wouldn't enjoy the picture-less encyclopedia-like book about them, much less be able to pick it up. I was growing exasperated and took a seat on the floor to try and explain everything to him, again. A little girl with a Mrs. Wallace haircut (I very much prefer this term) came up to me and said with equal parts terror and neccessary confidence,      "Hi, my name is _______. I'm in the first grade and today was my second day of school. I just moved here. Can you please help me find books about geese? I saw some today and I

There was a tree at the edge of a swamp, a perfectly normal tree. It wasn't too tall, or too small. It took in just enough sun and all the water it wanted. Some of its roots arched up at the waters edge and if the conditions were just right, the occasional squirrel or chipmunk would scury around and under the dark, damp, roots.  The tree liked it best when the entire grove was one expanse of green, when the little animals would run around, when the water and life were still, and when the sun quietly shined down.  Each year as autumn started to come around, the tree would grow weary. It did not want its bright green leaves to turn red. It did not like the crisp air, the wind rippling the water, or the peaceful green blanket becoming a rustling quilt of earthy colors. It especially missed the sunshine, as the nights became longer each day.  However, the seasons do not stop, not even for a tree, and autumn would arrive each year. And each year, the tree would become red, ashamed it no

Back with Mac I hope no sacks It's been too long, I'm glad they're back Touchdowns, let's loose produce   All their victories he's conduce  He's just twenty-three, thereabout  I've been looking at the sky Air Kraft One's so high Forget the hearse 'cause this team'll never die They got ten lives First prize  Winnin' every game and running wild 'Cause they're back Yes, with Mac Well, they're back Yes, with Mac Well, they're back, back Well, with Mac, Mac Yes, Mac in quarterback  (Just a silly parody/ode to Mac Jones to the tune of Back in Black by AC/DC, of which I have no rights/affiliations etc etc.)

An anxious fearful mess You had your first panic attack Before the first grade Mom never liked you She loved your brother  Dad yelled a lot Cold at catholic school  Mrs. Gleason delighted  In bullying you every day Changing to public school The building with moldy carpets Trying to be androgynously invisible  Regional junior high A cheerleader who didn't belong  The blonde kid called you ugly, another spat in your locker  Then we moved to a hick town  Rotten start, poor in every way Dark, choking, depression High school, new school  Bumbling, desperate, confused Panic attacks up to eight times a day I didn't want to go to college  I didn't like it  And to be honest, I still resent it...all of it At least I can say I am relieved and happy To not know you anymore 

After spending what felt like most of August editing, overhauling, and perfecting my novel, I did my first #PitMad. (As of this writing, no responses.)  After the Twitter event, I edited my edits and worked some more on my book. I feel like I'm finally happy with it.  After much apprehension about putting myself out there, again, and possibly (probably?) getting more rejections, I began to query again.  After redoing my query letter (less weakness, more confidence) and changing my summary, synopsis, pitch, etc., I sent out query number 42 yesterday, hoping this one will break the streak.  I ask the universe, please let this work out!

Poem taken down.....possibly publishing it! 

Do you ever feel like the universe is trying to tell you something? Every now and then signs will appear to me. There's no rhyme or reason to it, but sometimes it just feels like there's something in the air, something around you that will reinforce, suggest, etc... As I struggle to find an editor, literary agent, and the confidence to put my book out there-eek!- I've entered into one of those sign-times. Yesterday afternoon, I sat down at my patio table, cranked open the umbrella, and sat down. Two seconds later, a fairly large white spider came crawling out. I yelped and jumped but then wondered, what could it mean? From Uniguide.com:  "The color white symbolizes purity and simplicity. Therefore, seeing a white spider can be a sign to embrace more minimalism and simplicity in your life. This can even relate to your own thought processes. Most of us have very cluttered thought, repurposing the same thoughts over and over that don’t really help us. The white spider say

I participated in my first #pitmad on Twitter today! It's sort of like speed dating, but for writers and literary agents.  As always, I way overprepared. We needed 3 tweets re: our writing project, I had 7. I set alarms for my spaced out throughout the day tweets. I cross promoted on Facebook. The event was great for networking and confidence boosts.We'll see if anything pans out.  I've been trying to get a literary agent since mid June, I'm astounded that people query for years and years and years, this is exhausting! Props to those who never give up. As a life long anxious person who struggles with self-esteem, this whole journey has been very out of my comfort zone. However, with each new foray into the unknown, I feel a little more confident. If nothing else. I'm going to keep trying. 

I took the kids to the farm, where we happened upon a turkey vulture enclosure. I got very excited, as my poet-aunt loves vultures and seems to have a special connection with them. One of the many highlights from my visit with her a couple years back was when she read me her vulture poem-  as we stood in front of it, beautifully framed on her wall.  When we saw the turkey vulture today, his back was towards us and he sort of did an over the shoulder look, and appeared very unamused. Then, he stretched his wings.  To say I was unprepared for his wingspan is a gross understatement. This bird was about two feet tall and his massive black wings spread about six feet wide. The kids and I stood in awe, none of us had seen something like this so up close. The children yelled out,      "He's huge!" I only nodded in agreement as I tried to grab a picture. I kept thinking about the Turkey Vulture all day, and when I got home I started to Google. I read a few articles and came acros

Scared to; Put myself out there. Participate in pitch wars. Begin querying again. Get rejected, again. Fall and/or be embarrassed. See months and months of hard work not amount to anything.  BUT, I am proud that I keep pushing myself and keep going. I'll be scared...but cautiously excited.  Fingers crossed. 

Knocks you on your ass. Makes you want to cry.  Forces you to feel. "Of course I have healed, because I was able to write it. The Story itself is the proof." That is a quote by T Kira Madden, from her essay,  "Against Catharsis." I came across it in the latest issue of Writer's Digest and I've been thinking about it all day. The first piece I wrote, almost ten years after earning my BA in Creative Writing, after ten years of not writing a thing, was my experience with mental and emotional abuse as a kid. When I finished it, I felt like maybe I was healed, or at least well on my way. Three years later, I sit here trying to edit and shop my novel around. I have a good, enjoyable job. I feel like...I've got this. 

Messy bun, chipped nail polish, hunched back, blue light overdose- but damnit, I just finished a major edit and overhaul of my novel.  I was convinced it was done back in June. Then I did some edits and was convinced it was perfect. Then I did a lot of queries. A lot. Then I did nothing for awhile, except get rejections.  My godmother read (what I thought was) my completed draft (thank you, Queen!) and when she pointed out a few things to me, she opened up my editing floodgates in the best possible way.  Since Saturday morning, and every second I haven't been at work, I have been working on a total overhaul. You couldn't tell me that my original draft wasn't everything and *cringe* I should have climbed down off my high horse a lot sooner. This new draft is ions better. My plan is to take the rest of this week and add the final touches, since next week is #pitmad and I will be wholeheartedly participating.  My dream and my goal is to get my book out by January. I'm terr

The weather in Massachusetts changes more often than David Bowie changed his looks or persona.  We prepared for Hurricane Henri on Saturday morning. All the potted plants came in, the patio furniture was stacked, the umbrella stand and glass table top went on to the porch. We made sure we had candles, and that all the phones and laptops were charged. We hunkered down and waited for the storm.  It lightly misted rain all day Sunday. Five maple leaves fell on our driveway. That was the extent of the storm. Annoying? Yes. Better safe than sorry? Absolutely.  Today at work, that rain was supposed to continue. Instead, it was humid with a mix of sun and clouds. We headed to the woods and ran around outside for hours. After a quick pit stop to gather picnic supplies, we went for a walk and sat down in a field to eat. Not five minutes into lunch, the sky unleashed.  Annoying? Yes. Soaked bodies and soggy food? Also yes. Surprised? No. At least it wasn't snow!

This morning when I woke up, I had a feeling that the beginning of my novel needed a big overhaul. I was fairly certain my instinct was right, but I wasn't sure if I had it in me to edit 95,000 words worth of work on an android.  I wrestled with my revelation before climbing out of bed. As I walked by a window in my house, in my head I went back and forth between "No, It's great" and "I really think the beginning needs a total change" and then I heard a series of chirps. I peered out the window and gasped. In the back yard, in the middle of our only tree, sat a bright red cardinal. Instantly, I knew I was heading in the right direction. I knew to trust my voice and revisit my book.  When my beloved grandmother died years ago, I started seeing cardinals everywhere. I soon learned that when you see a cardinal, it means a deceased loved one is visiting you. Ever since, whenever I felt sad or something was wrong, more often than not, a cardinal would appear.  Af

... your brain were a tangible, physical place, what would it be like? It would be the penthouse apartment in a huge skyscraper in Boston, New York City, or San Francisco. It would shift between the three, depending on my mood.  It would have shag carpeting and a sunken living room, because I've always adored The Brady Bunch and I was born way too late.  It would mix the modern comforts of wifi and food delivery apps and streaming services with vintage furnishings- the more 60's and 70's the better.  It would contain a closet that was huge, absolutely huge, and I would finally have a closet big enough to fit my abusrd amount of clothes. It would come with cats, an absurd amount of cats, all rescues and all loved and adored.  It would have books, books floor to ceiling. Books with paper pages and softcovers, books that don't glow or need to be plugged in. Most of all, it would be free of anxiety, depression, and self doubt. A sanctuary.

The first friends I ever had were characters from books. My mother wouldn't play with me, or let me go to preschool, so I was very lonely until kindergarten. In the meantime, I had books.  I started reading by kindergarten- partially out of necessity for my sanity, and partially because my dad, who worked 6 days a week, sat down and helped me along. Towards the end of kindergarten, I discovered The Baby-Sitters Club books and I was instantly hooked.  By the time first grade came around, I was making weekly trips to the library to get as many new BSC books as I could carry. I also scored a Claudia doll, and I carried her around with me everywhere. I even brought her to play at recess on occasion.  Logically, I outgrew most 80's and 90's trends, but I've never outgrown the Baby-Sitters Club. (I will also never end my relationship with scrunchies, body glitter,  or The Spice Girls, but that's another story.) For my teen years, and the years leading up to my wedding, I

John Mulaney played The Wilbur in Boston last night and was phenomenal. My husband and I were lucky enough to be in attendance- we haven't been anywhere or done anything since February of 2020 so August has been our return to normalcy. Kind of.  We started our night by eating dinner outside- faw away from other people. Later, we tightened our masks and sat inside with a sold out crowd. We were packed in tight and maybe 1/4 of us were masked. We prayed Delta couldn't get through the fabric affixed to our faces.  Mild terror aside, we got to see one of our favorite comedians in person. We were ecstatic. We also didn't know what to expect. What would he be discussing? Would he bring up rehab? What about the pandemic, or masks, or the fact that it was almost 90° outside, and only slightly cooler inside?  No spoilers here, but know John did not disappoint. He came out to raucous applause and seemed a little surprised by it. The audience made clear that we were all on his side an

A bit late to the game, my husband and I discovered Ted Lasso at the beginning of the summer. We figured it might be one of the rare shows we'd both enjoy because I'm a huge Jason Sudeikis fan, while he's obsessed with soccer. We were shocked by how incredibly good the show is and were both instantly hooked. We easily finished binging the show over a few days. In fact, when episode 10 ended, I queued up episode 1 and settled back in. The show has meant a lot to me, not just because it's funny and heartwarming, and because after each episode I feel like I've taken a Prozac for my whole body, but because each chapter leaves you feeling like you've just has ice cream with your best friend, after winning the lottery. The characters are serendipitous no matter what, lift each other up, or simply remind you to always, always belive in yourself.  I am especially endeared to the show because the post-novel writing process had been pretty draining, disheartening, bleak,

Writing once was winsome And now it makes me wamble  Immured in constant welter  My annoying whatabouts I don't wish to be a worldling Nor mean to act so woundy I just find that I am wankle Is this really what I wale Scared this is my wanion As I pause here in woning Fear I'm but a witling Crafting worsification

Writing my novel after earning my BA in Creative Writing 12 years ago, was so liberating. The entire process was really fun and uplifting. Telling my boss, my godmother, and my best friend was thrilling. Actually following through and finishing a project was a rare treat. And then that all stopped.  This sounds so cliché, but I am burnt out on querying because the marketing side of this process just feels...incredibly unnatural. I don't know how to market, I don't know how to monetize my art, and I feel overwhelmed trying to navigate the whole process. I feel like every query I've sent comes off boring and stiff. My novel and myself are neither.  When I got my first few rejections I actually felt delighted. I felt like I was a real writer. Everyone gets rejected so it felt like I had gained membership to the real writers club. After those first few, each rejection started to sting a bit more than the last. I'm at 11 so far and all the charm is gone, like I'm now a m

During the height of the insanity of 2020, my best friend began the process of buying a church built in the 1830's and turning it into a non-profit arts center. And this was after having twins and already being a mom to two other children.  I've been best friends with Abby since we were sophomores in high school and initially bonded over loathing gym class and trying to hide from the insufferable teacher we were cursed with. We've been bonded together ever since, almost 20 years. After a lot of back and forth and research and education and paperwork Abby has launched the New Dawn Arts Center in her town. Their website is up, they have a Facebook page, and soon they'll be starting a summer camp for children. To say I'm impressed with all that she's done and accomplished, especially in the most insane time imaginable, is a gross understatement. To watch someone you love and admire accomplish their dream and start a legacy is rare treat. I am so incredibly proud. C

I've been listening to Billy since I was a fetus, literally. My dad has been playing Billy on cassette since the late 70's. I've never known a world without Billy playing in the background and thank God, because his music is everything.  Last night at Fenway was my 10th time seeing Billy. I've seen him in NYC, Connecticut, and all over Massachusetts. It never gets old. His music just resonates with me on every level. He really is the entertainer.  This past Tuesday and Wednesday were the first things I've done since February of 2020. It was strange and different but so fun and exciting. I had carefully planned out my itinerary, transportation, and outfit- Fenway gets cold at night and really windy. After all my careful plans, I was ready to do something that didn't involve my couch.  What I never planned for was the constantly changing weather of New England. When I opened my phone yesterday morning and saw, "flash flood warning: Boston" on my phone sc