New Moon

I know I should be celebrating the little victories, but it felt like this week really got away from me. Maybe, too, because tomorrow it’s suddenly October. And tonight, the first fire crackling in the fireplace. A new moon. 

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Calling it quits at the computer tonight. Why do submissions feel so daunting? Maybe because I drift off to other possible publications, and then get lost in reading other people’s work? It’s probably something I should dedicate an early-morning hour to twice a month. Anyone out there with submission strategies, send ’em my way!

Sweet dreams, dear readers.

(Post 254 of 365)



Sick Day

Sometimes a sick day is okay. A not-too-terrible sick day that slows everything down because you can’t keep pace. A day to notice the big puffy white clouds. A days you can’t check everything off the list. Chicken soup steaming the kitchen windows. Routine off. There’s a moment in the evening when we just end up sitting on the kitchen floor. My daughter plops in my lap and we sway back and forth and I smell her hair and kiss her head and she giggles and smiles, loves to be held, to be hugged. Cuddle bug. I realized I haven’t been inside a quiet moment with her like that over the last two weeks. Too long.

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Stealing Minutes

Happy Sunday, dear friends! I’m stealing a few minutes while the toddler’s playing. It’s a cool, bright morning and the pumpkin bread in the oven is perfuming the kitchen with cinnamon and nutmeg. Potatoes are boiling on the stove for German potato salad–a friend’s secret family recipe–that we’ll bring to our neighbor’s Ocktoberfest this afternoon. It feels like fall.

Thanks to everyone who hung in there with me this week through the thin, threadbare posts. All of my writing and energy was spent on the actual page. There were some days I didn’t want to hit the publish button because I had so little to offer. But maybe it’s good to see the thin days, the days when time and energy and inspiration are scarce. The days when all you can write is, the cat sat on the mat. The ebb.

Even this morning, during the course of writing this post, I’ve drained the potatoes, chopped the onions and apples and pickles, whisked the dressing, rescued the pumpkin bread just in time, half-cleaned the kitchen, bathed the toddler, fed the cat, discovered two more diapers in the cabinet (hallelujah!), and now to dig out some fall clothes before we head to a birthday party.

I promise myself I’d hit the publish button this morning, and not wait until just before midnight. Wishing you all a beautiful day!

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This week was so intense, it’s got to be planetary. But it’s not quite over. Friday night feels like any other night of the week: #amstillwriting + sick toddler who won’t sleep. These posts are threadbare. I’m certain tomorrow I will have more to offer, dear readers.

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Shoulders Down, Shoulders Back

Here I am again, late in the evening. And now you’ll have that Paul Simon song stuck in your head, too. I’ve been tense, my shoulders up by my ears. I keep having to tell myself, “shoulders down, shoulders back.” My mom gave me one of those microwaveable heating pads that rest on your neck and shoulders–heavenly. If you don’t have one, you can fill a sock with rice and microwave it.

Maybe you’ll like this post about Russian Formalism and Defamiliarization as much as I did.

“Habitualization devours works, clothes, furniture, one’s wife, and the fear of war … Art exists that one may recover the sensation of life; it exists to make one feel things, to make the stone stony.” -Viktor Shklyovsky, “Art as Technique”

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