Feel that lack of inspiration? Maybe It’s time to refuel. This winter has been very long, but that might be because I’m not as busy as I’ve always been. As I’ve taught my students for the past twenty-plus years, with freedom comes responsibility. I’m slowing down, catching up on the sleep, reading books piled on my nightstand, watching Shameless, going for coffee, etc., but I haven’t been very productive. I’ve been so absorbed by this unfamiliar feeling of freedom that I’ve forgotten to make a plan to ensure I am responsible for this newfound freedom.
Mom, please accept my apologies…
(pretty please, on my knees, with a cherry on top!)
I’d like to officially apologize to my mother for all those times I thought I knew everything, when, in fact, I knew almost nothing. Actually, I probably owe a few of you this same apology. It’s free for the taking. Now that I’m slowing down a bit in life and have the luxury of time for self-reflection, I’m realizing a lot about the stories I’ve been telling myself.
Now, I’d also like to explain how this “over-confidence” came to be–and I’d like to warn you that you might not know as much as you think you know either. So take a deep breath before you keep reading. Realize that none of this really has anything to do with an over-inflated ego.
*Thanks, James, for nudging me in this direction!
Growing up, my mom had a huge drawer full of cookbooks. I remember sitting there for hours, devouring the images and recipes those tattered, glossy pages tempted me to try. Like my mother, I’m a sucker for cookbooks and love testing new recipes.
“For every season, there is a flavour,” my mother may have once said, “And if there isn’t one, we’d darn well better find one!” (Haha! Okay, that last part is definitely me putting words into her mouth.) No matter what she may or may not have said, my mother has always been on the search for new recipes. I’m positive that growing up surrounded by a woman who loved to cook helped me expand my foodie horizons.
I can’t imagine my life without the rich world cookbooks opened up for me. We are what we eat.(—Or is it what we read, since we are reading cookbooks that give us ideas of what we should be eating…?)
A story’s gotta start somewhere, right?
About three years ago I saw a woman with a semicolon tattoo, and I thought, “Wow! Someone who loves punctuation as much as I do!” But the semicolon nagged me–there had to be more to the story, and I was right.
Semicolons are used by writers who could end a sentence, but choose not to–they see a strong connection uniting the sentence they have finished with the one that follows. Think of the sentence as your life… Continue reading
This post is simple–I’m simply going to post two poems that were published earlier this year. Quite a few of you have mentionned that you like reading my poetry. Enjoy!
**Sorry Mom, but the second one might make you blush..
My mother taught me lots of lessons–some lessons I learned, others I’m still learning. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my mother it’s that you’ve got what you’ve been given, so you’d better make it work. (Yes, Mother. I know—I hear you loud and clear, “I have never said that!” But, just like my characters, you have shown me this rather than telling me. I’ll get to that in a moment.)
Let the Floodgates Open. Let Closure Begin.
Ernest Hemingway once said:
‘There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.’
Most writers rely on their memories, experiences and emotions when the floodgates open and the words flow out. This is true of all writing, but writers expertly disguise themselves or change the outcome of what really happened to benefit the story—and their egos.
But when we tell the truth, as it really happened—something else happens. Writers get closure.
No More Excuses
In my mind, everyone’s got a list of things they dream of doing yet tell themselves they don’t have time for. Lack of time followed by lack of money are the biggest excuses people use for not doing what they know they should be doing.
I’m going to call your bluff
How it took me three days to force myself to make the zucchini bread and four days to finish this blog post–even though it was so easy to do once I stopped thinking about it.
(Long title for a post, huh? But it sort of says it all…)
Truth-telling was passed down the family chain the moment I took my breath. I swear it must be part of my genetic code.
“Always tell the truth,” my mother told us even before we could speak. And so, I grew up telling the truth. It would be hard to find someone out there who does not think I am honest. I am often honest to a fault—volunteering information so it doesn’t eat at me from the inside.