To get a 9-to-5 job, or be a writer and editor…

A recent conversation with a close friend of mine (the godmother for my children) started me thinking about the decisions I’ve made in life and wondered why those decisions were made. I don’t think about this wondering if any other choices could have existed — in truth, I feel that my current path was always meant to be my path — but why do I feel so free making a life-changing decision that others find so difficult? Why did I quit my 9-to-5 job and decide to become a full-time writer and freelance editor?Read More

A Quake to Change Your World

The low rumble barely registered in her subconscious. The small shakes of the bed were enough to pull her from her sleep.

"Great," she mumbled. "Gijs is having another asthma attack."

With a sudden jolt, the bed jumped across the floor and banged into the wall. The teddy bears and dolls tumbled through the air.

Her eyes flew open, able to see clearly in the darkened room. The roar filled the ears and the walls moved sideways. Beside her, her husband snorted.

"My god, he's still asleep!" She swung her arm out as hard as she could on the bucking bed and hit him in his stomach.

"What… What is—"

"It's an earthquake!"

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All writers have to begin somewhere…

When a writer is asked about how they started writing, the answers are varied. However, if one thinks about it, all writers start their journey at a very young age. In school, we all have those creative writing assignments, even if we dread them.

Recently, I was challenged to find a piece of writing from those early years. Here is just one of the gems that I found which dates back to 1989, when I was in 3rd Form (8th Grade for those of you in the US). I resisted the urge to edit this piece (and it wasn’t easy), but even in its raw state, it still made me giggle.Read More

The Journey Begins…

For the last few days, I have found myself reminiscing over how my journey into writing all began. If I think about it, I have always made up stories. As a child, I would spend hours with a tape recorder making up plays for my Barbies to act out. Yes, I’m really that old. Shame my mother still doesn’t have those tapes. There were probably some real gems on them.Read More

Leaving Home (A Poem)

Migrating birds, flying south.
Winter it comes, and they fly south.
Wings spread far and wide,
Scared they’ll fail,
Leaving behind the warmth of the nest.
Her babies migrate for the first time alone.
Nervous and aflutter, she lets them fly.
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