I can.

Yesterday I was in a funk. A mood. Something inside me felt like it was cracking open and that actually scared me.

And I do not scare easily.

All around me were giants. Hulking masses with clubs.

All around me were possibilities. Ethereal and tangible and opaque and translucent.

All around me were things outside my control. And I love to maintain control. Relinquishing it? That’s just a fancy word for lose.

I wanted to get some work done, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t get above the fog long enough to focus. Because I couldn’t stop looking everything around me that I needed or wanted to hold together.

I kept seeing myself at Barnes and Noble. A three-story beauty with windows that look out over the whimsically lovely courtyard at the Americana Mall in Glendale.

I kept seeing it, and so finally I took myself there. I rode escalators to the top floor where all the romance and thrillers, the YAs and middle grades live. I wandered the floor and looked at the books, considered buying some but mostly just touched them.

Absorbed the power of imagination inside them.

I stepped outside to the patio lined with tables and chairs, found a spot, and got set up.

I didn’t start working right away.

I watched the fountain dance to the beat of the music. Watched tree leaves rustle in the breeze. I watched the ground below me, felt like a bird perched on a ledge, surveying and unencumbered by the need to walk.

Then I had ideas and I did crack open.

I kept on cracking open for the rest of the day, into the night, where I cried while watching my son sleep curled around a dragon-dog stuffed toy, snoring lightly. Because I remembered when my biggest fear in the world was that I wouldn’t ever get pregnant. That I’d never have him at all. That even if I did, I’d somehow screw it up.

But there he was, 10 years old now, and so much lovelier than I ever imagined, so worth all the faith and the struggle, fighting my giants of fear, relinquishing my control to just trust.

If I did it for him, for the dream of him and the reality of him, couldn’t I do it again for all the other dreams – the uncountable number I hold in my heart?




A scary story for the full moon on a Friday the 13th!

And if you aren’t in the mood to read, you can listen to an audio performance of this short story on the HALLOWEEKLY podcast HERE for free!


The water well smelled of sulfur. Gordon Langford, newly elected mayor of the town of Willow Creek, was trying to determine why. He didn’t like the notion given to him by the City Council, and he wouldn’t acknowledge it no matter what was happening to the moon tonight. This well had been boarded up long enough. An easy source of pure water, flowing freely, was something he couldn’t leave closed off.

He’d get the town back on track if it was the last thing he did.

As he passed the welcome sign on his way back from the well, he nearly drove himself off the road. His tires screeched to a stop. Someone, or many, and probably hooligan townies no doubt, had painted a message the color of blood across the middle of the sign.

Drink the drink

Then let go

To unleash the glow

And unhinge the soul

The splatter of paint, the swirl of the moon soaked that same violent shade, was an immediate irritation he didn’t have time to fix. He had to get back to oversee final preparation stages for the festival. He simply didn’t have anymore time to spare.

Meg Montgomery had never smoked a cigarette. In her eighteen years alive, she had never done a lot of things. The curl of the smoke taunted her, like it was ghostly fingers reaching out and beckoning her to the edge of her boyfriend, Hugo Forest’s, plump, wet lips.

Meg snatched the cigarette from Hugo’s lips and took a drag so fast she almost choked. The smoke filled her mouth and slid down her throat before she was forced to expel it. She left a ring of her signature shade around the cigarette filter.

Hugo beamed. He’d been trying to corrupt her since July when he first saw her gingerly sipping a lavender latte on the porch of the Hallowed Grounds Café. She was the kind of girl who never looked messy. Her soft brown hair was like dark coffee without cream, her skin like roses and silk. She had a tiny button nose Hugo thought could use a ring in it.

She passed the cigarette back to him, and he stamped it out.
“Come on,” Meg said, lips twitching for another taste. “We gotta head home for the festival.”

“Back to purgatory,” he said, his voice edged by agitation. “I’ll get you a coffee before we go.” He turned back toward the café, shoulders sagging in his leather jacket.

Meg hated to constantly disappoint him, but she hated getting in trouble even more.

They walked back inside and straight up to the counter where Bea, the full busted barista, stood ready to take their order.

“Usual?” she asked, smiling.

“To go,” Meg replied, smiling back.

“Not joining us?” Bea tallied up their order as she talked.

“You know how my parents are,” Meg said, and Hugo let out a small grunt. Meg rolled her eyes and smirked at Bea.

The university her parents selected for her was near the town they’d recently settled in, a little village called Willow Creek. Bea, and most of the kids at school, were going up north to the mountains tonight to watch the Blood Moon rise and get high as kites. Meg was going home to join her family at the Founder’s Festival.

“Careful. You know what they say about Willow Creek?”
Meg did not, in fact, know that anyone, ever, said anything about that tiny nothing town.

Hugo laughed outright, his lean, broad shoulders shaking. He cocked an eyebrow at Bea. “For a college-educated modern girl, you’re damn superstitious.”

Bea kept his change just to spite him and walked off to make their coffees. “What do people say about Willow Creek?” Meg asked.

Hugo wasn’t a local, but he’d been at Milford University for three semesters. Even though he didn’t live in Willow Creek, he’d still heard the story.

“There’s a legend.” He raised his eyebrows dramatically and wiggled his fingers at her. “Three hundred years ago, when the founders broke ground on the first water well, they dug too deep. So deep, they uncovered a demon trapped way down inside the world.”

Meg’s heart raced, driving a speedy thump thump thump into her ribs. Bea handed her the coffee from behind the counter and it shook in her hand.

“It’s not a joke. My gran grew up in Willow Creek,” Bea said, pursing her lips in disgust as she went to take another order.

“The demon had some needs and he used the townsfolk to meet ’em,” Hugo carried on. “He couldn’t get out of that pit, so he fed and frolicked through their bodies. Supposedly, on a Blood Moon night like this one, they managed to bury him down in the dark again. Then, they warned their kids and grandkids away from the well for all eternity.”

“The well Mayor Langford tapped for town use?” Meg asked. Hugo just curled his lips. Meg felt the word yes hiss across her skin.

She looked at her coffee cup and wondered if they were using the water from Willow Creek here at Hallowed Grounds. Then she felt silly for wondering. Hallowed Grounds Café was in Milford, and they didn’t use Willow Creek water.

And, besides, there wasn’t anything wrong with the water. “You don’t believe it, do you?”

“I don’t think it matters. Lots of places have weird stories like that.” Hugo shrugged. “I think people make up these things because the truth is too damn depressing.”

“Right,” she said, the beat of her heart starting to settle. “You’re right.” She was sure he was right.

Roland Montgomery had been listening to the other boy’s stories all week long on the bus ride home from Edison Elementary. He was sick of the noise. He buried his face in his book, like if he burrowed in deep enough he’d wind up inside.

“My mom said we gotta get out to the festival before sunset tonight,” Jonah Russell said in his gruff, raspy voice. He tossed a hackysack over Roland’s head and just barely missed.

“You think it’s true though?” Finn Durmont asked, sending the hackysack back.
“I kinda hope so,” Jonah replied.
“Me too,” another boy said from somewhere near the back of the bus. They all laughed.

Roland sunk into his seat. He’d been trying to avoid the water all week, but last night his mother threw him in the shower and stood there while it soaked through his clothes. She would not have her son growing potatoes behind his ears, she’d said. Nor would she tolerate him believing in wild stories.

The water had trickled inside his mouth and right down the center of his throat. Roland was determined to forget it had happened. He pinned his eyes to the words on the page.

Meg and Hugo walked toward his beat-up, faded-blue truck with their fingers laced together. She slid into the passenger’s seat, not bothering to buckle. There was little traffic between campus and Willow Creek, just woods and road and a single gas station.

The truck sputtered to life and promptly dinged. “Gotta get some gas at Mo’s,” Hugo said.

The woods around Milford University and the town of Willow Creek were a dense, steady wall of sugar maples lit up like the Burning Bush, pale-skinned beech trees huddled together, and the knobby arms of yellow birches reaching toward the sun. The forest came right up to the road edge, but not a step further.

Meg watched the trees zip by as they drove toward the boundary of town. They began to thin the closer they got to Mo’s. She tried to ignore that gnawing hollow in her stomach that had formed after hearing the story about Willow Creek.

Hugo turned into the parking lot and cut the engine. Mo’s was a mom and pop operation complete with two ancient gas pumps and a food truck that sold the best chicken dumplings in a fifty-mile radius. As Hugo pumped the gas, Meg decided she’d get a bowl and warm up her unexpectedly chilly insides.

Roland had followed his father, Les, to the center of town. His mother had stayed home, insistent she wanted to wait for Meg and would meet them. His dad was talking to the physical education teacher at Roland’s school. Shop talk he had no interest it.

Roland stood up and wandered along the boundary of the square. People were already arriving for the festival. Laughing, wearing big chunky sweaters and argyle, scarves and hats knitted by hand. But Roland didn’t feel happy watching their happy faces. Something inside him felt off. Like he was sick and a little bit tired, and every time he saw a gleaming white smile he felt the distinct urge to rip all of the teeth from their gums.

Roland paused at the limestone table in the center. Everything else in the town square was decorated for fall, but this table lay bare, as if forgotten.

As if somehow saving its space for later.

Mo’s dumplings were not only perfectly plump, but cheap as dirt. There were wooden picnic tables set up in the dusty clearing alongside the food truck, and a few townies were always hanging out there. The townies went quiet as Meg passed. Most men did that when they saw her.

“Just a bowl of dumplings,” Meg said, when she reached the food truck. The girl working the order window was new. She didn’t look Meg in the eyes as she took her three dollars and name. “Thanks.”

Meg pulled her sweater in around her, wishing she had worn something warmer. The sun was hanging low on the horizon now, ready to disappear from sight. She paced around, looking at the way the light bled through tiny crevices in the tree arms like droplets of blood on the bark, then trickled over the top of Mo’s station, and ran across the gravel and asphalt toward her. As she trailed her attention back to the truck, her eyes caught on the dumpling bowls sitting atop the picnic table a few feet away.

The white paper bowls were stained red. They sloshed with some sort of thick, syrupy liquid. Meg took a step toward the table, her legs dragging her against her will, trying to reconcile the sight before her. Maybe it was a trick of the red-stained light.

She blinked. When her vision cleared, she felt her stomach lurch. Burgundy like wine and thick as molasses.

The townie ran a finger around the rim of the bowl. Meg followed his finger, coated, until it rested along the edge of his lip. He flicked it with his tongue.

You can always feel the pressure of attention turned squarely your way, and Meg Montgomery couldn’t move for all the weight now laid across her shoulders. Only her eyes shifted.

Opaque like the vast, deep dive of a well.
That’s what she saw when she met the man’s eyes.

He smiled, his teeth outlined in rusty brown almost black. It trickled from one corner of his lip to make a trail through his stubble and fall in a drop back into the bowl.

Without thinking, Meg began to walk. Fast as her two legs could carry her.

The townies stood, all in unison. Organized like a single-minded beast. One called out in a voice darker than the inside of a coffin. “Where you runnin’, little rose?”

Hugo closed the gas cap with a final twist. He glanced up to see if Meg was coming, and what he saw set his teeth on edge. Meg’s eyes were the size of saucers, her skin had lost all its color and now just glowed the shade of the fading sunset.

Behind her the group of townies stood, watching, and one of them called after her. Hugo felt a spark of anger flare in his chest, and he stepped forward.

“Back off man,” he yelled in response.

The other man, with cropped blond hair and a ratty AC/DC T-shirt shredded at the hem, turned his eyes toward Hugo. They were bottomless. Hugo stuttered to a stop. Meg reached him just then, and she whispered something fierce and fast, grabbing him by the jacket and yanking him toward his truck.

She let go only when they’d reached the passenger side, shoving him away toward his car door and climbing in without a word. He fell in beside her, his hands shaking.

“What was wrong with his eyes?” He trembled.

“Drive, Hugo. Those guys all live in Willow Creek.” At this, she turned her dark brown eyes to him. “They were drinking blood from Mo’s bowls.”

The door to Mo’s station opened up, as if the proprietor’s ears were now burning. Even as dusk began to settle over the parking lot, Meg and Hugo could clearly see the man that emerged. Wearing a flannel and cap, his silver hair peaking from the lip, Mo stared at them through the same shiny black eyes as the others. His lips were stained that awful color.

Hugo shoved his truck into gear.

They sped the rest of the way toward the boundary of town. Meg pulled out her phone and dialed her father. No answer. Same for her mom. The click of her voicemail made Meg want to throw her phone right out the window. She looked out instead. As they passed the Willow Creek welcome sign, she read the poem painted across the center. The car grew suddenly cold. The windows fogged.

She wiped it away with the sleeve of her sweater.

On neighbor’s yards were harvest decorations, fall leaves and lanterns, smiling scarecrows and pumpkins stacked up beside door frames. But not a soul was around. Not on the sidewalks or the porches. Not inside the curtained windows, dark and cold though there was little daylight left. Hugo peeled around the corner and shot down Meg’s road.

Still as the dead, he thought as he pulled into her driveway. Meg stared through the windshield at her house. The porch was deep, painted a soft gray that complimented the white wood. It had a wide swing she enjoyed reading on beneath a burrow of blankets. She loved the dormer windows and the leaded glass. She tried desperately to find the courage to climb out of the car, but the fear of what she might find inside had turned her feet to lead.

“What if they’ve already left for the festival?” Meg breathed. “Then we’ll go find ’em,” Hugo replied.
In that moment, Meg felt certain she loved him.

Hugo stepped out first and shut his door. Meg followed, and she tried to steel herself against the hollow hum of fear rattling in her chest. Her eyes traveled down the road. Lamplights bloomed, their glow out over the street created tiny pockets of light all down the road.

She shot back against the car. Hugo startled.

“What is it?” he asked. She only pointed.

He could only follow her finger. The street yawned in front of him, and on every lawn that was empty moments before, now stood the darkened figures of Meg’s neighbors. Tall and lean. Short and stubby and round. The tiny bodies of children still as statues. All facing the direction of Hugo’s truck.

“We need to get inside,” Hugo said, pulling on the loose arm of her sweater.

They stumbled up the stairs and turned the door handle, falling through the front door and into the foyer. The light in the hallway was off.

Hugo shut the door with a thud that made Meg jump.

“Meg,” a swift, sharp noise. From somewhere on the other side of the den and the dining room came a voice. Her mother was home.

Meg unclenched her fingers from a fist. She didn’t realize she’d been holding so tight, but her palms were ridged with red, half-moon cuts. She ran toward the sound of her mother’s voice, something Meg hadn’t done since she was a small child.

There, at the kitchen table decorated for fall harvest, sat Jewel Montgomery. She was a slim line of light in the dim blue kitchen. Her hair, her skin, her cream button down blouse — all flawless. Not a spec on anything, not even her ivory skin. Her eyes skimmed across the full color magazine page in front of her.

“Where’s Roland and Dad?” Meg’s voice shivered, panic leaking into every word.

Not even the terror in her voice drew her mother’s eyes up. Meg took a step forward, just as Hugo entered the room.

“Out,” was all Jewel said. She flipped the glossy page.
“At the festival?” Meg asked, taking another step toward her mother. “We’ll meet up with them soon,” Jewel said.

This didn’t sit right with Meg. None of it. Her mother wouldn’t have waited for her here. She would have called her, chewed her out. She’d have left for the festival and given her an ultimatum. Even at eighteen, Meg had rules to follow.

“Mom.” Meg’s upper lip trembled. Sweat that collected there felt cold and clammy. Jewel flipped the magazine page. The corner ripped.

Hugo hovered at the entrance to the kitchen. Meg’s house had always felt warm and been filled with the smell of baking bread or meatloaf, pot roast, or evening decaf coffee brewing. Nothing like his Dad’s place in Pennsylvania, which only ever smelled like beer and rotting pizza.

Meg took a final step and placed her hands on the chair back. It shook from her trembling. The teetering shuffle of the wood on tile made Hugo’s skin crawl.

“Mom, why won’t you look at me?” Meg asked.

Jewel’s hand froze mid-swipe of the page.

Hugo didn’t carry a weapon, but as Jewel Montgomery sat there still as a statue, he searched the kitchen with his eyes for one. There was a cast iron skillet on the stove. A single wine glass, still full of white wine, on the table. A knife block on the island.

Jewel’s smile crept up her face and she laughed.

Meg clenched the chair back until her knuckles were white but her mother kept laughing. And she knew: That laugh was not her mother’s at all.

Jewel looked up, straight at Meg, her eyes the color of coal. She blinked and they filled with red, staining the rims like blood colored eyeliner.

Meg yanked the chair from the table and lifted it in front of her like a shield.
Hugo lunged for the wine glass, grabbing the stem and cracking it along the edge of the table. Jewel shot up. Her chair crashed to the tile behind her.

“Sweet of you to come back for them,” the voice was as cold as ice hardened in the dead of winter. It was not her mother’s voice, but then it was, and the way it could be both made Meg almost faint.

She let the chair slip from in front of her. Her head spun like a top.

Hugo grabbed her by the waist to keep her upright and at the same time he waved his newly fashioned weapon at Jewel, threatening her not to come a step closer. Hugo didn’t understand what was happening, but he figured keeping Meg out of her mother’s grasp was a bright idea.

Jewel was a hollow shell. Whatever she’d once been was gone.

“It won’t matter,” came that creeping, cold voice again. It crawled across the floor and turned it to ice. The whole room changed temperature every time Jewel opened her teeth. “They’re already coming for you.”

“I won’t let them take her,” Hugo said.

Jewel cocked her head, curling her lips again into a hollow grin. “Her?”

Meg pressed the soles of her feet firm into her boots. There was something wrong with her head, and it was throwing her balance all off. Every time she swallowed, she tasted metal. Heat flooded her stomach and she lurched forward. Her knees and her elbows pinned to the ground.

When she was a little girl, Meg had been prone to stomach bugs. She got used to throwing up whatever food she ate, heaving dry when it was all gone. She learned to see the signs hours away and make herself comfortable on the bathroom floor. Meg tried to swallow now, to breathe through the nausea, but it was impossible.

She heaved.

Blood sprayed from her lips across the pure white tile.

It splattered against Jewel Montgomery’s flawless cream flats.

Hugo had never been a screamer, but there was a time for all things under the sun, and at the sight of that blood dripping from his girlfriend’s lips, Hugo shouted high into the heavens.

Meg looked up at her mother. “What is this?

“It’s in the water. After all these years, someone finally was fool enough to use the well again,” the voice said through her mother’s lips. “I will get my chance by light of the blood moon tonight.”

Meg wiped at her lips. Her hands were stained red.

“The demon,” she whispered. “From the legend.”

Jewel laughed. “It’s not a legend if it’s true.”

“They drank the water from your well,” Hugo cringed.

Meg felt sick again. When she swallowed, all she could taste was the blood.

“They’ve been bathing in it. Drinking it. Cooking with it for days.” More blood dripped from Jewel Montgomery’s eyes. Hugo couldn’t remember now what color they’d been before.

Fathomless, ghoulish, pitch-black. That’s what they would forever be.

He looked at the back of Meg’s body crouched on the ground in front of him. She had gone slack. All the tension left her shoulders and hands. She slumped into the blood-slick floor.

Jewel was staring at Hugo. “They’re he-ere,” she said in a sing-song. Her breath made smoke in the air.

Meg jerked once.
“Meg.” Hugo’s voice shook.

At first, she did nothing. No noise left her lips. No movement shifted her limbs. Then all at once she stood, not slipping or lurching. With a soft sigh she turned, her rich chestnut hair trailing in front of her face, the ends all soaked with blood.

Meg raised her face to the boy in front of her. It was strange, she thought, because he was familiar somehow. He looked at her with drawn features, eyes wet with fury and he whispered her name. But it was not her name, either, and this made her smile. She was better than Meg — a weak little girl who’d never gotten her hands dirty, never, ever tasted of danger. She flexed her hands. The blood had already begun to dry between the cracks of her palms.

She met the boy’s eyes. His were the color of sky. The color of freedom.

He shifted them away from her. Out, out the window where the torches appeared. The girl took a few steps to the door, knowing he wouldn’t follow — couldn’t move for the fear, the tremor of shock that now rushed through him. Electric, paralytic, all-consuming.

She swung it wide open and surveyed the lawn.

Gathered in force was the town of Willow Creek. Mothers and sons, fathers and daughters, elderly women crooked with age, men wearing ball caps and boys dressed in denim. They bled from the backyard out into the street. They hummed with excitement, fire flickering across their cheeks.

She inhaled the scent. They’d come for the boy.

She looked up at the sky. Hanging overhead, swollen and bright, was the Blood Moon. Its light cast over the yard, turning it an eerie orange glow. This was what the demon had been waiting for, and the girl could feel his desire course through her veins, powerful in a way she’d never imagined possible.

There was no need to speak because they all felt the draw. The living body inside the house. He was not a spotless lamb, but he was there, and he would have to do.

They pried him out, down the stairs.
“Take him to the table,” Mayor Langford said, pointing toward the town square.

With torches ablaze lighting the way, they carried him. Hugo screamed, guttural and violent. He grew hoarse for the screaming, but then who on earth was there to hear him? He was alone, but for Meg, and now Meg was someone else. Something else. And Hugo was fairly certain he’d lost her for good.

The table had stood generations at the center of Willow Creek. Witnessed countless festivals, white weddings and funerals. But once, it had been an alter to the demon. A feast ground for his wicked yearnings.

The men of the town pinned Hugo down. The women, one by one, tore pieces of his clothing until he lay naked on the table, bathed in the eerie moonlight. Meg and her mother approached. In the crowd he saw Meg’s father, a pillar of dark. Beside him was Roland, just as pure white as the sun. Roland’s eyes were the blackest of all.

Hugo had always liked Roland. He was odd and quiet, gentle but not weak. Roland took a single step forward. The whole crowd shifted to let him move.

“Drink the drink,” he said in that same chilling voice as Jewel. It rang out through the night. Bugs stopped buzzing. Chirping. Glowing. Only the voice filled the void. “Then let go. To unleash the glow and unhinge the soul.”

Roland slid a knife from the pocket of his corduroys. He slid it right across the apple of Hugo’s neck.

Blood pooled beneath him on the table. Hugo choked, coughing and spitting, it bubbled from his lips. It drained out of him like a river.

The town of Willow Creek watched and waited.

He stopped sputtering. Stopped breathing. Stopped. Stopped. Stopped.

It was hours beneath the Blood Moon’s light, standing silent, staring hopeful.

It was sudden, all at once, that he opened his eyes. The wound on Hugo’s neck began to close, stitched together with invisible twine until it vanished. He sat up. He wasn’t Hugo anymore.

The demon flexed his new fingers, twisted his new neck. Stood on his new, long legs. He was finally free.


Writing is the JOB

Here’s the thing: I don’t actually think it is any easier to show up to the work we feel required to do — the work with immediate financial return — than to show up to our creative work.
Both require commitment. Both present challenges. Both can be frustrating/exhilarating/mind-stretching.
The difference is how we value the creative work – how we allow ourselves to treat it.
When my son was 2-years-old and I decided to commit to the WRITER in me dying to run free, I had to confront the idea that as a stay-at-home-mom my writing could always be placed on the back burner.
Right behind the mac ‘n cheese and broccoli.
I had to begin to shift my thinking from:
First, I take care of everything that needs to be done around the house, I make sure to play for a few hours with my son, I get dinner prepped, and THEN I can write if I am not asleep on the couch by seven pm.
The house can be messy, or someone else who lives here can pitch in. I can hire a babysitter occasionally. We can order take-out. My husband can put the kid to bed. Screen time will not kill my child – I want to finish this scene.
The writing MATTERS, it is real and important and I have a right to pursue it.
My job as a mom remains demanding. My job as a freelance editor and book biz coach continues to require energy and time. I am a social butterfly who loves to hang out with friends and go do fun things in LA.
My writing WILL NOT be put on the back burner no matter what else winds up on my plate.
My plate is full with valuable, interesting things and I am lucky.
We cannot achieve the big dreams we harbor inside without agreeing to make big changes to the way we view our passions.
YOUR writing is a job worthy of YOUR time.
Value the creative life and the creative life will begin to pour out of you.

5 Steps to 500 Words

TGI the Weekend!

I’m blacking out time on my schedule to write some words, but I thought it might be fun to drop some knowledge about HOW I get 500 words NO MATTER WHAT.

1. Decide the writing will happen and you will enjoy it. So much of the story around writing is about how HARD it is. How challenging it can be to get what’s in your brain out on paper (or a Word doc). I won’t lie to you and say the writing always feels like shooting rainbows out of my fingers, but – especially in the drafting phase – I always remind myself that this is a chance to purely create. It’s alchemy with words. It’s FUN. Even when it tries to convince me it’s HARD.

2. Set the scene. I know writers who need it dark, with candles flickering, music playing. I know writers who exclusively write in cafes with bustle and noise all around them. It doesn’t matter how, but find a way to use your senses, and habits, to trigger your creative brain. It doesn’t have to be the same every time either. Honoring the time with your story is what matters.

3. Set a timer on yourself. This can be a few hours, or 30 minutes or whatever you want. But having a window for the words helps. It’s like how having a deadline can spur you to finish a project. It will help you stay with your writing instead of slipping onto Instagram, or taking one of those Buzzfeed quizzes where you make a pizza and they reveal the color of your soul.

4. Write forward. Once you get momentum going, try to stay with the forward motion until you hit a goal. You can always go back and edit after. But you can’t edit at all if you don’t write the words to begin with!

5. Reward yourself WHEN you succeed. Celebrating the victory of setting a writing goal and then meeting it is SO IMPORTANT. Sometimes, when I need to get a lot of words in one day, I will set little rewards up for hitting 500 word increments – a fresh cup of tea, a walk with my dogs, playing a round of Mario Party with my son – and then I will give myself a big reward at the end of the day. This usually involves wine and Netflix, and it’s glorious because I did the work and I loved the process and, best of all, I WANT to do it all again tomorrow.


I put a timer on my life in LA.

Subconsciously, in subtle, but subverting ways, and because I thought that wanting to be here, wanting this life, this spot, this experience, needed to be justified in order to be valid. Then, and WAY WORSE, I realized, it wasn’t just LA I had put a timer on – it was EVERYTHING.

Somewhere along the way I made my DESIRES something I had to prove valid.

Something I had to justify wanting at all.

Over the summer, my family spent time back in Texas. A lot of time. More than we expected. And it was good, and joyful, and meaningful for us to be close to our families again, living alongside them and seeing all the changes, laughing, crying, complaining about the heat. But it also opened my eyes to something surprising.

I WANT to live in LA – and not because I don’t love Texas. Not because I don’t long to be near my family. Not because LA is better — life is much more complicated than better or worse. And it wasn’t because I want to MAKE IT. It wasn’t for any other reason than…

I wanted this – that’s it.

I choose this place. This journey. We all choose it – my husband, son, and I.

And we don’t have to validate our choice.

I don’t have to validate it and I don’t need a timer.

I never DID.

I only thought I did because…

I thought WANT was a dirty word.

Like NEEDING is better. Like SUPPOSED TO is somehow more justified or noble.

As if something deemed noble — like a calling, like a destiny, like a purpose — is better than wanting it and going for it and that’s it. Want is not inherently selfish — though, yes, it can become that way. Just like money is not evil, though many evil people seek it, acquire it, misuse it. Same with power. Same with fame.

WANT is desire, and passion and drive. WANT is why we keep going when supposed to, need to, because I should, dies on the vine.

And also…

Choosing is scary AF.

Because when we choose, we say goodbye to option B through D. We can’t keep daydreaming about the what if because now we’re living the RIGHT THIS EFFING MOMENT.

Choosing means saying yes everyday even when we want to throw in the towel. Choosing means not blaming anything, or anyone, for the shit along the way, because WE chose, and we DID have other choices — we always have other choices. It’s scary because..

What if we choose from that want then what IF we are wrong?

The day after I got back to LA, carrying all this new WANT, and CERTAINTY, and HELL YES, inside me, I went shopping with my friends. It was one of those afternoons where you talk deep and long while winding through Bloomingdales, trying on make-up and dresses and dreams, where you end up sipping Rose at an outdoor cafe, bathed in sunset and satisfaction.

It was the kind of day where you choose something just because you can. I chose Jimmy Choo sunglasses. I am really happy with my choice.


What you want can be yours. You just have to CHOOSE.

And then you have to be willing to live that choice everyday.



On This Day


One thing I love about Facebook, (and there are many things I do not love about it) is the memory notifications I get in the mornings. Sitting with coffee on my couch, cool light slipping in between the blinds, my son snuggling up under my blanket rather than getting his own, I will often use that lazy time to check those reminders.

Today, I have memories from Brooklyn, Texas and, from last year, the day our boxes arrived to fill our new apartment in LA. Scrolling through them, I remembered each very different stage, and for the first time ever, there was no melancholy, no sting of loss or missed opportunity, no feelings of sadness or anger.

In July, it will be seven years since my family moved to Brooklyn. My son was about to turn two. A cherub child with wide, sparkling blue eyes and white-blond hair, learning words and still using a pacifier to cope with the world around him. My husband would take the subway to work in an open-concept office, in an old warehouse building, between the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges. I would use my son’s nap time to write my first novel, learning by doing, and doing doing doing again. We would all go through high-pressure change in the two years living in that city. We would all leave the city feeling a little bit lost.

In March, it will be five years since my family moved back to Texas. My son would soon turn four. A tiny superhero who had left cars and trains and his pacifier behind for super villains and dance fighting and playing pretend. My husband would work in an office, tucked in a corner of our wood-shaded home. I would write my second novel perched above the trees, and it would be better because practice makes imperfect things a little less shabby. We would all go through slow, sometimes painful transformations in the four years living in that house on the hill surrounded by trees. We would all leave the forest feeling a little bit braver.

Two days ago, was the one year anniversary of my family moving to Los Angeles. My son will soon turn nine. A sweet-natured but sharp-tongued gamer with a massive playlist and a lot of big, weird, and wild dreams of his own. My husband works at a desk he built with is father, in a sunny corner of our living room, and at night, on the weekends, he writes a screenplay with me on the couch. I revised my third novel, rewrote a screenplay and began another two, write a book with my friend, and all the unfinished stories inside of me, on the page, in drawers and notebooks and my imagination are bursting to be told imperfectly, perfectly because they are mine. I do not know what we will be when we leave here, or if we will ever leave, because none of that is a memory, it’s a story we’re all still writing.

I am not always good at feeling settled with myself. My choices. My own character arc. I get restless and flustered, my confidence wobbles and becomes false, my faith that I can achieve my goal (or that I should actually ever achieve it) falters. But isn’t that just part of it? Isn’t every moment of failure the beginning of something new?




Learning to Drive in LA

fear liar

When I was a teenager, I failed my driving test three times.


I mean, even after I took a six-week driving course and had loads of behind-the-wheel practice. The reason? My utter and complete disinterest in precision. Like, turning into the correct lane, always putting on my blinker, not changing lanes in an intersection—you know, life saving factors. But, even when I managed all that on the second go, I could not parallel park to save my life. Or in this case, pass my test.

On the third and final shot, the instructor testing me was an older man who had not enjoyed teaching me over the course of my training. He’d — more than once — told me to get out of the car and walk off some steam, which, for a girl with a hot head, was like turning up a boiler.

I withered inwardly when he approached the car. Shit. May as well give up now. But, I was determined, and too stubborn, to ever go down without a spectacular fight. I got in the car. I would ace this test just to spite him.

I received two marks right off for technique. He goaded me with snide remarks, red ink on the page. Then, as you can probably imagine, my blood began to boil. By the time he was testing my parking, it took everything in me to keep going. And, unsurprisingly, I failed to parallel park.

I began to cry. I am an angry crier, but also I was deeply disappointed that the freedom attached to that driver’s license was out of my reach. I needed that freedom. I needed to be able to roll down the window and fly over country roads, my music blaring, a cherry limeade from Sonic in the cup holder. I had plans.

The instructor turned to me, took off his bottle-cap glasses, and rubbed his watery, gray eyes. Stop crying, he said. I’m going to pass you.

I furrowed my brow. Too suspicious to be happy. Still too pissed off to stop crying.

I can’t have you in my class for another six weeks, he said, and then he smiled. But please be careful. You are not a good driver. 

This was not kindness, and in that moment, I didn’t care. I got what I wanted, and he got the last word.

It was only years later, after multiple car accidents, after crying — and lying — my way out of speeding tickets, after having my ex-boyfriend and my brothers, my parents, my friends, fellow shitty drivers, and, yep, constantly myself, reiterate this declaration over my driving, that I realized how thoroughly I had internalized this limitation.

I was thirty-two-years-old, we were thinking of moving to LA, something I had dreamed of doing since I was a little girl, and I wasn’t sure I could handle driving in Los Angeles.

When I would imagine LA, my thoughts would trail, fast, to the honking traffic, the zipping between lanes, the confusing off-ramps, the millions of people on the road all fighting to get somewhere, maybe right where I was also trying to go. There was no subway like New York City, no tube like London. LA was sprawl reached best by car, and I was not a good driver. 

It had been years since I’d gotten in a car accident. Years since a genuine ticket. (Okay, there was that one for speeding where I rage cried at the police officer to no avail.) I was not a bad driver, not anymore, but still I believed nothing had actually changed. I was sixteen, failing my driver’s test and being given a pity license, all over again. I never should have been allowed to drive. I would never be a good driver. It didn’t matter that I was so much better now.

During the debate over where we would live, I was talking with my LA friend about my hang ups. I was not saying that I couldn’t drive. I was not saying that this, more than almost anything else, was why I didn’t want to go.

She asked me, point blank: Is part of your hesitation about having to drive in LA? 

Yes. Squeak.

You’ll be fine. You can drive as well as anyone else here. You’ll learn. 

Wow. What an asshole. How dare she state my fear out in the open like that and make it sound so completely surmountable? (FYI, this is what good friends do.)

Confronted with the truth about a lie I’d bought into for most of my life, I actually laughed. Out loud. Dismantling an argument you’ve been making for why you CAN’T do something is liberating. CAN’T should be a dirty word. CAN’T is the word that stops motion.

When we did finally move to LA, I knew I had to get in the car and drive. I had to use Siri for guidance and I had to take it slow, and it was okay that my hands were shaking. Only by DOING IT would I ever overcome. Whether I thought I could or not. And I did. I did it one little trip at a time. I did it over and over until I turned into one of those assholes barking at the idiot without their blinker on changing lanes in an intersection and speeding through a school zone.

The lie had been true long enough. Once I stopped believing it, I suddenly was actually a very good driver.

Here is what Learning to Drive in LA has taught me: The only thing stopping me, is me.

Get out of your own way. Let go. Drive with faith and when the fear paws at your mind, flip it the finger and get on with your journey.

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High Anxiety Day


Here is something you may not know. Since my early teens, I have battled anxiety and OCD. Maybe, before that, there were symptoms — signs I coped with the world in a different way. I was little, and I was good at playing pretend, so I can’t be certain. It was a different time, and diagnoses wasn’t easy to come by.

The battle began in earnest, though, when my family moved away from Texas when I was thirteen. It felt as if the bottom was falling out of my life. In one fell swoop, I had lost my best friend, my support system, and the only place I’d ever called home. It would take years for me to get a grip on what was happening to me. Even longer to own my recovery.

But that’s a long story, and today is not a good day to tread back over it. Why bring this up now? I woke up this morning and knew: today is a high anxiety day.

This is what that can look like:

When I got out of bed, I felt heavy. My chest was tight, my skin hurt. The sound of my son’s voice seemed far away. I couldn’t close my eyes again because my thoughts were racing, wouldn’t settle on any one thing.

When I drove my son to school, the world was too bright. Cars were changing lanes too close me. Pedestrians were too near the curb. My adrenaline kept spiking, and my hands were shaking.

When I dropped my son off, I thought of how many parents drop their children at school and never see them again. How horrific a thought, and how shitty I was for allowing myself to feel the way I was when so much bad was everywhere, so nearby. I hugged my son, held his hand. He humored me because he’s intuitive, and maybe he needed it a little, too. I told myself that.

When I got home, I was in a fog. I knew what was happening and I felt powerless to stop it.

I cleaned the living room. Put on laundry. Made the bed. Cleaned the kitchen. Stay moving, stay ahead of it, that’s my mantra. I cried when the floor got some soapy water on it.

I started making dinner that was supposed to go in a crock pot. I had gotten the wrong potatoes, and one of them had roots on it. I had to cut that off. I mused over how no matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn’t seem to remove all the dirt.

I questioned the recipe, mistrusted the portions, wondered why the author had used different forms of measurement for the same kinds of root vegetables. Pounds, Milliliters, Grams. PICK ONE. I was agitated, for a second, that was better.

I pulled out the crock pot and loaded the now cut, rootless, and stupidly measured ingredients in. I worried they wouldn’t fit. They did. I couldn’t celebrate the victory like I’d like.

I plugged in the crock pot, put on the lid, and realized this was not a crock pot, but a rice cooker. That would not work. Dammit. Why had I thought this was a crock pot? It’s not even the right shape. My throat felt like it was going to close.

I began frantically searching for the crock pot. Through the depths, a memory emerged. Me, cleaning out the kitchen before we moved from Texas, claiming I did not need to bring the crock pot at all.

I began to cry. It was easy. Every nerve had already frayed somewhere between waking up and that moment. It wasn’t hard to believe that my sudden lack of crock pot would be my eventual undoing.

I realized, through my tears, that my tea had gotten cold. I guess I had made tea somewhere in there, probably as part of my OCD attack plan, and forgotten. For a second, that felt like a tragedy and then —

I could heat it back up. I could pour it out. I could choose a different tea bag. The world of that cup of tea felt limitless. Slowly, my ribs stopped trying to squeeze out all my other organs. I could breathe again.

My adrenaline slid back to neutral. I turned on the kettle, pulled out a fresh tea bag, and decided to cook dinner on the stove and fuck that recipe it was shit anyway. I DID NOT need a crock pot.

Anxiety and OCD do not look the same on everyone. For me, they look like a roller coaster, full of hills and loops, rocketing motion and sudden stops. Most of the time I’m not on the ride. Not now, not after years learning to cope and facing my fears. That doesn’t mean I am not still occasionally in the line, or like today, buckled precariously in and imagining all the ways the coaster could kill me. Like today, I know I will be on the coaster for a while. I am past the worst part, but not in the clear yet. That’s okay.

Some days are harder than others. Pretending they aren’t won’t help. There isn’t any one way of coping, but coping and caring for yourself in the midst of it all, is a must. Reach out, whether to a friend, by writing a strongly worded critique of a recipe (which you don’t send but feel vindicated by nonetheless), or crying in the kitchen while your husband stands nearby knowing that’s better than touching you right now.

Remember: This does not make you weak, or wrong, or less.

Remember: You are not alone.

Remember: Eventually, this too shall pass.







When the Moving Dust Settles

When moving to a new state or city, country or provence, the hardest part comes after all the dust settles, and all the fun exploration putters to an end. When then, in the light of a still warm sun, you have to commence real life.

This summer, my young family and I moved to LA from Texas. We left a comfortable home, a thriving social circle, and a lower cost of living, and drove across the American Southwest in our freshly hail-dented Jeep. At no point on the four day journey did I think this transition would be easy, yet never once did I question if it would be right.

When we arrived in LA, the wave of relief that washed over me was almost as powerful as the ocean pulsing only a few miles West. We had survived, and that horrible prick of pain in leaving was felt a little bit less.

Summer passed as it always does when you have school age children: too fast, in a haze of sunlight and swimming, adventure-finding and dreaming. And every one of those days I wondered, will today be the day we break down, realize how hard it really is to leave everything behind for a hope in a future we can barely just taste? Today, will we long for the people we were before we sold off our home and waved goodbye to our family and friends?

But we didn’t. We were having too much fun to notice the pain. Were too busy exploring the city to sense how hard that pain still clung to our heels. Too in love with the hills and the palm trees, too soothed by the smell of the sea, to feel the pieces we’d left behind that were now missing.

And then summer ended.

Fast as the lightning we haven’t seen since May, the last time we were in a storm in Texas, the realness of this move shot through us. School started, and with it came the realization that we were not playing at living here, we were really doing it.

It hit my son hardest of all. This wasn’t his school, with his friends, and his teachers he recognized. This wasn’t his routine with all it’s comforts and predictability. This wasn’t Texas. This wasn’t home.

And it wasn’t easy. Because as his anger settled over him, my guilt ballooned. I was the reason we’d moved, and now here I was forcing him to accept it all over again, and this time he didn’t want to. And for a solid day, I genuinely, earnestly just wanted to run away. Because here pain was now grabbing my ankles, climbing my shins, and here I was with nothing to bat it away.

In these moments, the very best advice I can give is this: feel it all. Allow every itchy, ugly, vulnerable thought to crash over you. Let the violence of loss growl in the depths of your throat. And then get up, make a cup of tea, and find some way to face the rest of your day.

For these past two weeks we have had to do that. Through long hot walks and brutal conversations. Through weeping and yelling and silent treatment. Through feeling embarrassed. Through dumplings and cocktails and ice cream. Through journaling and role playing and gaming. It has not been easy, living in this moment alongside the pain, but, today, it finally started to feel better.

The reality is, we all have to face our fear that the choices we make are not the right ones. If we don’t face it, we leave ourselves vulnerable to doubt, and worry, and the nagging sensation that we are just one wrong move away from utter destruction. Moving states, cities, countries is never easy. Leaving family and friends always sucks. But staying where we are when we know we shouldn’t is worse than the pain of saying goodbye.

Acceptance is a stage of grief. On the other side is Life waiting for you. New adventure. Scary and fun and weird moments you couldn’t have had while wallowing in what was lost. Today, as I watched my son resign himself to walk into his new school without panicking, I knew he was close to that, and moments away from whatever wonderful thing awaited him.

The most important part of moving, is moving on. Not looking over your shoulder for the chance to run back. Not longing for the way it once was. But being thankful, and being willing, and then just simply being right here.



A Story About My Brother

Six years ago, my brother Isaac was an alcoholic just starting to get sober. He had almost died, almost let the drink do the job of killing him.

He’d almost given up on his life.

Today is his birthday and I am miles away in LA. When I called him on FaceTime this morning, he was working at the gym he owns with his wife. He was wearing a polo with the logo embroidered on it. He was ribbing me for putting my name on the gift my other brother gave him.

When you almost lose a person once, twice, more times than any of us like to remember, that person’s birthday is a little more special. It’s a celebration not just of the life born that day, but the life reclaimed away from destruction. It’s a reminder that this person didn’t just come into the world, he chose to fight to stay in the world.

Isaac won’t mind me telling you this: he was a shithead when he drank. It nearly destroyed not just his own life, but so many parts of all of ours. When he was drinking, for a long time, he stared down the barrel of a gun pointed on himself. Not a literal gun with bullets made of lead, but a bottle crafted into a weapon he could turn inward, and sometimes, turn out toward one of us.

There was a time when Isaac’s next birthday wasn’t a certain thing. When we didn’t know if he was going to dig his way out of his pit and find his way back into the light. There was a time when the fog of addiction shrouded his future in a foul, dense mist. When, Isaac will tell you even now, he didn’t care to see the next morning or minute.

When he decided to get sober, everyday for him became an act of defiance — against himself, the alcohol, the feeling of oblivion it brought him. That daily battle transformed him. It transformed many of us to watch him, to walk with him while he did it, to everyday get further away from control, closer to freedom.

Four years ago this week, Isaac, my mom and I traveled to Hawaii for his wedding. He poked fun at my very real and fresh adoration for mai tai’s, but not once did I wonder if secretly he wanted one too. Because Isaac had found something else to live for.

Isaac had discovered he was here for a reason.


We all are.

ike and sam

Years ago, I moved my family to New York City. Isaac was newly sober, still carrying that six month medallion in his pocket, and he didn’t particularly want me to go. So, to make sure I thought about him all the way in Brooklyn, he wrote me a song.

He sat me down outside my uncle’s house after dark on the night before we left, strapped his guitar around his body, and started to play. Eventually, he would record that song and put it on an EP. I would carry it around on my phone and listen to it whenever I felt alone out there. When I got ready to move to LA, Isaac grumbled from his rocking chair, holding his new baby son on his lap, that I wasn’t getting a song for leaving this time, but he loved me anyway. He always would, no matter how far away I went.

Earlier this week, he texted me a recording he’d done of the song “Be Like That”. Acoustic and breathy, it was a promise, his way of being here for me while I take a giant leap.

Today, as I sit in my new living room in LA listening to my song and thinking about the brother I almost lost, I am thankful for the journey he took. All of it. No one should have to go through what he did, but no one is more thankful for his life than him. He lives with a purpose. He loves his sons and his wife with ferocity. He knows what it’s like to feel ugly and pointless and wasted, and he lives as an example that you can come out of it. You can be more than addiction.

Today, I am thankful he was born, but even more, I am thankful he chose to fight for his life.

Happy birthday little-big brother.