Rambling on an Early November Afternoon

I’m writing these words mid-afternoon on the second Tuesday of November. We turned the clock back a few days ago. The light doesn’t match the hour. Not yet.

My daughter is at play rehearsal, my son is upstairs playing his bass. I can hear his foot tapping on the floor, keeping the beat. The dog is stretched out at my feet, she stirs and stretches and groans when my chair creaks as I try to roll it towards the desk with a shift of my rear. The office is empty, save for the two of us. My husband is out of town for work this week - a rare occasion. I can count the times he’s traveled into the office since we moved here on one hand.

There’s a quiet about this afternoon. The windows are shut, but it’s still too warm for the heat to turn on. Still too warm to light a fire. I might though, just to hear the crackling of the wood fill the empty spaces.

It’s still early enough in the month to call it early November. We’ve had unseasonably warm weather up until this morning - up until the lunar eclipse. It’s not just the light and hours that don’t match, it’s been the calendar and the temperatures.

{the photo above was taken a week ago during a brief cold snap before the warmth}

Just a few years ago it snowed on my son’s birthday, the 15th of November. We were in Boston for a show. It had just started flurrying when we went into the theater, but when we came out a few hours later the air smelled of winter, and there were snow squalls where there had previously been cyclones of leaves tearing down the city streets. We drove home, and the whites of my husband’s knuckles shone under highway lights as he gripped the wheel. My son’s face was bright with excitement. Once we got home we put on our hats and mittens and went outside for a birthday snowball fight.

More and more it feels like the calendar means little in terms of weather. It holds the dates we hold precious, boxes to check off to-do lists, but there’s little promise of continuity in terms of seasonal shifts. Sometimes I wonder what that’s doing to our bodies. What the changing shifts are doing to our hearts.

My tea was hot when I sat down to write, but it’s gone cold now. Words have come and gone, some stayed, some drifted as the steam wafted from my mug. It’s nearly time to pick up my daughter, my son’s foot is no longer keeping the beat. The sun has shifted, evermore. I might sit here for a while, I’d hate to disturb a sleeping dog. I’ve got a few more words longing to be spilled, but those might not be ready for public consumption. Though really, how does one ever really know when the words, when they, when the world, is ready? Is it a rumble in the heart, a longing in the throat, or maybe it’s a quiet inner nod?

Yes, it affirms.

It’s when the hour matches the light…

Lucy by the Sea

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When I picked up Elizabeth Strout’s new novel Lucy by the Sea, I knew a few things. I knew that I’d be greeted with familiar characters - as all of her novels inform and draw from one another in a truly unique way. I knew that the cadence of Lucy’s voice would carry through with familiar phrases - “I remember that…” I knew that the book took place during the early days of the pandemic on the coast of Maine.

But what I didn’t know was how close it would hit to home, reminding me of the uncertainty, the fear, the lack of guidance, the unknowns of 2020.

I’ve read a handful of books that have taken place during the pandemic. Most of them have missed the mark in some way. They’ve felt rushed, maybe even unfinished, perhaps trying to jump ahead in the game when it comes to having something to say about what we’ve all gone through… before it’s been processed by the author themselves.

That was not the case with Lucy by the Sea.

In Lucy by the Sea, Strout has found a way to tackle the pandemic as a character in and of itself in her nuanced, thoughtful, and achingly beautiful way. If you’ve read her other books, you’ll read this latest one with rapt attention, just as if you were listening to a friend talk about their experiences of 2020… of loss and love and change and the things that stayed the same.

Maybe in part because of our location in New England - and now specifically in Maine - the stories she brought up and the attitudes that were portrayed were particularly familiar. I remember hearing instances of angry residents being unwelcoming to out of staters who sought refuge in Maine, I remember being fearful of crossing state borders even into New Hampshire (those borders ten minutes down the road that never felt like an obstacle before) and feeling hesitant even when we started house hunting up here with our Massachusetts license plates in 2021 (though of course, we had no issues…).

The entire book tugged at my heart in a way few others have (just as much as Olive Kitteridge, which is my all-time favorite) I think because it brought up all of those emotions, all of those memories, we’ve been so quick to slide away as we try to grapple with our new normal. It’s all still so new, so fresh, so raw, and as a society, we’ve been unwilling and are ill-equipped to process our collective trauma and grief.

It made me think and feel in ways I wasn’t prepared for. But I found I welcomed the tears as they came and the gasps and sighs as they escaped my lips. While you don’t have to read her other books before reading Lucy by the Sea, know that this book is the chef’s kiss of the conglomeration.

Have you read it? Is it on your reading list? I’m aching to talk about it more in-depth, but don’t want to give any spoilers away. Let me know in the comments!

Oatmeal cookies and mystery novels

At the moment our house is in a bit of upheaval.

Paige, our fourteen year old, is fostering-to-adopt a second rabbit.

The story of how Luna, the rabbit in question, got here is a tale for another day, but in the meantime, our living room has been taken over as the rabbit bonding area. There’s a playpen set up with a divider for Mousse, Paige’s first rabbit, and Luna to get used to each other’s presence and scent. Paige has been sleeping in the living room to make sure everything stays on the up and up, and our downstairs now smells of hay and lettuce, and the term dust bunny now has a whole new meaning.

Yesterday I decided some normalcy was in order, and it would come by way of oatmeal raisin cookies. It’s no secret that Paige is our resident baker, we normally put our orders in and she happily whips up anything we could ask for. But seeing how she was otherwise occupied with the bunnies, I wanted to get in the kitchen and dig out the mixing bowls and measuring cups, I wanted to do a bit of baking myself.

At one point Paige wandered in and said, “I’m curious to see how this goes,” and I had to hold myself back from saying how I taught her everything she knows… mostly because it’s not true. Paige surpassed my knowledge of baking years ago, and I might have called her in to look at the dough at one point… even though I’ve made these cookies from my mother’s recipe countless times over the years. It’s funny how the tides sometimes turn, and then roll back once more.

In no time the kitchen smelled like my childhood, like molten brown sugar and oats, like the wood-paneled living room on Pine Street, like the blue plaid couch, like curling up with a favorite book and a blanket, like Poirot and The Cat Who and Anne of Green Gables.

Paige grabbed a cookie fresh out of the oven and went to sit in the living room, overseeing Luna and Mousse. “They’re really good,” she called out.

I smiled and put two on a plate for myself. I carried it into our sitting room, with the thought to sit for a few minutes before moving onto the next thing. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a stack of books, a handful of Thrift Books orders that I keep meaning to get to. Reaching over I picked up the first in a series, The Vanishing Thief by Kate Parker {shout out to Lindsey of @thehallowsthree on Instagram for sharing her book haul months ago!} and settled in with a cup of tea, my plate of cookies, and the dog on one side of me, the bonding bunnies a world away on the other end of the house… the real mystery of who I made for cookies for solved…

Inch by inch, word by word

Most mornings of the week my work day starts with a writing session shared with a group of writers spread out across the globe. After the session, we check in and share what we worked on, our struggles, and our joys. The other morning I shared that I had tried to talk myself out of writing from the moment I woke up, but I got my butt in the chair, did a little bit of work, and I took that for a win.

Some days are like that, and when you string together a long strand of days where the work feels tedious, that can wear on your brain. That’s where I’m at with my current second draft. I’m so deep it’s hard to see the big picture - of the story and writing life.

I’m turning to my knitting often throughout the day. I’ll sit for pockets of time with various projects, letting the yarn run through my fingers as the needles click and the project at hand grows. There’s a satisfaction in seeing the stitches add up to a whole, in the growth of a sweater, inch by inch, stitch by stitch.

At certain points of writing a novel you get that same sense of satisfaction - at the end of a chapter or seeing your work printed out, feeling the heft of pages in your hands. But ultimately, knitting is a more immediate gratification, even if the project isn’t complete in a day, you can see measurable progress.

That’s what this is about, I think. Measurable progress. In a first draft, it’s easy - you count your words each day and tally them up nicely and neatly in an organized fashion. In a second draft, you have to shift your ideas of what’s a measurable goal. Is it time? Is it words added to the draft? What about when you backtrack and fix something out of order? What about… what about… what about…

I ask myself that a lot right now. And more often than not I’m finding I don’t have the answers. The only one that I have consistently is to sit down and not try to figure it out - instead, try to feel it out. Maybe measurement isn’t for this draft so much as movement. Maybe I can let the words and paragraphs slip through my fingers, swooping my pen or keyboard in and around them like knitting needles do with yarn. The all-important tension a knitter holds their yarn with is like the consistency of a writer who shows up day after day for the work.

I finished up a sweater the other week, bound off the edges and wove in the ends. I soaked the garment in a bath of tepid water and suds, the stitches relaxed and softened, the sweater had to become something almost unrecognizable in that water in order to get it to the shape it was meant to be. I gently wrung the water out and squished it between two towels to take away the excess water, and then laid it out to dry. Slowly the water evaporated, the stitches plumped, the wool softened. And when I slipped the dried and blocked sweater over my head, I sighed with pleasure feeling the wool against my skin and the sweater hugged my form in just the right way.

Each moment spent with each stitch was worth it in the end. Just as each moment spent with each word will be worth it in the end, too.

Killing the Blues

A few weeks ago I started taking tentative first steps towards a second draft of the novel I finished last year. It’s a story that reads like a love letter to the Massachusetts coast, and an unintentional goodbye to a place I’d lived and loved for the better part of my adult life. As I was writing it we knew we’d be moving north, to somewhere in Maine, there was loads of uncertainty about where we’d end up.

I tried to read that draft after we settled here last August, but it was too close.

My novels have always had a strong sense of place, and as I was searching for my place in a new state, in a new home, I couldn’t find a way to ground into where I was if I was still lingering in my past - even if it was in a fictional town and a made up story. I could barely read a few chapters, let alone the whole thing, and shoved it back into the proverbial drawer.

Honestly, I didn’t think I would be able to revisit that draft ever again.

Fast forward to this year, and I wanted to give it another go. The reread went smoothly and brought back my excitement for the story. I was able to see its potential and also had somewhat of a clear view of where the story needed to go in subsequent drafts. The characters felt like old friends, the setting filled me with nostalgia in the best way, and when I came up from the words I was able to ground myself in the here and now the way one needs to find their way through words and stories and plots.

Once I started working on the draft, I needed a bit of a refresher as to how I’d worked through a second draft in the past. I revisited the notebooks I’d kept while writing and rewriting Farm Girl, and was happy to see I’d left myself guideposts and a {somewhat scattered} roadmap. But what made all the difference, and what propelled me forward in an unexpected way, was a note I remembered writing - and at the time it felt so insignificant that I almost didn’t write it down.

It said, “I want it to feel like ‘Killing the Blues.’”

Memories flooded into my head from those nine words. Killing the Blues is a song originally written by Rowland Salley (Chris Issak’s bass guitarist) but I first heard a version of it by Shawn Colvin while I was in a creative writing class as a high school senior. It’s been covered by countless artists, including John Prine as well as Robert Plant and Allison Krauss’s duet. But it was the combination of Shawn Colvin’s voice and the slow, ease-filled melody that embedded that song into my writer’s mind and heart.

I remember sitting in those metal desk/chair combos in Mr. Cameron’s classroom, our desks formed a horseshoe shape that encouraged class participation, and in this particular instance, sharing our work. It was a small group, made up of mostly other high school seniors, and a few juniors. We started each class with freewriting - but not just any freewriting exercise. Mr. Cameron would play music for fifteen minutes, and that guided our writing. Cameron was a musician as well as a writer, and he knew how music could unlock memories, take away some of our inhibitions while getting our thoughts onto the page, and feel a little less pressure to ‘get it right.’ That combined with the fact that we were never asked to share our freewrites made for a safe environment for our teenage creative hearts to thrive.

The only song he chose that I remember to this day was Killing the Blues.

That song brought me back to the metal desks with plastic seats, waiting to hear what we’d work on, hearing my voice shake as I shared my words, being in awe of classmates as they strung words together in combinations I never would have thought of, getting a glimpse into not just their minds, but hearts. That class took away the facades we all clung to, and was a haven as what was shared in that room wasn’t allowed into the locker-lined hallways. That class taught me the importance of having someone in my life who could see past typos and grammar, and get to the core of the story. Validation is a wonderful thing, but more so is knowing someone believes in your story, in your words, in your writing, regardless of the shape of your current draft.

Now, however many decades later, that song brought me back to who I wanted to be way back then - not who I was dating, friend drama, or teenage angst - a Shawn Colvin listening, creative writer with a tender soul, lost in story and wonder.

Seeing that hastily jotted note reminded me of not only what I wanted that one story to feel like, but it was also what I wanted all my stories to feel like, maybe even my life.

And if I’m honest, it’s right here in front of me. I hear the whispers of “somebody said they saw me, swinging the world by the tail…” when I walk through our fields, hands dancing over Queen Anne’s lace, “…bouncing over a white cloud…” as I’m rolling my comfy chair up to my desk, “…killing the blues…” as I type and retype word after word, conjuring stories out of thin air and memories.

I’ve started listening to that song each morning as I get ready to write, and it grounds me in a way that nothing else ever has. The melancholic wistfulness of the lyrics and guitar, combined with a hot mug of tea and a blinking cursor on the computer screen turns out to be the recipe I didn’t know I needed for novel writing.

What’s yours?

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Unhelpful Companions

If I were to write a story about this summer, Humidity would be the antagonist. In the beginning, he might seem innocuous, a gentle reminder to slow down, maybe you would think he had your best interest at heart. And then as the story went on, he’d thicken his presence and pepper the days as sweat on your brow, condensation on your cup. Nothing more than a nuisance, still tolerable. The story would build and the climax would come when you realized what was holding you back was actually Humidity. He was behind the stiffness in your step, the ache of your joints. He was to thank for the feeling of general malaise towards the three-quarter mark of the season, causing you to crawl through the count down to autumn. In the end, just as you were gaining strength to fight him off, he’d vanish into the newly cooled and dry air. The epilogue would be dated the following June, just at the point where you feel a hint of stickiness in the air, and find yourself grateful for the opportunity to slow down and savor the long summer days…

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The shift in seasons is one of my favorite things about living in New England.

We’ve been in our house now for a full cycle of seasons. We’ve seen the hay fields through maturing to harvesting, snow-covered and dormant to youthful in spring. We settled in through the fall, made it through our first Maine winter by staying cozy near the woodstove, planted our own seeds in the spring, and are enjoying the fruits of our labors this summer.

When we moved into our last home, over a decade ago, we knew it was going to be temporary. Of course, we thought we would only be there for a handful of years, which turned into ten. For at least the last six years we lived in our rental home we had our eyes set on the next move. The Next Move, like Humidity in the summertime, was a constant companion. It settled in our minds, lingered in corners, and was on the tip of our tongues, an often unasked question.

The answer finally came in a situation that we couldn’t even fathom at the time, and we’re just starting to fully grasp it now, a year on. We live on over thirty acres of land, which we share with my parents who also live on the property, in a house a stone’s throw away from ours. It’s a place where one can wander for hours, exploring not just hay fields but woods and trails, as well as a meandering river. Just yesterday we went for a walk and saw a deer grazing in our hay fields. It raised its head, acknowledging our presence, and then went back to its morning meal. We’ve spent a set of seasons knee-deep in learning about this place, our home, only to learn that we’ll spend the rest of our time here learning… growing… becoming.

Somewhere within the last year, it’s started to sink in - we’re not focused on The Next Move. It’s a strange feeling after a life of moving {or planning a move} every few years, to be settled. To not have The Next Move on the horizon. To simply allow yourself to be.

For so long I put countless things on hold, things I’d do “after The Next Move.” Well, it’s after. And it’s time.

Truthfully, waiting for The Next Move was always a bit of a comfort for me, like a safety blanket. I know I need to be careful not to shift from The Next Move to The Next Thing, and instead put The Next- to rest. Not to wait on something to do the things we’ve dreamed of, to finish writing the books I have in progress, and build the writing career I’ve talked about for years.

It’s time to take advantage of the fact that now is the time to create the life I’ve been waiting to live. The humidity is about to go poof, The Next Move is gone quite possibly forever, and everything that’s been just out of reach is now sitting at my doorstep… waiting for me to answer the doorbell.

Do you hear it, too?

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FYI: I’ll be writing here the second and fourth Tuesdays of the month. It’s a bit of an experiment, as I’m unsure of how I want to use this space… maybe for journal type entries, maybe playing with some short fiction… however it turns out, I’m so glad to have you along for the ride. Thank you for being here, and for reading my words.

On Writing Rhythms

Monday morning. The air feels thick with summer. I turn on my computer, open Scrivener, and log on to video call with the women I write with most mornings during the week. It’s about accountability, camaraderie, support, laughter, and oh yeah… words.

I joined the group - it’s titled The Confident Creative Club, and is run by the creative force that is Helen Redfern - earlier in the year. Without a doubt, it’s been the best decision I’ve made for my writing life in a long, long time. While there’s many facets to the group, my favorite are the live writing sessions. We show up just as we are, from all corners of the world, and put our microphones on mute and write, together but separately. At the end of the hour we touch base and see we each got on with our writing.

There’s power in showing up with others with the shared intention of writing.

Even with that, some mornings are harder than others. Recently I’ve been so focused on getting to the end of the draft I’m working on, that I’ve forgotten about the tricks and tools I use to get started on a draft during that period of time when you need as much inner and outer support as you can get to show up in the face of a blank page. The other week I pulled out all of my notebooks that I’d written in when I first had a glimmer of an idea, and reading through my scribbles reminded me of how I relied heavily on tarot cards {I used that as prompts when I feel stuck} and the rituals of putting on certain bracelets a friend of mine for me that represent my books and connection to creativity. They might seem like little things, but the few moments it takes to pull a card and to slip on those bracelets are what it takes to ground and center me. After that, I’ll refer to any notes I made the day before, take a deep breath, and start writing.

These days I’ve been camping out in my bedroom for the morning writing sessions, where it’s cool and quiet. The dog rests by my side, she nudges me for snuggles now and then which make for a welcome distraction, the fan whirs, and the curtains dance. During the winter months, it looks much the same, only I’m camped out by the fireplace, notebooks spread out on the couch beside me, but the dog is still at my feet.

That hour of time each day is sacred. It’s taken time for me to set boundaries around my writing time, to show up consistently, and even longer to take my writing seriously. I find that no matter what season it is, the more often I can start the day with some words and connect creatively with myself, the better the day will be.

The key to having a writing life is of course to write. But it’s also to recognize the seasonal changes within ourselves, our process, and our lives, and to shift accordingly. Rhythms and rituals, whether they’re showing up with others or simply slipping on a bracelet or two, can ease those shifts and remind us why we’re showing up in the first place. The tricky part is to remember they’re there to fall back on, even after we’ve been swept up in a story that carries us through the difficulty of getting to the page. When the energy falls, and fatigue sets in, it’s those rhythms and rituals that will carry us to the end of our drafts. Maybe they’ll actually get the place they deserve in the acknowledgment section of my next book…

Home, again

It’s been a while since I’ve written on a blog regularly. Over the last few years I’ve written thousands and thousands of words, but not in one place. I’ve thrown them up over on Instagram, have dabbled on Medium, have shared through my newsletter, and wrote endlessly on first drafts. I’ve felt fragmented through it all, longing for one place that could hold everything together.

Low and behold, a website can do just that. So here we are.

Welcome to this space, my new online home. It’s similar to my previous site, but to me it feels a little more grown up, sophisticated, and professional. You’ll find access to my newsletter (a sign up as well as links to previous letters), Instagram, my books, the podcast on creativity that I host with my brother, as well as contact forms all in a central hub. It feels like home.

Since last posting regularly, much has changed in my life. It’s been over two years since Farm Girl made it’s debut, a pandemic has riddled our daily lives, and my family and I moved north two hours into Maine. I hope to write about it all, including how life has changed so much, and yet so much remains the same. Where we live now holds greater opportunity to slow down and savor life, as we’re surrounded by hay fields, a meandering river, and woods a plenty. Things move a bit slower here. It’s a more physical existence than where we previously lived. From gathering wood from the woodshed on snow-covered mornings to gathering lettuce from the garden for our dinner to walking home noisily after seeing a coyote in the field while on a dog walk in the fields, it’s all part of a life we didn’t know we needed, or even wanted, until a year ago. Every bit of life informs the rest and noticing that is part of living a creative life. I can’t wait to share it all with you here.

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Thank you for spending time with me and my words…

What Loud, Live Music Does for a Quiet Soul

My husband’s taste in music is arguably better than mine.

Actually, more than that, he likes to listen to a variety of artists where I end up going to my ‘favorite’ list on Tidal, and playing the same things over and over again. If it wasn’t for him, I’d probably still be clinging to the CDs I bought in college, listening to Lisa Loeb and Rusted Root and Norah Jones over and over and over again.

After our second date, Lucas made me a mix CD (think High Fidelity…) full of indie bands I’d never heard of, opening my eyes to his tastes, and ultimately his heart. Over the years he’s put together mixes and playlists introducing me to musicians that otherwise wouldn’t have been on my radar. A number of years back the lists started leaning heavily on the Frank Turner side… and by the time Frank’s album, Be More Kind, came out, I was hooked. He’s been a prominent figure on our road trips and we all have a favorite song for a favorite mood.

Frank Turner’s songs have brought us together as a family in a way that only music can do. They mean something different to each of us, but together we have shared memories of driving through Arkansas singing Nashville Tennessee, family game nights that have turned into sing-alongs, a family trip to Canada to see him play on my birthday (the kid’s first gig!), and for Lucas and myself, we can just look down at our arms and see the tattoos we had done in honor of an anniversary during The Lost Evenings festival back in 2019.

During the pandemic, Frank did live shows on YouTube every week for a while. He played to his audience from his living room, his wife was in charge of monitoring comments and also keeping track of their fundraisers — they gathered donations for their crew, and also for venues that were at risk of going under during lockdown.

We watched every week, sometimes the kids would join us, other times it was just the two of them. Every single week I cried… Frank’s lyrics are a big part of the reason why I love his music, they’re poignant and resonate in many ways. But more so, I missed the way I felt at gigs. Those shows from his living room were a reminder of life before… but also what our current reality was, and the very human need to create, to connect, and to persevere.

Flash forward to 2022, and *finally* we felt comfortable enough to head to a show when his tour came our way earlier this week. And my word, in the span of a year two — even with the live-streamed shows — I’d forgotten.

I’d forgotten what it felt like.

The crowds pushing up against one another, music so loud you can feel it vibrating in your chest, people singing song lyrics by heart, the energy of a crowd of people gathered by a common interest. Lucas singing loudly as he stands behind me, his hand grazing my hip to check in when the crowd gets rowdy. The way your voice goes hoarse for days after singing your heart out. How you can find yourself, the best version of yourself, in the middle of a hundred people.

I’d forgotten what loud, live music can do for a normally quiet person:

It can make you feel alive and connect you to yourself in a way that nothing else can. In the midst of the community and shared singing, for moments here and there you can only hear yourself through the din. There’s comfort in the crowd, there’s freedom in knowing that no one cares how you look when you dance, no one is paying attention to you, their eyes are on stage.

I tend to be very aware of myself, but in a crowded venue, listening to your favorite musician, there’s a freedom to be unabashedly yourself. In fact, if you’re not, that might bring more attention than anything else.

The other night I listened to my normally reserved husband sing as loud as he could for two hours straight. By the end of the night, my dancing legs felt like jelly, my throat was hoarse from singing, and my soul was on fire.

I forgot for a little while, what it felt like to be unapologetically, uninhibitedly myself. In that crowd, I finally remembered, and I don’t want to forget.

{Originally posted on Medium}

On Permitting Oneself to be a Writer

We moved to a small town in the middle of Maine last year, so small that there isn’t a stoplight. After the movers left and we unpacked the necessities, the library was one of our first adventures out of the house. We signed on as volunteers as a way to get to know people in town, and we made fast friends with the librarian.

One Saturday a few months after our move my husband went to pick up our thirteen-year-old from a volunteer shift at the library and when they came home he told me the librarian was a little upset with me.

“She didn’t know you wrote a book,” he said.

My teenager had shared that I’m a writer, and I published a book a few years ago.

I laughed it off and said I’d have to donate a book to the library.

And then I got a text from the librarian, “Why didn’t you tell me you wrote a book? I’m a librarian! I love books!”

I made some excuses. That it was self-published, that I was still trying to feel comfortable calling myself a writer, and having a hard time taking myself

I signed a copy of the book, dropped it at the library, and ever since then when the librarian introduces me to people, she makes sure to tell them I wrote a book, and they can find it at the library.

And every time, I cringe.

In 2019 I self-published my debut novel, Farm Girl. I didn’t decide to do so lightly, but after the initial plan of going the traditional publishing route didn’t fit, I knew there had to be a different way.

I had followed the rules, the guidelines. I wrote the novel, I edited the novel, I had readers give feedback, and edited it again, and again. I sent out dozens and dozens of query letters after researching agents. And I spent an entire summer on pins and needles when opening my inbox, unsure of when a rejection would come in, or if there would be a hint of good news.

Many weekends, my mood had been soured because of a rejection popping in on a Friday afternoon. It started wearing on my mental health, and I started questioning why I was going this route, and what my actual goal was in publishing Farm Girl.

The truth was, I wanted to share my work with friends, family, and readers who had supported me in the journey of writing a book, and bringing it to completion. I wanted to share the story, the characters, that I had spent years with and loved. I wanted to say thank you to supportive blog and Instagram readers who had encouraged me and were as anxious to read my story as I was to get it into their hands. And I didn’t want Farm Girl to languish in a desk drawer, I wanted to feel some control over my work, my story, and I felt strongly that if I shelved this book, I would shelve my dream of writing novels.

So I decided to self-publish my first novel.

I used the resources I had {family and friends, my brother created the cover, my mother did my headshots, my husband did multiple rounds of edits, and a handful of trusted readers and critique partners did more edits passes with red pens} and kept my why in check every step of the way. It was one of the most challenging projects I’ve ever undertaken — aside from homeschooling my children — but I loved the process. There was something so satisfying about having my hand in every bit of the book, taking away the gatekeepers, and just going for it.

As with any new endeavor, there were hiccups along the way. Because I just wanted to share my story, I wanted to make it as easy as possible for myself and my readers and went with Amazon and their Kindle Direct Publishing. There was a learning curve with the software, and many hours spent banging my head against a wall over inserting page numbers and having them start where I wanted.

Eventually, I had to say it was better done than perfect, and after years of work, I was able to hold a finished copy of my book in my hands.

And then it went out into the world.

The community support around Farm Girl was overwhelming. No, it didn’t hit any bestseller list, but people were reading my novel, connecting with the characters, and sharing it wherever they could. Reviews were mostly positive, and the year it came out the earnings covered our Christmas costs. Farm Girl had exceeded my humble expectations for sales and reach, and I could call myself a published writer.

Except that I didn’t. Especially not outside of my online world.

In the months and years since I’ve found myself downplaying my book and my writing. If anyone says they’re going to order my book, I give them a disclaimer about its imperfections and point out that they might find typos. I try to head off what criticisms I think they might have before they read the first page.

I hide my pride about this book, my hopes for my writing career, and downplay the hours I spent, and still spend, on my writing.

I rarely say that I’m a writer. Instead, I say that I wrote a book… like it was just something I did on a lark.

I’ve spent the last two-plus years writing my next book, but it turns out that writing after sharing your first novel is a challenge. The first year after Farm Girl came out I had a few false starts, I’d write ten thousand words of a novel and find fault in it somewhere — the story was too similar to something I’d read or heard about, or it ended up boring me. I wrote an entire first draft of a novel and told myself it served the purpose of reminding me I could write something from start to finish, but I didn’t need to see it go any farther. Currently

I’m nearing the end of another first draft, and I’m feeling the familiar sensation of wanting to put it away and never look at it again, or let anyone else read it.

We protect ourselves and the things we hold dearest to us. Writing is something I’ve always done, and have been told I do well, but I don’t know that I truly believe any praise that comes my way. And yet, I find joy and myself in my writing life in a way I’ve yet to find elsewhere — which is the reason I keep at it.

I am starting to realize that my lack of belief or confidence in my work is hindering my ability to keep any forward momentum. That can’t come from anywhere else, or anyone else, but myself.

I thought I had done enough by permitting myself to publish my book, but that wasn’t as cut and dry as I thought it would be. In doing so, I permitted Farm Girl to exist as a story, but I failed to permit myself to exist as a writer.

I need to start telling myself better stories and owning who I am and what is important to me. The only person who can legitimize me as a writer is me.

So let’s start here and now, online and in person.

Dear Medium readers, I’m Corinne Cunningham, and I’m a writer. I published my first book, Farm Girl in 2019, and my most sincere hope is that you not only read the story, but that you get swept up in its sense of place, find the characters thoughtful and complex, and maybe shed a few tears, and appreciate the book, story, and characters as much as I do. Writing is my passion, and I want nothing more than to spend my life writing novels and sharing them with you all.

You can find more information about Farm Girl here.

{Post originally shared on Medium}

Available now: Farm Girl!

Dear long neglected blog... I have some news to share...

My debut novel, Farm Girl, is now available for purchase on Amazon in eBook and paperback!

From the back cover:

When Beatrix Hampton, a travel photographer with a passport full of stamps but no permanent address, finds herself searching for stability she heads to the quiet town of Cumberland, Massachusetts. Here, she is embraced by the people and town she spent much of her childhood with, including family friend Cliff Finley and his apple orchard. Bea finds solace in the rhythms of harvest season, but as secrets are unearthed she discovers her ties to the orchard are more than sentimental. Bea must make a decision: will she run like she always does, or stay and help save Finley Orchards? 



I've spent over three years with Bea, Cliff, and Graham in the fictional town of Cumberland, and they are so dear to my heart. I'm thrilled to finally be able to share them with you! My most sincere hope is that you not only read the story, but that you get swept up in it's sense of place, find the characters thoughtful and complex, maybe shed a few tears, and overall love the book. 

Over the coming weeks keep an eye on my social media channels as I'll be posting at least one giveaway over on Instagram, as well as a special giveaway for my newsletter subscribers {click here to hop on the list if you haven't already!}

It would mean the world to me if you could help me spread the word by sharing about Farm Girl by any means you see fit. If you post online, feel free to tag me! 

Thank you for joining me on the adventure that is self-publishing a novel. This is a dream come true for me, and I hope you enjoy reading Farm Girl. 

easing out of vacation

Vacation came and went and there's little proof but a few photos and a small pile of Florida sand that made it's way into my bedroom carpet. Sunday evening we sat at home, and the four of us looked at each other and all wondered out loud, "did that really happen?" That's what nearly six days in the car, and four days of jam packed activities in the Florida sunshine will do to you. It was a beautiful whirlwind of a trip, and within it we created many memories of laughter, adventure, and family legends. 

Now we're home where the wind is still chilling bones, though the calendar says otherwise. Yesterday I drove Lucas to the train station and watched the nearly full moon set low in the horizon. It was breathtaking, the glow and fullness. By the time I pulled away from the car park the moon was gone, tucked in for the daylight hours and the sky laid in wait of the sun. 

The days are flying fast and hard and instead of tightening my grip, I'm easing into the flow of it all. In working on what feels right, and resting when my body needs rest. In starting off gently with breakfast on the couch and kids tucked into my side, and housework nestled in the corners instead of it taking up prime real estate in our waking hours. In laying the groundwork for play and creativity and work, and finding the sweet spot where they intersect and the magic happens. 

It's also in pulling back from a weekly commitment to blogging. I may or may not show up here every Wednesday. I'm giving myself some grace and ease as I dive into other projects that are calling to me, like another round of edits on Farm Girl and furthering the word count on the new novel. {The best way to stay in the know about this space is to sign up for my mailing list, or to have blog posts emailed to you as they get published (you can do so on the side bar)}

A new season, a full moon, a new perspective. Spring is all about uncovering the shoots and buds, giving them room to grow, allowing and nurturing, cultivating. What's being unearthed for you this season?

Guest Post: Jennie Booth

The following is a post by my dear friend Jennie Booth. She's a writer of young adult fiction, contemporary stories, an avid reader, a nature enthusiast, and one of the few trusted people I text when I'm having a writer crisis! I'm so happy to share her words with you today. Thanks Jennie!

When Corinne asked me if I wanted to write a guest post for her blog I had gobs of ideas. Things like how nature helps me be a better writer...why I write...how my goal of finally reading all the books I own is going...and so many more. But as I sat down at the computer, none of them felt right until I thought about Corinne.

Friendship.

It’s such a big word with many definitions and looks and needs. Books have brought me some of my very best friends into my life, both fictional and real. They’ve carried me through rough times and my most joyous days. And when I started writing to pursue publication, I became connected to a support system of individuals who understand the yo-yo of creating art. I’ve found that this group of people is possibly more necessary to my creative process than putting my butt in the chair to do the actual creating.

We all know critique partners are important in writing (and other forms of creative expression, I’m sure) but it takes more than thoughtful criticism to carry an artist through the cloudy times. Having that person you can text/call/message and let out all the fears over publishing (Is it ever gonna happen?) and revisions (I’m making the story worse, I know it!) and an empty creative well (I’m never going to have another idea!) is necessary. Writing may feel like a solo experience when you’re deep into putting words on the page, but I think creativity really shines when it becomes a team effort.

As much as social media can be a time-suck and a whirlpool of false impressions and half-truths, I’m thankful that it has connected me with writer friends like Corinne. She’s given me valuable insight on my novels and ideas, listened to me wallow, and given me pep talks that kept me moving forward. Knowing that she’s on the other end of a text message has honestly meant so much to me.

Five years ago, I went to the first meeting of a library writers group and met my new best friend, Niki Lenz, there. Her middle grade debut comes out later this month and I am beyond excited to celebrate her success. I wouldn’t be the writer I am--or the person I am--now without Niki’s friendship.

And those are just two of many, many others who have traveled with me on this journey. So instead of sharing writing tips or parenting stories here today, I want to fill this space with thankfulness.

Who has helped you along the way? Who would you like to thank? I’d love for you to share your answers in the comments, but don’t stop there. Go and tell those people, too. Spread love and thankfulness into the world today, friends!

If you'd like to connect with Jennie, you can find her on Instagram @jenniereadsandwrites

A quick ode to knitting

My knitting life has been varied as of late. Lots of projects, some knit with thoughtfully chosen and specifically bought wool,  others unexpected and creatively pieced together with yarn from my stash. A ribbed hat made from sport weight yarn on needles so small they blistered the ends of my fingers after a week of constant ribbed knitting, another that was over and done with in two days. I finished a springtime sweater for myself, just in time for our upcoming road trip to Florida next week, and a pair of fingerless mitts made their way across the Atlantic to Sweden and a dear friend. 

Knitting holds a special place in my heart, for so many reasons. It's a balm, a creative outlet, a connection to my past, something I can pass on to my children, a meditation, an obsession, a nervous habit, a distraction, a tool for focusing, it's art and magic and finite and expansive. 

Writing and knitting go hand in hand for me, they compliment each other beautifully. Especially when in the early stages of a first draft, it's easy to get lost in the process. The vastness of the project. It feels endless and the daily word count a drop in the bucket compared to the final outcome. Knitting is almost a physical manifestation of the process... you can see something being created right in front of you, at your finger tips, in your lap. You can then hold your creation, wear it for all to see, and only you know the memories it contains. The silent prayers, the curse words at a dropped stitch, the daydreams and television shows you watched. The plot points you worked out while adding stitches and counting rows and hoping that you bought enough yarn to finish the sweater. 

Similarly to writing, there's hours of work that goes unseen even when someone looks directly at your project. Some of it is thankless and can be quite literally painful. But the hard work, the mind twisting patterns and numbers, the plot holes and complicated characters, all come together in the end in what is *hopefully* a piece of creative, soulful, and useful art. Books are art, anything hand knit is art, and both feel magical. You take an idea, you take a pattern, and breathe life into them. Poof, you have something that is timeless, something to put your name to and say, "I made that." 

Creating something out of nothing, that's what knitting and writing both feel like to me. And I love them both, and how they play off of each other and challenge me every step of the way. Even when faced with ease, there's still the question of how does this fit with the rest of the project, how does this work? Will this work? You don't know until the end. There's trust in both processes, but in such different ways. 

That is why I need a knitting project while I write, and a writing project while I knit: so I can remember to trust, myself and the process. To remember that every stitch counts, every word counts, and individually they might not amount to much - but together they make something useful and beautiful. Something timeless. 

~~~~~~~

Tomorrow my monthly newsletter goes out. If you haven't signed up to my mailing list yet, you can do so here. I promise I won't send you a gazillion emails!

Next week my family and I will be on vacation... but don't worry, there will still be a blog post next Wednesday! I'll be introducing you to a trusted writer friend of mine, Jennie Booth. I asked if she'd like to write a guest post for me, and she kindly agreed. I can't wait for you to meet her!

Tenderly lit corners

This winter I've been spending a lot of time alone. I've been searching out quiet spaces, tenderly lit corners, tending to myself by going to bed way before the rest of my family and getting up hours before the earliest riser stirs. 

These moments I'm taking for myself are non negotiable, and when I don't get them, I feel a disconnect down to my deepest core. 

Not all seasons are like this, needing such a drastic return, or introduction, to self care. 

And I don't mean self care in the bubble bath, chocolate sweets, binge watching shows and movies sort of way. I mean self care in the most sincere sense, care of self which comes by way of turning inwards and collecting the parts of self that haven't been heard recently together in a gathering... where the only goal is to hear oneself. All of the parts of self, even the disgruntled and hidden ones. 

It's beyond easy to disassociate from ourselves, the core of our being. We're living in a time where everything is fast, instant, and noise is constant. Not just by way of sound, but the incessant information being thrown at us. The clattering of voices - read, seen, heard - that forever sells us things that we don't need. Ideas. Thoughts. Judgments. Comparisons. 

Currently I'm healing a leaky gut, but I'm also tending to a weary heart. Tired from years of disconnect, tired of trying to fit into a mold, tired of trying to be good and nice and not rock boats or make waves. In doing all those things, for years, I've lost touch with my inner voice, and worse, my intuition. So consumed with doing things the 'right way', there's a steep learning curve in learning what is my way. The right way for me may not be the right way for anyone else. And that is a tough pill to swallow. 

It means not caring so much about what others think, not worrying about judgement, it means trusting in something that women for lifetimes have been told not to trust: themselves. Ourselves. Me.

And so I've been stealing away here and there, on weekend afternoons and weekday mornings. For moments, and sometimes hours at a time. With my books, tarot cards, notebooks and pens, and sometimes just myself, whatever tools I need to go further, to dig deeper, to listen better. The benefit in the process of excavating myself is that when I come out from my cave of sorts, I'm able to be more present with my family, and more loving towards myself and others. The closer we become to our honest, true selves, the brighter our lights shine. 

I'm listening, and I can't un-hear. Can't un-see. Can't un-know. 

I'm listening, and finding a connection to my self that can't be forced or rushed. One that has needed an undoing in order to become. 

Are you walking this path as well? Have you come to find yourself at this stage of life in different ways than you were able to previously? Have you read Women Who Run With The Wolves? It's a conduit for depth and seeking, and an invitation to reclaim intuition. Are there other books along the same vein that you would recommend? 

Where I'm From

This is an exercise that makes the rounds every now and then. I brought it out for my creative writing students yesterday. It's such a versatile, meaningful exercise that sounds good no matter how simple the vocabulary you use. I remember using it in a workshop, and then writing another version when I was blogging years ago. If you're interested, here's a template you can use to create your own poem, and more information on the author who I believe started the whole thing. 

If you write your own version, let me know, I'd love to read it! 

Where I'm From

I am from Ten Rod Road, garden hoses and sprinklers all summer long, Ball jars that pop on sticky afternoons, and T's salsa. 

I am from shared bedrooms, revolving furniture, forever open doors. 

I am from the daffodil beds, the tire swing, the scent of lilacs on spring breezes. 

I am from shoes set out for Saint Nicholas, Easter dresses and patent leather, from deep and long held grudges, from Dorothy and Rae, Mary Jane, Tee and all the sisters. 

I am from seamstresses and pipe fitters, quilters and dancers, from strong willed and tough love and lots of laughter. 

From because I said so and make do and be good and I love you. 

I am from kitchen sink baptisms, maroon fabric covered cushions in the Congregational church pews, from choir songs and natures hymns of birdsong. 

I am from the hills of Johnstown, from Germany, Ireland, and Wales, from Saint Patrick and Saint Lucia, warm potato salad, pork and sauerkraut, apple pie and chocolate cake for breakfast.

From unions, Temple, and tales from Elkins Park. From rosary beads and a portrait brought home from the war. 

I am from telescopes and kaleidoscopes, from photo collages in the hall and sepia toned photographs kept in shoe boxes, from hand sewn clothes and quilts and stories...

Found in a bookshelf

Last week the cable company had to come and do a thing to some cables, run some wires, all sorts of technical things that go in one of my ears and go straight out the other.

The day after they were here I went over to look at my carefully curated stack of books that sits in front of our built in bookshelf. It's full of to be read's that I intend to go through this year. But the stack looked different, bigger books were on top (the horror!) and even worse than that, some books were facing the wrong way! 

Upon further investigation, half the book stack were books I had already read or had no plans on reading.

And then I looked down and saw the cable.

Someone had taken books out of the shelf in order to rerun the new cable, and my stack of books was taken down as a casualty of fiber optic war. 

I sat and found the books that were in the original pile, and went through others that I forgot we had, adding to the ever growing TBR stack.

And then I found a book about Haiku, which was timely as the creative writing class I'm teaching at our co-op was covering haikus the following class, and isn't that always the way it works?

The book, The Essential Haiku, has made it through many years and several moves. It was one, like about half of our collection, that became ours when we moved in together but was originally Lucas's. He studied poetry in college, and I sometimes joke that his collection of books was part of the reason I fell in love with him.

I know I've written previously about our bookshelf, about his books and how they always literally pop out at me just when I need them. About how I'll think of a title or an author, consider checking it out a the library or on Amazon, wander over to our shelf, and there it is. But I can't remember which blog it was on, or if it was an Instagram post, and I'm too lazy to look through the archives to find the link.

Yesterday morning before co-op I had a chance to look through The Essential Haiku, and I found Lucas's chicken scratch in notes and underlines and stars. From a different time, lifetimes ago. The underlined sections resonated with who he is and who we are. Separate but also together.

This time of year I tend to get sappy. The anniversary of our first date was a week or so ago, and I have such fond memories of our early days together. Wandering the streets of Salem to see the ice sculptures, brunches at Red's, Netflix dvd's back before streaming was a thing. The process of becoming us was quick, we both knew early on that we had something special. But the process of being us, that's a lifetimes worth of work. And finding little bits that remind us of our authentic selves, then and now, is what makes it exciting and rewarding. My husband is a man of few words, and so to see his inner workings, even from years ago, is an honor, one that makes me love him even more than I thought I could.

We often talk about what a gift it is to watch our children grow and become the people who they're meant to be, but we don't often talk about those aspects of our partners and spouses. With parenting, if you have a co-parent you're able to discuss ad nauseam your children's developments, physically and emotionally.

But when it comes to your partner... not so much. Maybe because we're all in the trenches, and it's harder to see changes, progress, their changes often impact our lives for better or worse, and the conversations don't happen as easily. We're willing to dissect our children's lives, but not nearly as willing to dissect our relationships and our own growth. Our partner's growth may be tied up in our own, or compared to our own lack of, or maybe don't want to own up to something, or are afraid that with one persons growth comes distance, if we don't allow space and encouragement.

Maybe we're not prepared to see when and if we evolve at different rates.

But there's joy (and sometimes frustration) in watching another person evolve. To watch someone embrace themselves, and then come back and embrace each other. Not quite new, but not nearly the same as when you first met.

Our books hold a sacred spot as a reminder that we are always evolving, separately and together, and to witness that process is a privilege.

February

60 degrees Fahrenheit on February 5th, 2019

January went by in a long blink. It was one of those months that embodied the saying all parents dread hearing, "the days are long but the years are short." January of 2019 felt that way, only the hours were long, and the month was short. It was a month, for me, of resetting, of evaluating, of new habits - not resolutions. 

January was cerebral, and now February is for action. 

In December I met with a friend of mine who happens to be an herbalist and an energy healer. We'd talked for quite a while about setting up a session with her. Finally, it happened, and ever since there's been shifts and realizations, openings and awakenings. I do believe I was on the path to all of the things already, but the visit with her sped things up, and proved to me that I have a lot of work to do for my body and soul, and that now is as good a time as any to show up for myself. 

 I'm currently healing a leaky gut and diving deep into emotional healing from various things. It's a wild ride full of shifts in thinking about food and how we heal and nurturing, rest and eliminating stress and finding peace as well as voice. I plan on writing more about the process, but I'm not quite there yet... all in good time. 

These days I'm going to bed and waking early. I'm getting on the yoga mat before the sun comes up and then I spend some time writing the first draft of a new novel, pulling a daily tarot card and writing morning pages all before my children wake for the day. Then it's on to life and homeschooling, feeding all of us - body and soul, over and over again, and reconnecting through it all. To self, to each other, to the natural world. 

We joined a new to us weekly homeschool co-op this term. It meets on Tuesdays, and it's the only co-op that my kids and I have left not feeling drained, but instead energized. On the drive home yesterday we opened the windows and when I suggested we head to the beach, the kids both agreed. Last week we were in the midst of the Polar Vortex, and yesterday we saw the temperature rise to the mid sixties. The weather and our bodies are confused, but we'll hit the ground running when the beach calls. They went barefoot, the native New Englanders that they are, and we played and laughed for a good hour as the sun started moving down the dunes.

Flow has been a word that has come back to me over and over again this last week. I feel like I'm in it. I'm listening to what I need, what my family needs, and while occasionally we need a reset (as anyone who saw us Monday knows...) we're also showing up for each other with language that used to be foreign but is now flowing freely about relationships and self, about growth and moving towards what matters most for us as a family. 

Intention weaves its way through the hours of my days, the moments of my life, in a way that I haven't felt before. Spoiler alert, it feels good...

I'm excited to write in this space again. I needed the last two months to take a pause and think about what writing means to me, what sharing my writing means, and what ultimately makes me happy. I'll be writing more about this is tomorrow's newsletter {you can sign up here!} but ultimately writing is a way for me to connect and share, and even if my posts don't go viral and my words aren't being shared a gazillion times. I'm happy to be here, in this space, chatting to those who are reading and enjoy my words. 

My hope for this space in the coming months is to share not so much specifically about my writing journey, but about life in general. Adventures and thoughts and mundane moments. I loved the days of personal blogs, before ads and sponsorship, before motives came into play and the personal narratives that were so good at connecting us to each other disappeared. I'd like to go back to a bit of that... 

So here's to 2019, may it be full of creativity, words, and connection. 

I'm building up my blog reader again. If you have a blog you're currently writing, I'd love if you'd share in the comments! I've been using Feedly, but am open to another option - what do you all use for reading blogs? Please let me know!

kindness

How to be kind to yourself...

find quiet

layer on the blankets

binge watch your favorite show

holiday themed or not

enjoy endless warm drinks

cup the mug and feel the heat transfer

feel it come alive in your hands

read aloud

to yourself, a pet, a loved one

feel the words on your tongue

and how they long to be savored

slow

change traditions to bring joy

save traditions to bring joy

throw out traditions to bring joy

bring joy

feel sorrow as it comes - it will

stand outside in the frigid air

 and watch your breath swirl around you

listen for sleigh bells

remember there is a season for everything

take a bath

let the steam surround you

feel the pull of water over and under the body 

as the tub drains

linger over dinner

over dishes

over life

share your expectations

if you have them

but try not to have too many

don't wallow in 'why didn't they'

ask 'can you?'

listen to your body

as it tells you to rest

allow yourself your feelings

honor what rises

what swells

what calls for attention

find space in the cracks

find joy in the sorrow

find quiet

and savor

The above is a post I wrote a few years ago, but it's as relevant as it was back then. I hope you enjoyed it, and are finding some space for kindness in this season. 

I'm signing off in this space until the new year, but tomorrow I'll be sending out the last newsletter of 2018! You can sign up here if you haven't already. And... I installed disqus to use for comments. I'm hoping that resolves some of the comment issues I had been having. Let me know what you think. I hope all have a happy holiday season, and thank you for continuing to read my words, here and elsewhere!

Making space for a pause

We came home from our Thanksgiving travels late on Saturday evening. Sunday we all slept in, in our own beds, and let the day unfold at a leisurely pace. Lucas brought me tea in bed, as he's wont to do recently, steaming and perfectly steeped for two minutes. 

Later in the day I went down to the basement and found a big green Rubbermaid bin, the kind that stacks and looms in corners collecting dust until their annual pilgrimage upstairs. The kids squealed {yes, squealed, at 10 and 12 years old!} when they saw it in the dining room. 

We tore into it and found all of the non tree related Christmas decorations. Nativity scenes, holiday themed books, jingle bells, and the quilted stockings my mother made us all. We've lived in this home for long enough that the kids know exactly where to put each decoration, they know what spaces need to be created in order to make room for trinkets and nutcrackers alike. 

It was early, I know. Not even December, not even Advent, and the plastic angel nightlight from my childhood now sits in my bedroom window. But it felt  necessary. Not because of keeping up with Instagram or Pinterest, but for the pause. 

I wanted to put up the decorations for the pause it affords us during our days: to stop and kiss under the mistletoe, to marvel over creations handmade by the kids when their palms could have fit neatly into mine twice over, to light the candles before dinner and tell the story of how Lucas's mother gave the glass star shaped holders to us years ago, and the memories they hold.

There is much I say no to leading up to this time of year in order to protect the pauses. And it's worth it, as every single no results in a more meaningful yes later on. Whether it's to a planned outing or a night in watching movies or being able to say yes to a last minute opportunity that wouldn't have been afforded otherwise, the yes I utter is unwavering. 

More than anything, the pause is what I crave this time of year. It holds the magic that happens when you least expect it, like in the early morning hours with a mug of tea and twinkle lights and a child, half asleep, who wandered downstairs in search of mama snuggles. 

If not for the pauses, so many sweet moments and memories would be missed. I'm not willing to let that happen in the name of a Perfect Holiday Bucket List, spending money we don't have on things we don't need and manufactured memories that everyone else has simply because it's what we do. No, I'll take the pauses, and the quiet, and the mismatched ornaments on the always lopsided tree, and the laughter that comes with an imperfectly perfect holiday season.