Tag Archives: coffee

What If

I’ve been thinking a lot lately.  That’s the kind of thing that happens while you sit at your desk, knitting until your fingers and wrists go numb, watching millions of images load ever so slowly on your dino-dial-ups for Pintrest.  There’s been topics fluttering in my mind, words to mash out on this blank screen… but knitting doesn’t work well with typing.  You loose your count and your train of thought all at one time.  Trust me.

And it’s hard to work on this, when you need to work on that.  Priorities wrestle with wants.  Needs fling mud at desires.  Options and choices wrestle in the jello pit that once was a functional brain.  Everything fights you, time, budgets, noises, small people wanting things.

It’s like the first time I looked into selling handmade goods on Etsy, they say, “Choose one medium”.  Choose one.  Like that’s possible for me.  I can knit, crochet, draw, paint, sew, quill, carve, stamp, shape… not that I have valuable skills in every form, but choosing one is like asking me if I want to keep my right or my left leg… um, all please?

I want to do it all, because what if I choose the wrong one?  My hobby is hobbies.  But I want one to be mine.  Or at least three.  Maybe four.  My hard limit is at nine, honestly.

And somehow this all links back to writing.  What if.  I mean really, what if?  What if while I’m busy training dogs (or not so busy, thank you economy), and knitting my fingers off to pay the bills, supporting my writer friends, promoting them, blogging about nothing, chasing kids, trying to make a garden/homestead on a rock bed, pretending I know how to sing for the fake band… What if, deep in my computer’s files, laying in wait, is the next big thing.  And in my interview with Ellen (because Oprah erks me to no end) she asks how long it took me to write this book, that instantly sold out, and the movie rights were bought before it was even published… I have to say, twenty years.  And I have to admit that for 19 of those years it was sitting there in my computer’s memory, because I was too friggen scared/hard on myself to even try.  And she’s going to laugh and call me cute, while holding up one of my washcloths and make some cute joke about loving Jesus and drinking beer.

Okay so I doubt that’s how anything would unfold.  But what if?

But where’s the time?  And where the frick, is the confidence?  Because all I know is that them washcloths will not make themselves.  And sitting here, typing about what if’s does not pay the bills.

*pours more coffee*


Hey there, look!  I do remember what a blog is!  Shocking right?

It’s been busy around here for sure.  Between family drama, sickness and injuries, the loss of favorite pets, starting a new business, and so on and so on… it’s hard to prioritize blogging.  And even harder to follow-up on my friends’ latest writings.

And then, then there is the confession.

I think, I gave up.

Or maybe it is that I am still giving up, or maybe I’m getting ready to give up, and that’s why I feel compelled to write about it.  Just one last time.  Not that I’m looking for someone to magically pull me back into that other realm, because the time still isn’t there…  but just to keep on with the honesty I prefer to keep in here.

So I don’t know what happened.  There was some slippery slope, or too many battle wounds… or something.  I was like the little train that could, puffing along, thinking I was on track, beating back the negativity… and then…  Then the track was cracked by a lack of progress.  I couldn’t meet my own goals to save my life. Then the repairable track met the tornado of a pretty bad critique.  Then the shambles that were left met another bad critique storm, and then another.

Oh I tried to stay strong and grab onto the sides and pull myself back up.  But it just all felt like there was nothing there to grab a hold of.  There was no concrete success to put a foot on, there were no met goals to reach for.  All that seemed to be there were countless hours wasted, eaten alive by my own self doubt.

When you’re left, trying to grab thin air, while real things need attention, things like finances, family, half-finished kitchen walls… grabbing into the air seems utterly silly.  Foolish.

What did 50+ followers mean to the stack of bills?  Nada.  What did one featured post mean to the family at dinner time?  Nothing.  What did hours of imagining factious plots do for the betterment of anything?  Not much.  And maybe that’s all my fault.  Maybe I just never had the dedication.  Maybe I didn’t work hard enough, or want it bad enough.  Either way I couldn’t/can’t produce enough evidence to continue down that path.

Yes, yes, I know, whoa, holy heaps of negativity.  Unusual for me to do here.

And my bitterness isn’t towards anyone.  I don’t want those who have potential to be turned off by what I’m sharing.  This is only in my case, all though I’m sure I’m not alone.

I asked once, what your final straw would be, where you would actually turn your back on a dream.  And I guess I had found my final line.  When your confidence breaks so far that you can no longer drag yourself down that path.  When you actually smirk, and twist a compliment, and you get upset.  When, for the most part, the words just stop flowing.  When you just can’t.

In closing, I thank all of you for all of your support.  I thank you for everything you have done for me, and with me.  I’ll still be floating around this interwebs world.  I’ll still be randomly posting here when the mood strikes.  I’ll try to one day get back to visiting your blogs.  This isn’t meant to be a big old begging for compliments, or anything of the like.  Like I said, I believe in being as honest as possible here, and this is real life folks, unedited, and with a pot of coffee, or two.


Writer’s Block

*sips one cup of coffee*

*sips two*

*Types two words, deletes two words.*

*Scans facebook, clicks back over, refills coffee.*


*sips more coffee, chugs coffee*

*types one word, deletes*

*braids hair, unbraids hair*

*almost types another word, rethinks, refills coffee*

*gazes out window*

*twirls a strand of hair*

*looks at clock*

I’m trying folks.  😉


There’s that moment in time when you let someone into your secret private world in your head, the one you’ve devoted every inch of your being too, the first time you share your work, and you wait.  You cringe, and try to hide, you fight back the urge to snap the work back away from them, to take all the words back.  You want to shrink and hide away, afraid of what they might think.

Afterall, you’re a normal average person.  A mother, a cook, a home keeper and animal wrangler… you live an average life.  This world on the paper, the world you have created, is far from average.  They are going to think that you are all sorts of crazy!

I mean sure, the plot sounds good inside your head, you’d read it, you’d watch it unfold on a big screen… but what if it’s too creative, too crazy, too out there?  And then, what if, just what if, not only you have dreamt up a crazy world that makes little sense, what if you wrote it badly?! 

Next you find yourself feeling sorry for the poor sap that has to read your pile of craziness because how are they going to face you ever again!?  Your gut is turning and wrenching as you wait for them to look up…

Maybe it’s not too late to run away…

Maybe you can blame the many side effects of the cold medicine…

If only you could get off the damn rollercoaster of excitement, embarrassment, and evil inner editors…

And you’re not running because you really do want to know what they think.  But then again you wonder if they’d even tell you the truth, and you’re really wishing you could teleport to one of those stupid daytime talk shows that have an ever waiting lie detector sitting in the green room.  And then your thoughts float to what the mother of what’s her name who wrote 50 Shades of Grey thought when she read her books.  And then you remember someone is reading your words RIGHT NOW…

(I’m thinking that cold medicine and a pot of coffee do not mix well.  This cold best go away soon!)


Go Time

Funny things about breakthroughs, they seem brilliant in the moment as they’re spawning, but the next morning they tend to dim and tarnish.  This is my attempt to stop that.

It was one of those self condemning moments, where I was fighting with myself over my lack of confidence in my wip, and how I’d rather start a new project, one I could feel better, one I could fall in love with, but why can’t I finish the first one… when it hit me, make yourself fall in love with this one.  Give it what your heart is missing in it.  Duh. 

And then came the cast iron pan over the head… make yourself do it.  Do IT.  Seems simple enough, unless you’re raising young children, five million animals, a garden on a rocky ridge, landscaping and trying to remodel your home, and, and, and… 

I keep waiting for the right time, but truth is, there will never be a right time.  And I need this done for me.  Forget showing anyone else, I need to show myself.  I need the proof.  ME. 

I need to do this, before my inner voice wins and says I can’t do it at all.  And I can’t look to others to lean on.  So here we go, or here I go, and here it goes. 

One month is what I’m giving myself.  Unreasonable?  Probably.  One month to finish this round of edits, and hopefully get some critiques.  I will be writing my queries in July… no matter what.  Even if my inner voice is screaming at me to quit.  This is it. 

And I’m not so sure how I will be able to keep up with the blogging and everything else during this time, but I can’t worry about that, not too much.  Okay so I’ll probably be worrying a lot about it all.

Do you have a goal you’ve been avoiding that you want to crack down on?

Do you have tips, hints and advice that might help me or others make this happen?

Do you need my address so you can send me lots of encouragement, chocolate and coffee?  (I need pretty office stuffs too, maybe some flower and new tunes)

Do you want to guest blog for me so  don’t have to neglect this space for too long?

The Morning of the Walking Dead

I wonder if scientist have figured out the one and only cure for a zombie.  I mean it should be so obvious as us mothers have tested it daily, and it has proven to be the only thing that brings us sanity.  When the bebe keeps me up all night, there’s only one thought that crosses my mind when that sun crosses the horizon…


And why do we turn into zombies after a night of no sleep after we have children.  Is there a switch they pull in our wombs that suck the very life out of us?  I clearly remember before being pregnant with my first being able to go days with just an hour or two of sleep… hung over on top of that!  Now if I so much as miss one hour of sleep it’s…

*stomp, stomp, dragggggg, shuffle, stomp, shuffle*

The biggest set back with the coffee cure is that after a night of ONE HOUR of sleep it takes at least half a pot to not slur and mumble all words… and then when nap time does grace you with the chance of one more hour of peaceful slumber you find yourself too strung out on caffeine to sleep. 

This is known as zombie mode part two, which is almost more painful than part one.  And harder to cure.  Suggestions include frantic texts to the husband demanding that you don’t care how much is left in the bank account but he best be bringing home dinner that’s already cooked, and he best make it speedy, he best get home asap and he best have booze that can be mixed with more caffeine. 

Also too, the hope of one day torturing minions who infected you with the zombie bug by waking them up at 4am on a Saturday morning FOR NO REASON also has been known to get some through the day. 

The days following the Zombie infection can be equally just as hard, again mass amounts of caffeine are recommended… or sending the minions off to grandma’s or Alaska.  Either or.

Good luck out there!

Until next time… Cofffffffeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Short Story Attempt #3

The stars hanging above her head made her feel smaller than small.  They made her feel as if she were nothing at all.  She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her head, pulling tightly at the drawstring.  Wishing that the night breeze would go away or that she had brought her coffee outside with her.

She balanced her head back on the edge of the lawn chair, looking back up at brightly dotted sky.  Wondering what the moon thought about all of those stars.  She closed her eyes tightly, squishing out the day as completely as she could. 

She felt alone in a different world, this darkness, it wasn’t the same place by day.  Alone and surrounded by hundreds of chirping tree frogs, a distant owl, a howl, sounds she couldn’t even label, all closing in on her.

And she welcomed it. 

Her thoughts danced on the wings of a bat overhead.  She said something terribly wrong, just moments ago, something she couldn’t pick out, but something that sent him storming off in a fit of rage, doors slamming behind him.  A single tear ran down her cheek, as she tried to clench the hurt away through her teeth. 

Maybe this would be the time, that moment when he would finally give up.  Maybe this was that one single thing that would push him over the edge.  Something she couldn’t even remember.  She forced her eyes back open to the damnation from those stars, and stared hard, looking for an answer.

The stars stared back, mocking her. 

What was she supposed to do?  Go in and beg for forgiveness?  Forgiveness for what?  She always is the sorry one, maybe this time she should stand her grounds.  But it killed every inch of her soul to let the sun set on a fight with him.  But shouldn’t he back down for once?  And what was she going to do, sit out here all night crying with the stars, shivering from the wind, and picking june bugs off her clothes?  It was killing every inch of her soul.  She sniffled, wiping at her eyes, switching her focus back to the moon.

Maybe it was all over.

Her core trembled with the thought, she could feel the shattering of her heart.  Her eyes tightly closed.

“Hey.”  Her heart jumped to his voice, her palms instantly sweating.

She opened her eyes, and turned towards him.  Towards his outstretched hand, reaching for her.  Begging for her.  The hands that felt as though they could protect her from anything the world could conger up.  He blotted at a tear on her cheek with his thumb, so strong yet gentle, pulling her up from the chair. 

“I’m sorry.”  He whispered, honest but still proud.  And she didn’t care what it sounded like. 

She followed him back inside, eager to sleep in his warm embrace, turning once, looking back at the moon, whispering, “Thank You.”

On Your Mark, Get Set, Drink!

The busy season is here, and it always, ALWAYS, sneaks up on me.

You’d think I’d be ready, with the planning, the seeds already growing, the research, the mad dashes of spring cleaning.  I should be ready.  Until the day spring actually arrives, or is it summer, or are we still in winter?  I have no friggen idea what season we’re in.  Forst in the morning, tornadoes in the afternoon and 80* temps in the evening… I’m not sure Mother Nature has a clue either.

Back to the point, I thought I was prepared, until I woke up this morning, stood outside and noticed everything went ahead and hurried without me.  Weeds are growing, the grass is thick and needs a mowing beyond the goat, the branches on the lawn have multiplied… wasn’t everything dead and brown last week?  Didn’t I just have a head start on ALL of THIS?!

And how do I always have MORE dishes sitting in the sink when I haven’t even been home?!

And didn’t I just finish all the laundry, yesterday?!

Whatever season this really is, it is the beginning of the infamous “Emily runs around in circles” season. Garden, Animals, regular lawn stuff, minions, blog (I have three *headoven*), book editing, reading, my list of 101 in 365, daily domestic stuff… and what can I possibly let go of?  What can I throw to the wayside?

And did someone really just invite me to an “important” event via facebook, again?!

Thank gawd for coffee, and thank gawd for a six-year-old who is easily bribed to help out, and thank you app gawds for your .99 cent app games that are thrifty enough for me to bribe said six-year-old with.  Did I mention my gratitude for coffee yet?

But despite a calendar with no white space to be found, and the shaky “I’ve had too much coffee” hands, and everything else, I’d rather be busy than be in winter any longer.  Which I’m sure I just cursed the entire Midwest to a sudden blizzard of epic proportions.  I’m sorry.

So in a hopes to wrap this up, here’s my question of the day:

When will you be here to help?  And will you bring more coffee?  (or beer?  or vodka?)


~Road Trip~

One of these days, somehow, I will be packing myself in the car, Alone, with just my favorite music and my thoughts.  Just a day or two, maybe three, in my car alone, going somewhere other than here.

No kids, no husband, no dogs, no cats, no goats, no birds, no people, just me and the road.

Just driving to nowhere, with a stop overnight.  Coffee and quiet.  That’s all I would need.  Just once, just short, just to breathe deep.

I don’t want a destination with time eating away at the quiet.  I don’t want lines of people, tickets or layovers.  Just my car that’s been worn just right, suited just for me.

I want horizons and sunsets, time and space.  Fields of corn, forest of cedars, farms filled with cattle and passing cities. 

Not to escape, but just to stop time, just for a little bit, just once.  That’s all I would need.

Getting Pointless Once Again

I’m getting things crossed off that list, the one with 101 things to do in 365 days.  And of course that is all sorts of awesome.  Getting things done are the things dreams are made of, especially with a bazillion animals and young minions.  But yet I’m lacking on one MAJOR area…

“Finish the first edit of Denali”

“Write a Short Story/Flash Fiction”

In all honesty it’s been weeks, maybe even a month since I’ve pondered those two things.

So my brain pulls up excuses…  “You’ll get to them when all the other need to be done’s are done.”  “Maybe you SHOULDN’T be writing.”   “Maybe you should just be a rock farmer.”   “You just suck.”


At first slacking in the blogging/social media world was great.  I lost the constraints I was giving to myself, stopped hearing other people’s words and ideas instead of mine and all sorts of freeing epiphanies.  And then I just lost interest.

Did I lose the muse?

Did I ever have one?

*insert image of my brain and I spinning in circles*

I’ve whined, complained before, thinking maybe this just isn’t for me.  But right now my brain seems to be pretty much convinced.  After all, shouldn’t a passion fuel it’s self??? 

And what “writer” takes months off over and over again, no one will take that seriously.

And is it the book itself?  Is it the ideas?  Is it me?  *pours more coffee*

Do I start over?  Do I just force myself to do it?  Do I sell straw hats at an intersection?

Do I chase away all of my fellow readers by constant whining and pondering of my worth in the world of words?

*gulps down coffee*

And why are REM songs flashing through my head?