Tag Archives: rambling


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.



An Almost Perfect Day

It’s cold, rainy, windy and plain out gross outside.  A day that would be perfect for sweatpants and slippers, coffee and pizza, writing and moody music.  Instead it’s the school bus and gas station, laundry and cleaning. 

The life of a mom, so close to having those perfect days, yet always so, so far away from them.

And like I said, I have cleaning to do, because I am crazy and I love my son.  Yup it’s his fault.  His fault that I have to prepare for MORE ANIMALS.   Which honestly are only a couple more chicks to add to our four chickens we got last year, and who can say no to a boy who so carefully reads out the flyer to you, with those big brown eyes, and does cartwheels the minute he finds the ad on chicks. 

Because chickens make eggs, and this momma loves animals that pull their weight, or lay their weight, either way, 80 eggs last month from four little hens, I’m not going to complain.

Well I might complain, just a wee bit, because one of them likes to attack me when I’m in the garden trying to till up the rocks I seem to grow.  Apparently she sees invisible worms crawling up my fingers and arms, and I’m sure she’s only trying to save me from these invisible worms that she knows are really vampires in disguise.  And really she should feel lucky that she lays pretty blue/green eggs because I really think she’s crazy and my dogs would sure love some fresh meat I mean my freezer could really use some fresh meat…

Now where was I?

Yes, it’s raining and dark and cold and windy and all in all completely nasty outside.  I’m feeling completely inspired to work on my edits, and completely un-inspired to blog.  And really none of it matter because I have cleaning to do, many much cleaning, and a toddler to chase.

It’s an almost perfect day.


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?


Smothered and Such

You’d think that by now I would have something to say, something, anything to write about, but I’m still pretty blank.

I think somewhere along the line I drew up some nasty constraints on where this whole thing would go.  There would be plenty of this, a little of that and absolutely NONE of that or this. 

Kind of like Stephen King Putting his name on a Romance novel, if you get my drift.  Boxed into a certain flow, a certain genera, specific expectations, afraid to disappoint.  Stifled.


Life changes, different seasons of growing and learning flow through, and what once needed to be said no longer holds its luster.  But yet you’ve built your podium with crimson roses and ruby stained wood… and now you detest the color red.  But everyone knows you and your ruby-red stage, they’ve come to see those crimson roses… and you, you want to paint it all yellow.

Have I lost you yet?

The shoes of fiction novels drowned in demons and blood sucking uglies just seem five sizes too small.  Blogs of wit and sarcasm just feel all scratchy and stiff.  The world all seems to be made of hand-me-down clothes that you never would have picked for yourself… and for some reason I’m really on some odd analogy kick today.

So what does fit?  Today it would be homemaking, and homesteading as I’m down right ill with spring fever.  (and also to be fair I might still be delusional from that damn rampid stomach flu and fever the boy brought home from school)  (but I have noticed that I do tend to get a heck of a lot of reading done every time I’m dying in the bathroom, here’s to already being on book  5 and 6 of this year’s reading goal)

And yes I am an expert at going no where fast.

For now I’ll keep my fingers away from deleting this whole blog, and I’ll stop my mind from dreaming up new titles and layouts.  Maybe I’ll venture out of my tight, long-sleeved, funny little jacket, and stop hiding away in secret little hidden blogs, or from the whole interwebs in general…

Coping, Cleaning and a Dash of Crazy

Somedays it’s just easier to empty your mind in coded words and colorful stories.  Even when your brain is itching to tell the world every last detail about what has been sucking up every cell in your brain, you just can’t let it out there.

Sometimes it’s because you shouldn’t tell every story.  Sometimes it’s because you just can’t find the words.

Today for me, it’s both.

Deja vu and deep-rooted fear of the worst always coming true, tells me that the grips of last winter have yet to let go.  Things are just all too familiar to me.  A tornado last year, this time, ripped through a town near by.  A tornado this year just passed through again.  This time last year my husband went in for a cold on this Wednesday, then ended up at a specialist on Thursday and came out with emergency spinal surgery on Friday.  He has an appointment this Thursday (one year exactly give or take a day of course, pesky calendars) to see if the surgery took.  He’s been hurting, and I fear the worst.  It’s all too familiar to me, the timing (hello we had no food or fire wood last time, and guess what’s on my to-do list this weekend, yup, ‘ello deja vu), the situations… my mind is blurring the lines together.  And throw in the special family situations and you end up with one huge ulcer of hey didn’t this just happen?!

Of course things have a chance of not turning out so bad this time around.  And you really can’t live your life building up conspiracies and jumping at shadows.  I’m defiantly not curled up into a fetile position rocking myself in a corner.  But my mind won’t let go, not fully.

And this post really isn’t about my same old sob story from last winter, or how I use the word “And” too many times to start a sentence, this post is really about coping, and moving on.

What do you do when your brain is all splashing around in turmoil?

Apparently I nest.  I’m talking nesting like Martha her self was on her way to visit.  I’m scrubbing, scouring, dusting, PURGING CRAP, braiding rugs (don’t ask), flipping mattresses, knitting, decorating, planning and scheming in ways, if I didn’t act like I had add, that would put both Martha and Caroline Ingalls to shame. 

You say we’re running low on bread?  *shazamm*  Here’s three loaves of HOMEMADE, fresh from the oven bread.  Is that a spot on the wall?  *kablam* The whole wall has been scrubbed back to the support beams. 

Except there’s much less “shazamm and kablam” it’s more of taking a whole dang day to get it done, and then noticing the whole entire house is still a mess, and the baby minion just stuffed the couch full of soggy Cheerios and sent my computer mouse for a swim in my mug of coffee.

And why doesn’t the world re-name spring cleaning, Winter Cleaning?  Who wants to clean in the spring when the sun finally appears once again?! 

I might be loosing my mind.  Maybe.  Possibly.

But when you’re running around, throwing out your back, swearing to the heavens that this time you will get your home perfectly spotless so the day it hits 60* outside you can spend every moment frolicking in the grassy warm meadows and sharing Cheetos with the goat… you don’t think bad stuff.  You don’t worry.  You forget.  I forget, and loosen up my stomach, relax the stern look across my face.

Busy stuff, is how I cope.  It’s cheaper than drinking ;p.


Stuffs on the Brainz

There’s something out there in the cold strong winds that are whipping around my house this morning.  In the spring this would most definitely be tornado weather, the eire sky, the lack of wildlife, the cold and hot airs that make no sense, pulling at your hair, making it fly in several directions at once, drawing your insides to want to stay in the midst of it all, as if there might just be something to see.

But it’s winter, there’s nothing to see but scattering leaves and rolling clouds.  The air is too wet, too heavy, too even for anything exciting.  But it still has that charge to it.  The kind that begs for attention and stirs my mind.

Things have been so much clearer lately, my thoughts, my words… I credit it all to my non-ending interwebs vacation.  Without warning or planning I unlogged my brain from everything that was cluttering it.  Stats, blogs, drama, competition.  I walked away from it all.  And slowly, very slowly the only voice I could hear in my head was my own. 

So what if I screwed up the whole NaBloPoMo, it was only stats after all, and I was beyond frustrated with what I was producing.  A large vault of nothing and self despise.  I could only hear the stats yelling at me, the voices of other writers kept pushing their way through my fingertips.  That’s not to say that I couldn’t have done it, I could.  And that’s not to say I won’t do it again, I will. 

I also was able to finally read the Hunger Games, which also was an eye opener.  Not the story it’s self, although I like it very much, although a tad bit predictable (imo), it was the writer’s style that grabbed me.  Lately my choice of literature had left me feeling, eh, stupid.  Maybe stupid isn’t the right word, but the writers’ choice of words kept me longing for a dictionary, and had me thinking that I was well undereducated to write a successful book.  Whereas Collins in her trilogy has not once given me a word to look up, yet she still has carried out the whole plot perfectly.  Her simple writing still works incredibly well (and granted fits in with the plot), which gives me hope that mine will too, one day.  And YES M. reading does count as working on my book!  It’s research!  I swear.

The minions are now starting to chew on my ankles and my coffee is growing cold, and this post did not go in the direction I had planned, so its way past time to wrap this up.  ❤

~Being You~

This is probably redundant.  And you probably do not need a reminder, but I do daily.  So now you’re stuck with my own reminder.  Ha.

I get trapped often by the interwebs world.

“Hi, My name is Emily, and I compare myself to other bloggers/writers.”  There, I said it.

I have my moments when I read a blog written by a mom of 8 perfect kids with the perfect house with white picket fences and Better Homes and Garden rooms and gardens, the perfect husband who fights super villans at night, makes uber bucks and builds beautiful barns and bathrooms on the weekend, she does perfect crafts and sells them on etsy, she runs a church on Sundays, has two kids who are Doctors that can cure every disease while working in a hut in Africa, she cooks better than everyone on tv, has a doctorate, and just wrote her 5th best-selling book.  

I hate her, and she makes me hate me. 

The self-pity then spins you into reaching for things that just aren’t you.  You strive to be just like someone else and lie to yourself the whole damn time.  You hide your own talents to be more, to be better, to be perfect.  And all you do is perfect your own flaws.  And then you break down.  And then the hate sizzles, bubbles and boils over. 

And you find your self drowning in coffee at your keyboard, looking for someone else to tell you how to be a better you.  Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

Maybe it’s just me.

I doubt it.

The problem is that in emulating someone else you hide your own talents. 

I’ve been blogging, journaling and “writing” for years.  I’ve had a few supporters who repeatedly suggest that I push the envelope, that I have something there and that I’m missing out on a oppurtunity.  Naturally I didn’t get it, and tried to do what I thought they were telling me… I tried to do what others did.  I tried a homemaking type of blog… FLOP.  Okay so then I tried focussing on politics… FLOP.  Fine, how about witty stuff… FLOP.  Well, I must just be a complete failure then because that’s what the masses of blogging queens do!  Those supporters MUST be idiots.  THEY LIED!

But because I never learned, I tried to dip my toes into E-Books.  I thought I was being all smart and stuff and picked the topic of Dog Training, something I know tons about.  feverishly I typed away.  Then I shared it with a few close people.  FLIP, FLOP, FLIPPITY FLOP.  What the HELL!?! 

Oh and then, then my husband really ticked me off, “This reads too much like a story, a novel.  This isn’t your thing.”  Like it’s my fault if he doesn’t get the flow.  *insert 3 bottles of a wine induced pity party*  And he wrapped it up with something along the lines of how I should write cards for Hallmark.  I might have programmed a few lawyers’ phone numbers into my phone that night.  That was NOT what I wanted to hear.

Why is it so hard to find my niche out there when there are millions of people succeeding so well at it?!

Probably because I am not them, and I had my mind-set on following their footsteps, instead of my own.

It’s difficult, having dreams similar to those around you.  Seeing them succeed, seeing them doing what you want to do.  Logically you think you have to do it like them, because it worked for them.  That must be the one and only path to happiness and success!

It only brings self-pity and hatred.

And the first step to recovery is to stop perfecting your flaws.  And to do that you have to discover your talents.  PS.  You have to discover them, they can’t be pointed out.  I don’t know why that is, but for some reason you can’t own something that someone else gives you, you just never trust it.  At least that’s the case for me.

But how do own your talents?  How do you accept them without thinking you’re full of it, without thinking that you’re patting your own back over a huge pile of crap?  I haven’t quite figured that one out yet.

Then a friend asked me a very tricky question, I wanted to poke her in the eye with a stale cheeto for being so hokey, but there’s a lot of depth in what she asked.  Paraphrasing she asked,

Give yourself one compliment about your writing.

Immediately I thought, “Hell she’s going to laugh at whatever I come up with.  She’s sooooo going to judge me on this one!  Who am I to compliment myself!?!”

So pressed with time and the threat of her reaching through my computer screen to choke me I quickly scanned my mind for those times I actually felt “successful” at what I loved to do.  The answer flooded my mind, “Emotions”.

My writing is emotional.  Wait, do you feel it?  There it is, peeking out of the depths of self loathing… I might have a knack at making my readers feel emotions.  Maybe, I don’t want to get too carried away.

And you know what?  As I sit here this morning, writing a novel of a post, it’s easy to connect the dots, and I’m not afraid to give my self a tiny pat on the back.  My talent is not writing witty blogs, and that’s okay.  I have a talent for telling a story.  I have a knack for going on and on in great length to get my emotions out.  And there’s actually people out there who feel a connection in what I have to say.  And I’m not afraid to own it.

I’m pretty sure that that’s what my husband ment when he suggested Hallmark as a career.  It wasn’t an insult, it was his way of saying “you might suck at writing how-to’s and such, but you really do have something with this mushy crap you write, but I’m a man and can’t say it that way.” 

And it’s probably why my other blog that’s all from nights of spilling out emotions on a touchy subject has gotten remarkable response and views, while my others get zilch. 

And it just might be what people have been trying to tell me all along.

And I could be wrong about it all. 

But that’s not the point. 

The point is putting yourself out there without the goal of someone else’s success.  The point is to find your own talents and to own them, to accept them.  To know who you are, and to not blur the lines.  Don’t be afraid of encouraging yourself without worrying what others will think. 

Life happens in between the edits.




The Incredible Ordinary Girl

I find it hilarious that people go cross-eyed when they peek into my life.  Apparently it’s odd to have my lifestyle… one that I had assumed was quite, well ordinary.

Of course there’s the epic battle over women’s role in society and how being a stay at home mom is downgrading or heroic.  I don’t care too much about any of that, I just do what works for us.  Meaning I would have to pay to go to work.  Case closed. 

I enjoy most domestic things.  That’s right, I enjoy them… most of them.  I have taught myself how to crochet, knit and sew.  I can crochet a boggle, cable knit and make curtains… if I so choose.  And I like it.  And yes at least once a week my house might smell like fresh-baked something or another that did not come from a box.  And if someone would put away all the junk around here and the laundry I actually like to clean too.  And just in case the thought crossed your mind… that doesn’t make me old-fashioned or submissive… it makes me creative, resourceful, happy and proud. 

And we all know that I love my politics.  I love clearheaded intelligent debates.  I love the facts and I like a challenge.  Glen Beck is my hero, and Oprah is the anti-christ.  *Gasps*  I said Glen Beck.  Yup, I did.  Beck, Rush, Fox.  We can clarify my sanity or insanity later.

I have faith.  Strong faith.  I have both Sublime, Bif Naked and Bible readings on my I-Pod.  I believe in showing my faith and not preaching it unless I’m asked.  I believe in living like Jesus, and loving like him… Translation I don’t judge because I’m not God.  I don’t bible bash because I want you to ask me questions of your own free will instead of sending you running to the hills.  This all goes hand in hand with politics.  Clear, level-headed debates.  ‘Nuff said there.

I am a professional dog trainer by trade.  I went to a bona-fide, certified school, with a bona-fide humongous student loan and learned everything you could ever want to know about dogs and more.  Police, military, service, pets… I can train them all.  And I’m still paying on that student loan, 5 years later, so I don’t give out free advice unless I love you… or your dog.

Talking about dogs, I have 3.  A German Shepherd, a Belgian Malinois and an Australian Cattle Dog (aka Blue Heeler).  I won’t bore you with their credentials.  I also have a goat.  Apparently that’s odd.  My goat rocks, and you should all be jealous of her awesomeness.  She cuts the grass, weeds the jungle, poops instant fertilizer and takes naps on my deck.  She loves me and hates anything else that breathes, and I’m okay with that.  We have other animals too, lots of them… but this is a blog and not a book.

I love, love, love to write.  And I punish myself yearly in NaNoWriMo to crank out a 50,000 word novel in 30 days.  I have successfully conquered the challenge all three years that I have signed up.  Those books are carefully hidden away in various umb drives, and most likely will never ever again see the light of day.  I love to write but I am not a writer.

To me this is all ordinary.  Chasing kids, taming goats, gardening in a jungle, bread baking, novel plots spinning in my head, knitting giant afghans of cable doom.  You want to hear odd?  Ask me about Alabama, Martini Bars, Hamburgers, Devil Woods, working at a dog kennel and horseback riding with a crazy rich guy…