My Cold, Dark Soul

Lately I’ve been listening to podcasts. I spend a lot of time in the car or  on the train or walking from Grand Central to my office. I’m bored with all of my music and harbor a deep hatred of listening to radio commercials. It’s the plight of a commuter, I suppose: suffer in silence or listen to Closer by the Chainsmokers for the fortieth time that day?

Enter podcasts, entertaining weary travelers since narrative audio became trendy and everyone from your hair stylist to your nerdy coworker started talking into a microphone and publishing it on the internet. I gravitate toward the health and wellness podcasts, seeking inspiration for my own wellness journey. I happened across one the other day that I haven’t been able to stop listening to: The Balanced Blonde‘s Soul on Fire podcast. Each week, Jordan Younger explores what sets her guests’ souls on fire. How did they turn their passions into careers? How are they living their happiest and healthiest lives? What advice do they have for others seeking to set their souls on fire?

So, naturally, I started to wonder what sets my soul on fire. The first red flag should have been that I had to wonder and it didn’t come immediately to mind like, “of course, French Bulldogs set my soul on fire and I should start a day care for French Bulldogs because that will be incredibly fulfilling.” Sure, I adore French Bulldogs more than the average person, but they still rank among one of the many things in life that just make me happy. I smile big and gush over their cuteness and stop my commute in the middle of Fifth Ave to awkwardly snap a picture of a stranger’s dog, but they aren’t a passion that fuels my life.

The second red flag was when I started trying to force passions. I like to cook and bake. Maybe I should own a bakery. A healthy bakery. People would line up for my kale brownies. I think I’ll open a bakery.

Maybe I need to change up what I’m going to grad school for. I’ve been reading about health and wellness for two weeks and I’m super into it. Perhaps I will study to be a nutritionist.

I’ve only just accomplished standing in tree pose for ten seconds without losing my balance. I think I’ll teach yoga.

I wound up frustrated when each impractical bubble popped shortly after they formed. Why wasn’t there anything that set my soul on fire? Was I doomed to wander this earth with a cold and dark soul?

I don’t know what sets my soul on fire . . . yet. I do know that writing makes me happy and I’ve sincerely missed it. I let myself get consumed with life and forgot to make time for it. Maybe writing is a passion I haven’t fully let myself explore yet or maybe I’m still figuring things out. Maybe blogging will help me do that.

What does that mean for Rambleathon? 

The blog has changed a lot since I started it way back in 2014. It began as a writing blog as I was finishing undergrad. In 2015 it transitioned into a humor/random anecdote blog (if that’s a thing) and I didn’t touch it in 2016 because writer’s block kicked in and I felt too pressured to come up with “funny” things to write about.

So now my blog has no labels. It is not a lifestyle blog or a writing blog or a humor blog or a health and wellness blog. It’s all of the above and none of the above. Feel free to follow along if you want. If you feel so inclined, comment and tell me what sets your soul on fire?

Unless I’ve just asked a question you can’t answer and you, like me, are now going through an existential crisis. For that, I am sorry.


The Adventures of Maple Leaf Lady

I feel like I would be a clumsy superhero if I were one. I’ve given this a lot of thought.


I would probably get my powers in a very Peter Parker way. As in I would acquire them accidentally and they would likely be better suited for just about anyone else. I’m thinking it would be something like fortuitously ingesting maple syrup that came from a radioactive maple tree. It would happen casually at Sunday morning brunch between mimosas and gossip and then I would wake up Monday morning with maple powers.


Of course maple powers would be strange and nearly useless super powers—essentially I would be just as useful as Aquaman. Maple powers would hypothetically involve sticky hands and feet so I would have the ability to climb walls and trees and tall buildings. I would also probably be able to throw maple syrup from my hands and stop bad guys in their tracks. The syrup would also make a nice gag for when super villains get too chatty and you’re just like, “shut up already, we all know this isn’t going to end well for you”. Unlike Spiderman I’m sure that dexterity would not accompany my newfound powers. Not even extra ordinary skills could make me graceful.


After some stumbling around and adapting to my newfound abilities, I will realize that I have to do the right thing. I must fight crime with my sugary powers. It is the burden that those of us who are born gods, are genius billionaires, were genetically altered in the 1940s, or ingested syrup without inspecting the label first must bear.

I’ll start like Matt Murdock before he took up the Daredevil mantle: with a makeshift costume and injured a lot because I’ve underestimated my opponents.


As time passes I’ll start to make it into the headlines of the local newspaper.




You know, usual super hero press.

Maple Leaf Lady. That will be what they call me. It’s not the greatest moniker but it’ll be better than anything I could come up with. As it is a symbol for my powers, I will have a costume crafted with a maple leaf emblem. I will ultimately be to Canada what Captain America is to America…even though I will primarily be stopping crime in the States. You just can’t throw a maple leaf on your chest and not be a symbol for Canada.


It goes without saying that I’ll have to establish a secret identity to protect my family and friends from the enemies I make. If you aren’t a billionaire with your own company to run, you should probably work at a newspaper if you have super powers to hide. So, I’ll probably have to change careers to create my plain-Jane-fly-under-the-radar alias. I’ll make the transition from publishing to journalism and stop wearing my contacts. Hiding behind my glasses and writing an advice column will surely protect my identity.

Unfortunately the villains I’ll fight will likely be the reject criminals that the real super heroes don’t have patience for. It’s fine. I won’t be picky about who I serve my syrupy justice to. Book-Man might not be as big of a threat as Loki but stopping him from hacking into library databases to get his overdue fines erased is just as important as fighting in the Battle of New York.


I’m sure there have been times when Green Arrow suits up thinking about how much he would rather be playing Minecraft with Green Lantern instead of preparing to go kick some ass or when Superman wakes up on the wrong side of the bed thinking, “fuck, I’ve got to save the world today” when really he just wants to kick back with a beer and watch TV.

I have the opposite problem. Sometimes I think “fuck, wouldn’t it be really cool to fly right now?” or “I wish I had enough money to do whatever necessary to throw people off my vigilante trail”.


I have a wild imagination and a mild obsession with all things super hero. Unfortunately I am not from Krypton and my access to high-tech super suits is quite limited. Maple Leaf Lady is the best I have to offer the world.

Superman might be flying off to save Metropolis from whatever is ailing the city this week, thinking about that cold Heineken waiting for him in the fridge and the episodes of The Bachelor on his DVR but I’m on the train writing this blog post about my recently acquired superpowers under my alias’s alias.


No, but seriously I’m not unconvinced that syrup at brunch wasn’t radioactive…


I don’t remember much. Often if I don’t write something down I will forget it. My room is covered in old lists that say things like “do laundry” and “buy Dad a birthday gift” and “you have a job, don’t forget to go to work”.


In spite of my horrible memory, I distinctly remember my kindergarten graduation. In the classroom, before we got in line and marched two-by-two to the gymnasium, we had to pick a hat to wear during the ceremony. We were to choose between police hats, doctor’s head mirrors, cowboy (or girl) hats, fireman hats, princess crowns, etc. The headwear was symbolic of our futures, of course. Of the great destinies we had ahead of us.

When it was my turn to choose a hat, I chose the princess crown. Even if a writer hat existed, I inevitably still would have chosen the princess crown.

I’d like to imagine that five-year-old me was standing there contemplating the choices my peers made as we congregated in the classroom, wearing these new identifiers.

Does Sarah like the doctor’s head mirror or is that what her parents want to see her wearing?

Does Emily really think she can pull off the police officer thing? I saw her steal that extra cookie at snack time.

Does Luke actually want to be a firefighter or was that just what that was left?

I wasn’t. I think I was probably standing in front of a mirror, admiring the sparkly crown on my head. Past me wasn’t as astute and observant as her present counterpart.


I hope that at some point during the short walk to the gymnasium, I at least asked one person why they chose the hat they did. Did Michael love Westerns so much that the cowboy hat just called to him? And if so, does he own a ranch in Texas now? Or is he out in Hollywood producing Westerns with the memory of that cowboy hat still weighing heavy on his head? Has he forgotten that moment entirely and lives his life without harping on insignificant memories from childhood? Likely.

To me, being a princess meant moats and castles. It meant dragons and unicorns. It meant happily ever afters and magic. It meant that I was incredibly naive but also that my imagination was flourishing.


In some ways, that princess crown was my writer’s hat.

One arbitrary choice made at the age of five does not define me. But, it is a part of who I am.

If you had asked me at 5, 10, 15, 20, or 23 what my life would have looked like at 25, I most certainly would not tell you something remotely close to the life I lead now. But, you would see it. It’s there. It was in that princess crown I chose. It was in every subsequent book I read. It was in every horrible essay I wrote for school and in every time I picked up a pen and unleashed my imagination.

You may see a princess crown but I see a writer’s hat.


When I lived in Boston a psychic set up shop down the street from my apartment. I have to admit, I was curious. Not about my future but curious about why this woman thought it was a good idea to open a psychic shop right in the heart of Janksville surrounded by college students who were more concerned with spending their dollars on beer than questions of destiny. Obviously she knew something the rest of us didn’t.


Her presence in the neighborhood became more known when she left her crystal ball behind to market her shop on foot. At first she started passing out business cards in front of her shop. Then, she took a subtler approach by sitting in her doorway and asking anyone passing by if they wanted their fortunes told.

I got asked that question approximately half a million times.


She might have been absolutely excellent at predicting the future, able to tell me exactly what I was going to eat for breakfast on my forty-sixth birthday and what I will name the dog I’m going to adopt five years, three days, one hour, seven minutes, and thirty-three seconds from now. I could have taken her up on her promise of knowledge one of the many times she asked me, flinging my groceries to the side and following her to her crystal ball and tarot cards.


I’m someone who stays off social media the day after I miss an episode of my favorite show in order to avoid spoilers. I read books one page at a time, never even tempted to peer at the last page and find out what happens. I suffer through because I despise spoilers.

I always feared that one of the times I brushed her off she would reply “doesn’t matter anyway. You’re not going to be around much longer” or something cryptic and to that effect.


I mean if I kept trying to offer random strangers knowledge that they probably didn’t really want and they continued to shoot me down, I might get a little annoyed and snap too.

But she didn’t. My future is still a mystery. I don’t know if I’ll have eggs and bacon or french toast on the morning of my forty-sixth birthday. Maybe I won’t even have breakfast at all. As for the dog, I’m still wavering between Chewbacca and Kal-el for the name. We’ll see how I feel five years, three days, one hour, six minutes, and three seconds from now

It’s the future. Anything can happen.


Season Finale

I’m fickle. One second I’m all “Yes! I’m going to blog a lot!” and the next I’m like “never mind, I’m going to watch Smallville instead”. I’m blaming television for the lack of blogging. It’s all television’s fault. Damn you, TV!


I love television. In my line of work, that’s not something you should admit freely. Every time someone who holds a job in any literary capacity admits their true feelings for television, a book spontaneously combusts.


Don’t get me wrong. I adore books. I own enough to build furniture out of. I would put that furniture in the house that I build out of the remaining books. I carry at least three novels on my person at all times and I’ve been known to forcibly make my friends and family read my favorites. I expect my children and grandchildren to one day bury me (preferably dead) with all of my favorite books.

That being said, I still spend a lot of time watching TV. From September to May, I live my life full of feelings about many different fictional characters that live on my television screen.


And then it’s June. Just like that, months spent dividing my time between sixteenth century French court, Starling City, Seattle’s Zombie-filled morgue, Central City, and Storybrooke have ended and I face-plant right back into reality. Reality has significantly less vigilantes.

Season finale time is like the day after Christmas. All of the gifts you’ve been given (and, in the case of a TV show those gifts are new information revealed in the finale: WTF is even going to happen next season?!?!?!) are suddenly a lot less appealing. Let’s be honest, the most exciting part of any of this is the anticipation. It’s the excitement of the slow build leading up to the monumental event.

And then it’s over.


So, how does one cope with the end of the world as you know it for the summer?

1. Go outside:

“Outside? I can’t…the bugs…it’s too hot…the humidity makes my hair frizz…my delicate skin can’t handle the scorching rays of that glorified star in the sky you call the sun!”


Oh, hush.

Without a window into the dramatic lives of my favorite fairy tale friends in the Enchanted Forest, I could easily hide inside all day, pining away for Captain Hook and co.

Instead I go to the hiking trails with this beautiful creature:

This is Shelby.
There’s a lovely hiking trail not too far from my house. When you’re far enough in, you start to wonder if you’ve wandered onto the long forgotten movie set of The Chronicles of Narnia. Then you wonder why they never made the Narnia books into a television series. It could have been a beautiful, beautiful thing that ended, as they all do, in utter heartbreak every summer.

As you go on, you imagine Aslan emerging from the blue trail and telling you (in a voice that sounds eerily similar to Liam Neeson) that you have a great destiny to fulfill.

Shelby and I have had some wonderful adventures (albeit imagined) in fake Narnia.


Go find your Narnia!

2. Watch Smallville:

Or really any TV show you haven’t watched before that’s been over for a while. But seriously, if you’re like me and have been living under a rock and have never seen the splendor that is Smallville, you’re living a life half lived.  My life has improved 110% percent since Clark Kent and Lex Luthor have come into my life.


The downside is that this doesn’t really solve the problem. It’s merely a distraction. You transfer your unrequited feelings for your current television shows on hiatus to a show that you can see all the way through. You can find out who lives and who dies in one 100+ hour sitting. It’s much more gratifying.

This is your rebound show, if you will. But, when it’s over, there’s no doubt that your feelings for your other shows will return with a vengeance. At least you’ll be 100+ hours closer to season premiere time afterwards.

3. Obsessively re-watch all of the shows on a loop until they’re back:


This one is pretty self explanatory. It will numb the pain for now.

I wish you luck with whatever method you use to cope with the unfortunate length of time that follows the season finale.

Sparkler Ideas

When you’re in kindergarten, you’re living life as it was meant to be lived–with nap time and possibilities. For instance, before nap time you can be a princess with all the respect of a monarch but less responsibilities and after nap time a super hero who takes down bad guys on the regular and saves scared cats from trees at least once an hour. And in between you get to sleep.

I live my life like I’m in kindergarten.


Perhaps I’m stunted this way: indecisive and enthusiastic. My world view shifts and I’m suddenly stricken with the desire to be a pirate or a baker. It is both exhausting and thrilling. I like to call it a Sparkler Idea. Since graduation, I’ve changed my mind exactly seven times about what I want to be when I grow up–wait, eight. I forgot I still want to be a princess.


I suppose at twenty-four I’m technically considered an adult even though I don’t feel like one. I think I’m waiting for a plausible career option to stick for longer than a few weeks or months. When that happens, someone pops out of the shadows and hands you a plaque that declares you’ve officially entered adulthood, right?

I’ve complied a list of the top 3 4 Sparkler Ideas I’ve had in the last six months exploring: What led me to them? Why didn’t I choose to pursue them? Will I ever make a goddamn decision? How many more questions can I keep asking myself before you get bored?


1. Comedy Writer:

Sometimes I think I’m funny. This may not actually be the case but a few months ago I got it in my head that I was funny enough to write for television. Thus, I wanted to move out to L.A. and write sitcoms.

*Cue laugh track*


As I mentioned, I discovered The Office this summer. That coupled with the reading of Mindy Kaling’s book and Poking a Dead Frog by Mike Sacks made me believe that I had finally discovered my true calling. I wanted to write something as brilliant as The Office while being as badass as Mindy while channeling all of the talent of the writers interviewed in Sacks’s book. No big deal.

So I wrote sketches and scripts. I started a screenplay. This dream lasted approximately one pilot episode, two full sketches, and three pages of a screenplay. It faded out slowly and painfully. I tried to hold on to it. I was Rose and this dream was Jack. But the dream wouldn’t let me go down with it. It froze to death in the ocean and I moved on with my life.

2. Teacher:

I’ve wanted to be a teacher approximately four different times in my life. Once when I was in fifth grade, middle school, early in my college career, and a little over a month ago. Just like every other time, I thought this most recent time was the one. Just like every other time, I ended up heartbroken and alone, consoling myself with copious quantities of wine and chocolate.


“It wasn’t meant to be!” my friends said. “You deserve something better!”

“But, you don’t have to work summers if you’re a teacher!” I replied through heavy sobs.

I liked the idea of teaching because I like children’s literature. If given the opportunity, I will hold an impromptu story time with whatever picture books I have at my disposal. I regularly read Ramona Quimby  and I seriously identify with a grumpy bear from a picture book series. Somehow I rationalized that this would make me a good teacher. I forgot about things like Science and Math, other essential knowledge needed for educating young children. I’m lucky if I can put two and two together on good days and I’m still not sure if Pluto is a planet or not.

Perhaps it’s best if I don’t try to teach anyone anything.

3. Entrepreneur:

If I’m being honest, I really gave this dream up because I can’t spell the word “entrepreneur” without spellcheck. It’s too big and complicated of a word to be a career.


This is also why I can’t ever be a nanny. Supercalafragalisticexpialadocious is another one of those words.

4. Bookstore Owner

When I decided entrepreneurship wasn’t for me, I considered calling it something different. Bookstore Owner is much easier to spell.

This dream was born during my first viewing of You’ve Got Mail four days ago. I fell in love with the children’s bookstore that Meg Ryan’s character owns.


That bookstore was everything I wanted in life. Eloise, Madeline, and friends decorated the walls, an army of small stuffed Peter Rabbits hung out behind the counter, there were fancy princess hats for story time, and every inch of that store was stocked with wonderful stories of adventure, family, friendship, triumph, and bravery. It was what I imagine my afterlife will be like: reading Matilda and Elephant and Piggie while drinking a never-ending supply of hazelnut coffee. Either that or I will be reincarnated as a character in a picture book. Honestly I’m okay with either.

My heart split into seven million pieces when Meg Ryan’s store went out of business. In fact, I’m still not over it. I know it was a fictional place but I strongly believe that if I had been there, I would have somehow found a way to keep that bookstore open.

But anyway, for a brief moment after this movie ended I entertained the idea of owning my own children’s bookstore one day. Maybe I’m still entertaining this idea in the back of my mind. Maybe one day I’ll own the most fabulous children’s bookstore and anyone who tries to put me out of business will be beheaded…because princesses have the power to send people to the guillotine and I still want to be a princess.

However, while I’m still figuring things out, I’m pretty happy being a bookseller.


Now it is nap time.

Genetic Gift-Giving and My Abhorrent Lack of Humility

I take great pride in my gift giving ability. If you’re one of my best friends and it’s your birthday, Christmas, Hanukah, or President’s Day I will go out of my way to find a gift that is perfectly suited to your personality and interests. It might be several books I think you will like (what the hell do you mean you haven’t read everything by V.E. Schwab?), or perhaps some sort of memorabilia related to a television show I know you love (it is my mission in life to figure out how to procure an actual Tardis. Just you wait) or possibly a DVD that I think you’ll enjoy (one day you will thank me for this and that day will probably occur when the power goes out and all you have is 80% battery on your laptop and the DVD I gave you for your Hanukah. You’re welcome—my brother who claims DVD’s are obsolete will be sorry when this happens to him). No matter what I’ve decided to gift you with after hours of brainstorming and researching, I will likely also include a framed photograph that immortalizes our friendship. I will then throw it all in the fanciest and sparkliest gift bag I can find and attach a sappy card declaring that President’s Day makes me realize just how much your friendship means to me. Boom. Best. Gift. Ever.

I give the world’s best gifts. Though I suppose I can’t take all the credit. It’s genetic. I’ve inherited this wonderful quality from my Dad. 

            Highlights from the Dad’s Gifts Archive:

  • A typewriter- it’s common knowledge that every writer should have at least three typewriters. Though the world thrusts more efficient and modern devices upon us, the typewriter is a reliable classic. Typewriters don’t break as easily when you drop them and there’s no need to attach a printer. Your typewriter is the freaking printer! You have one copy of everything and you just have to make sure you don’t fuck up when you’re typing. It is both simple and instills a sense of precision into the writer. My only problem is I still haven’t been able to figure out how to get Wi-Fi on it. For some reason this is the one thing Google doesn’t have the answer to.
  • A Bonsai Tree- like many young girls, upon discovering that unicorns were mythical creatures and it was near impossible to acquire one, I decided that I wanted a pony instead. Now obviously a tiny tree is not even remotely related to a pony unless you count the fact that they are both smaller versions of their future selves (I don’t). At this point in my mid-twenties I realize the implausibility of me properly caring for a pony. Though, unreasonably I might still pine for a pony to call my own (I would name her Sally the Unicorn) I’ve decided that Dad buying me a tree is a more a more sensible gift. This makes us even and he no longer owes me a pony. (Unless this was a test to see if I could take care of a mini tree before you get me the pony. Dad, I will still accept a pony—provided I can resuscitate my tree.)
  • Life-Size Stuffed Pink Power Ranger- this is by far the most memorable gift (aside from going halfsies on the whole gift of life thing) that my Dad has ever given me. Once upon a time five-year-old Kylie was in a Toys R’ Us and fell down on her knees, begging for the acquisition of the enormous stuffed doll form of her hero. The answer was, of course, no. And she forgot about it. Even as a child, I had an unusually short attention span. On the eve of my fifth birthday Dad proclaimed I would have to find my gift. Naturally the next day I sprung out of bed before the sun was even up, ready to find this sucker. I searched all the places I could realistically search on my own and then it was time to bring in reinforcement. I dragged my younger sister out of bed, confused and bleary-eyed. Together we had the strength of a weak old man. Thus we managed to lift the footstool and move the television set (this was 1995 so you should be picturing this massive, thick, heavy black box that was the current technology). Nothing. Ultimately we gave in and declared our defeat to a half-asleep Dad. He made us get dressed and have breakfast before telling me I had to make my bed and then he would give me my gift. I distinctly remember telling him, “Are you freaking kidding me? I’m five. I don’t know how to make my bed.” Nevertheless, I stomped off to my room. And there, resting on top of my unmade Little Mermaid comforter and sheets was a giant, life-size, stuffed Pink Power Ranger doll. I dragged that thing around with me until I was nine. (Okay, fine. I was twelve when she finally ripped and I was forced to throw her out.)

It is my inheritance to be the world’s best gift giver. I wear this crown proudly—I bought it for myself. It has purple rhinestones and came with a heartfelt card. I was feeling sentimental on Lincoln’s birthday this year…


Bear With Me While I Ramble About Rambling

A few months ago I thought it would be a good idea to start a blog about writing. Everyone does it and I’m a follower so it made sense.
But blogging about writing is not as fun as writing. 


I’ve decided to give in and just march to the beat of my own drum. I’ve been fighting my individuality for far too long.

As I’m sure you’ve noticed if you are reading this post, I’ve changed up my blog a bit. Well, that and I’ve developed an  obsession with The Office this summer but the latter only applies to my gif usage in this post. The former begs the question: “What has your blog become, Kylie?!?!?!” Well, imaginary reader, I intend on continuing my blog with the purpose of writing to (hopefully) entertain. I’m envisioning weekly posts that consist of me rambling on about things that will (ideally) hold your interest. 


I have some plans. I have some posts scheduled. I have some gifs. I have hope that you, lovely reader, will enjoy these things. I have dreams. I have coffee. (I always have coffee.) I have to go watch another episode of The Office so I’m going to leave you here.


It’s no secret to anyone who knows me that I have a penchant for fairytales. Therefore the words “Once Upon A Time” get abused quite frequently when I write. But every story can’t begin like that (even though I would like that very much) so, often I end up with an unmarked notebook page before me or a blank word document open, pen poised above the page or fingers resting above the keyboard waiting and waiting for the right words to come to me. Writing is hard. Beginning a new story or novel or essay is even harder.


I’ve wanted to write for the past week. I had great aspirations of writing a short story or a personal essay. But I didn’t. I bought a new notebook (a lot of thought goes into my notebook purchases) along with a fancy new seven-year pen (it’s not actually fancy–it is bright orange and has an exclamation mark on it). I had every intention of sitting down to write. I had a week off from work and literally nothing else to do but write and maybe read a book or two. Alas, I was so intimidated by beginning that I didn’t even try. I am sure I am not alone with this miserable affliction and there are others who have a difficult time starting their writing. (Side note: watch Purple Violets. It’s a good movie and one of the characters struggles with being a writer who stopped writing. Also one of my favorites.) The fear of starting keeps me from writing anything. And suddenly a week goes by that will ultimately lead into two and then three and then before I know it I will have stopped writing completely because I’m too intimidated to start.

There is a unique beginning out there for every story, though it may be hard to find. I’ve done it before and I’m sure I can do it again. I’m hoping that this post will hold me accountable. I’m also hoping that maybe this time I will let myself use the wrong words and just write without concern for the end result.

Plus, now I have this nifty new typewriter to use. Funny thing about typewriters: there’s not “delete” button.



Maybe next time I’ll have something actually written to blog about instead of blogging about my intention to write.




I Lied.

My intention upon finishing my last post (when I declared that I was finished writing my thesis but that it was the start of a longterm novel project) was to actually keep writing.  I said I was going to do it and I really thought I was going to keep writing. I lied. I haven’t written anything.

I hate lying. I’m the kind of person that though I’m twenty-four years old, when my Dad calls to check in and asks “How was your weekend? Did you have fun?” I respond, “It was fine. Nothing exciting to report. Well…I went out. I may have had something to drink. Okay I had three beers but I promise I was responsible! I’m sorry! I swear did all my homework!” To which my dad says, “Oh, okay. Well, I’m glad you had fun.” No, but really, I’m unnecessarily honest sometimes.

So every day that has gone by since my last post and I haven’t written anything, I feel like I have been living a lie and it makes me anxious that this lie is so public.

I’m sure you’re all thinking, “Well, just because you haven’t written anything in a week in a half doesn’t necessarily mean that you lied.”

But I have a confession: I’m not sure I want to keep writing.



Okay, calm down. I don’t mean I want to stop writing forever but I don’t know what I want to write anymore. A little history on my life as a writer: I’ve always written young adult or middle grade. It’s always been fiction and almost always fantasy. It wasn’t something I ever gave a second thought to. Somewhere along the way I neglected to make the transition to “real” books in both the books I read and was trying to write. But lately I’ve been wondering what I’ve been missing by living in my children’s literature bubble. Between these blog posts and a few creative nonfiction classes I’ve taken in my college career, I’ve gotten a taste of a different kind of writing. And I think I like it.

I feel stuck in the crossroads between this direction I’ve always been heading in and the potential for something else I’m starting to feel passionate about. Maybe I try something new? Maybe I stick with what I know? Maybe I do both? Gasp!

So who knows what I’ll write next. I think maybe I’ll start with trying to read some different book–books outside of my comfort zone. We’ll see where that takes me. I just maybe won’t make more promises I don’t know if I can keep. 😉