The career is the goal. The way to get to the career is through the work. It doesn’t matter where you are, as long as you can move forward. Money is the consequence of the work, it is energy. Money flows from hand to hand, helping people communicate. It is a medium, a concept, and should not be the focus or the goal.

The career is the goal. There are benefits of having the career. Not all careers offer the same benefits, and the benefits can sometimes be intangible. Having more time, enjoying what you do, knowing your family is taken care of are benefits.

Leave enough room to think. Leave enough room to breathe. Remember how powerful you are when you’re alone, uninterrupted, and allowed to chase down “idle” thoughts.

Growing hurts, but it’s meant to stretch you out of old thought processes and adopt new ones. Abandon approval seeking – you already either have it, or you don’t, and you don’t have to swing the fence-sitters. That’s energy better spent elsewhere.

Find a voice. You don’t have to wait until you’re so angry that your inner Hulk shows up.

Don’t obsess about how others are going to feel. You can’t predict or control their inner Hulk, but if it shows up, maybe they weren’t your friends to begin with.

On that note, letting go of those “friends” is like ripping off a Band-aid – worst at first.

When you’re working, set everything else aside. When you’re not working, don’t work.

It’s okay to be sick, or hurt, or just not want to. You’ll get the momentum back.

Time is not the enemy. Time is your friend.

Money is not the enemy. Money is a tool.

Balance isn’t permanent, in three dimensional space it’s tensegrity.



Well, I’m back.

First, thank you for all of you who enjoyed my microfiction experiment. I’m definitely doing more microfiction in the future. However, it takes a lot even to create a little fiction short like I was, and coming up with many tiny ideas proved to be a lot more work than expected. It’s kind of like getting a kitten. No one ever imagines how much energy and time a tiny warm ball of fuzz is going to take up, until you get one.

And I was getting a kitten a week.

Finally I had to accept that if I was going to put out bigger pieces of fiction, I had to set aside my diversion. It would be nice to say that I could just turn 180 degrees from a short piece to a long piece, but each piece takes up a slice of consciousness, and they all dig in equally as hard. That’s why I haven’t been blogging for weeks now. I just could not bring myself to produce.

Wonderful things have been happening beyond the blogosphere, however. I have found myself in a small, elite cadre of women writers, and we are critiquing each other’s work. Having found an echo chamber, let me tell you how priceless it is. I have been in four local writer’s groups, and each one was more dismal than the last. One almost seemed like a fit, but at the end of the day, I am an elitist snob and they weren’t up to my unreasonable standards.

Now, I’m surrounded by like minded, brutal, hungry writers, and I’m loving it. They challenge me, they provide me with awesome, useful feedback, and we all share what we’ve learned about the industry.

The most validating moment for this month happened after this month’s writing group meeting. A gentleman came out for a cigarette. The space we’d overtaken was apparently the smoke break area for several nearby restaurants. We tried to give him space while still enjoying the last lingering moments of our group session. When we started our goodbyes, the guy introduced himself as Sam Hill. We all had our laughs, which he was good-natured about. He then admitted he was a writer too. He told us he thought we had some really great ideas that he found helpful even as he eavesdropped. Our group had it’s first follower. It was magic.

I’ve also been duel wielding a novel and a serial, which would work better if I had more time. I’m laying fresh word count for Tin Can Sailors, and editing my rough draft of Bento Box. It’s hard to sharecrop two incredible stories, but one is for a publisher who wants my stuff done by this winter, and the other is getting bumped because it is deadline free.

I now understand how it takes George R.R. Martin so long to get a frigging book out. Of course, if I had a TV deal, I’d have more excuses to be so late, but the year isn’t over yet.

Misbegotten Butterfly



She couldn’t believe she’d never noticed them before. On her walks, while she passed by the fences and overgrown lots, she’d never looked. She saw her first one in the corner of one of the fences, this tiny, white, web-like growth that clung like a barnacle to the security of the fence. It looked as old as a mummy, and she had no intention of touching it with her bare hands. She looked around and found an old, dry stick to poke at the mummified cocoon.

She wasn’t as gentle as she thought she was. The cocoon ripped, and dust blew out of the shell of it. She was horrified. So much dust! The cocoon should have been empty, evacuated by the occupant at the beginning of the summer. Instead, the cocoon was full of the dessicated remains of a misbegotten butterfly.

The image haunted her for the length of her walk, but then it fled into the recesses of her subconscious, to sit like a gargoyle in the back of her mind, brooding and silent.

The next day when she took her walk, she decided to walk the trail in the opposite direction of her normal travels. She wandered, contemplating nothing. As she reached the fence line, she noticed a ghostly shape out of the corner of her eye. Another cocoon. She wanted to walk past it, to walk beyond, but some driving force inside of her made her stop. She felt as though she was drawn to it. She stepped closer, noticing details she hadn’t noticed the first time. The cocoon, musty and covered in webbing, seemed plump. She felt a shudder of disbelief. Finding two cocoons in two days was odd enough to warrant coincidence, but finding two unhatched cocoons on the same length of fence made her stomach churn.

Did they know? She wondered. Did they know there was a chance they could die, rather than becoming what they were truly meant to be?

She continued forward, and her eyes caught no less than twenty little mummified cocoons along the fence. She broke into a run, and when she finally turned the corner, the fence turned too, but there was a culvert distancing them, and she couldn’t see up into the hidden corners. She kept running, just to leave the vision of unborn butterflies behind her.

Her lunch break over, she walked into the building where she worked. She walked down the familiar hallway, and into the room peppered in cubicles where her coworkers sat. The place was silent, eerily so, with just the hum of machinery to be heard. She didn’t hear any conversation at all.

Wondering where her coworkers were, she walked to her seat. As she walked past the first cubicle, her eyes caught a ghostly shape. There, within the office chair, a white, mummified cocoon the size of a man sat in place of where her coworker Bobby should be.

She didn’t look any further, but turned and ran.