A Change?

What if I wrote something different?

Like if I just wrote what I’m thinking

Instead of getting all fancy schmancy

With my flourishes from college.

A Blog About Sex

So the other day,

A friend asked on a Facebook group,

Some questions about sex.

I was SO excited.

I love sex.

I am good at sex.

It’s cool.

I had answers for questions,

I had all kinds of things to say,

And then I said,

Haha maybe I should start a blog about sex for Catholics.

And then I meant it.

But like really?

Little miss goody two shoes?

Talking on the web about sex?

Teaching women how to commit to their orgasm?


That does not make any sense.

But you know what?

It makes me crazy excited.

Like bouncing up and down,


Feel joy,


About writing about sex.


Yep, that’s a thing.

How to Get Published Tip: Read Writer’s Market 2019

Last week, during my weekly reading time, I was reading a biography of a creative non-fiction writer. The talked about how they got started writing, and the most important element of their story was the

Writer’s Market Deluxe Edition.

writers market

A couple days later, I was researching how to get a children’s book published. The children’s edition of the same book came up.

The next day, I was at Half Price Books, and I found an old edition.

OK, I can take a hint.

So I downloaded it from the library. We are tight on money right now, and I did not know if it would be worth it.

I am here to tell you, IT IS WORTH EVERY PENNY.

I have spent years researching google over and over just to end up in tears, overwhelmed and confused looking for sound advice on how to get published, desperately trying to find publishers looking for stories, and do not even make me talk about how hard it is to even begin to look for an agent.

This book has everything. Like, literally, everything you could possibly need as a writer who is trying to get published, or even as an already published writer or a beginning writer.

It has articles by trusted people on how to make money as an author, how to get published for your first time, how to get a six figure book deal, and more.

Not only that, but the people who put together this book do extensive research on what publications are looking for submissions, what kind of submissions they want, and how they want them submitted. They even have a set of questions they are each publication, and if the answers are not satisfactory, the publication does not get the privilege of being in this book.

After reading this book, I went and looked at old pieces I had submitted for publication, and it was completely obvious to me what I had done wrong. I was then able to re-work them and resubmit them feeling WAY more confident in their quality, and desirability for that particular publication.(I’ll let you know if I become famous from one of these submissions. 😉 ) I also feel for the first time like I have a grasp on how to take control of developing my career as a writer, and that is incredibly meaningful to me.

Note: Full disclosure, my link is monetized, so if you buy this book from this article, I make a small amount of the profits. However, I monetized this article because I knew I wanted to recommend this book. Amazon Associates allows you to choose what you to make your ad-money.

Also, the deluxe edition is slightly more expensive, but it includes a membership to Writersmarket.com, which costs more than the price of the whole book itself, so it’s worth it.


Again, here is the link. Thank you, if you use this!

Writer’s Market Deluxe 2019

To Emma

Dear Little Emma,

My precious little girl, prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. I’m here to tell you about your daddy. 

He’s come at a time I thought you would never be. I stopped wanting to see you, so the pain wouldn’t eat me alive. I dreamed you last night and I couldn’t even breathe. You are the prettiest little girl that ever could be, and the image of him in our eyes. 

He came to help me find you, and you looked at us with that magic blue-eyed gaze. You came to me in his arms, gazing in glee, and silent pleasure, waiting patiently for your mother’s arms, you didn’t cry a tear. I could almost see you dance. Quiet in my arms, come with me as we show you with your daddy. His daddy wants to see what preciousness comes from love that nourished dreams. Tender notes spilled from your father’s lips to tell me to be what I was. Come, be what God called you to be, you’re beautiful, come forward, live the you. He enchanted, entranced, enlivened me. He came to me in darkest places, in lightest places, in livest places til the clock struck the hour, and found us in time.

Come to me, little Emma, no other name would do, come to me and rest in me. Let me love you and may your daddy always be. 




The Poet Will Die

Leonard: “Why does someone have to die…in your book?”
Virginia: “Someone has to die in order that the rest us should value life more…it’s contrast”
Leonard: “And who will die?”…
Virginia: “The poet will die. The visionary.”

It was one of those when somehow everything is perfectly beautiful and wonderful. A trap suffocated the joy that was meant to be expressed a the day, but it danced at the walls of flesh and fat and begged to breathe. I expunged myself of the trap by breathing it to a dear one who is always ready to hear, even if he doesn’t let me hide from the truth when it is a kind of madness and not tragedy that causes my moaning. Then, after we finished talking, I took a risk.

The Hours had been sitting on my bed for what seemed like weeks, even though it had been only day, perhaps because it had been lingering on my heart for years. Through the cramps of womanhood and growing pains, I limped to the bedroom to fetch the movie and curled into myself to hear it play its sweet song over me. Like a river running over the world, it began. I was not prepared for the bittersweet melancholy, but I knew I wasn’t. I had never been. That is why I had taken so long to see the movie, but I knew there was something important inside that I needed to hear.

It unfolded in front of me. The story of three women, the pressure that death pushed upon them at every turn. There is an insane therapist in Pretty Little Liars who tells Spencer that he is studying “The heaviness of air.” He tells her that to some people the air is just heavier than it is to others. These women lived in the heaviness of air. Mental issues, repressed emotions, and the trap of their own lives threatened to crush the very breath out of them. Both Clarissa and Laura are at different points pictured sitting alone talking to someone in another room. During each scene the woman is crying, crushed, and barely able to bear her own suffering. There is a character in the other room who is talking to her, and asks banal questions, demanding answer after answer. The woman proclaims her answers in sunny, carefree purity, and the other accepts them. In contrast, Virginia’s pain is far too obvious to everyone else. She cannot escape the bars that have been put around her to protect her from herself. Suffocation is the core of the three stories, linking the three women in a world of air as heavy as lead, as they strive to choose life.

I watched as they wove their lives through the web of difficulties and attempts to breathe, and connected my own struggles with theirs. I wondered where the message I had been searching for had gone. And finally, in the end, Virginia Woolf told her husband that the poet visionary must die, so that the rest of us might value life more. He is clearly disturbed by this, because she is the writer, and Virginia Woolf’s husband, of all people, should know that her writing spoke not only for its characters but for herself. His worry is well-founded since only minutes later(in movie-time) she drowns herself. It seemed to me though, that there is something to be said for the idea that the poet dies so that the rest of the world may live.

It is cliche to speak of the tortured poets. Some regard them as ridiculous, others as masochistic, others as insane, still others as bittersweet. It is clear, however, that there is something to the poetic soul that endures a melancholy that is mysterious and powerful. I will admit that I disliked The Hours, for it did not leave crystals on the outside world when I emerged from it’s spell. I didn’t laugh. I didn’t cry. I simply breathed. I admire it as a true work of art, but there is something in Virginia Woolf with which I cannot connect, probably the suicide that I hope to eradicate from my traditional set of temptations. It occurred to me, however, that maybe not every poet dies in the same way.

Virginia Woolf physically died, but maybe not every poet longs to take their own life forever, though I am certain no poet escapes moments of that desire. Jack Kerouac, for instance, went On the Road. Perhaps each day he died to the ideal life, and perhaps in dying to the ideal life, he freed those who suffered its heaviness. James Joyce wrote The Portrait of the Artist of the Young Man, about his conversion away from the Faith. The story of his conversion away from Faith, however, renewed my affection for it.(a story for another time) So. perhaps. his death of faith, allowed it to be reborn. There are countless examples of artists and ways that a death of theirs frees others. After all, the greatest poet of all time, physically died, that we may all have life forever. 

The heaviness of air is omnipresent in The Hours. It plagues everyone in the film in some way, but the air around Clarissa clears when Laura tells her of nearly choosing death, but then abandoning her children in order to survive. Her death was that of her motherhood, her pride, and her picture perfect life. Richard, Clarissa’s friend and Laura’s daughter, committed suicide. Virginia Woolf, of course, committed suicide. Both Virginia and Richard wanted to die in order to free those around them, but it was Laura’s encounter with death, desire for death, and choice to live that truly freed Clarissa from the heaviness that surrounded her. We all know it is better for the poet, for everyone, to choose not to commit suicide, but this film reminds its viewers that one must still die in some way. Surviving, one will still suffer, but bearing that daily death, may one day free another from their own. 

Fighting for Every Day

Every once in a while I’ll feel like the whole world lights up and suddenly I write pages and pages and I feel like someday I’ll make it, but then I blink and it fades away, and then I feel guilty for letting it.
And I want to live on the edge, just to be awake. Go to a bar, because people LIVE there, run around the abandoned parts of town, drink too much wine, just so I can keep going.
It’s so weird, like living so many lives at once and not at all at the same time
I don’t know if that makes any sense, but that’s what is.

Modern Poetry is About the Simple Things

What if I don’t want to write about the Simple Things?
What if my Muse doesn’t talk about the fields of grain
Or the perfect romance, or who know what else they talk about now.
There’s those people with record deals and they talk about how miserable they are in love.
What if I don’t want to write about that?

What if I want to write about an eagle soaring over the castle I never had,
Or what if I want to write about everything Lancelot knew about Guinevere,
Or what if I want to climb down the ladder of the subconscious and
Tear apart my soul for each and every one of you to see,
What if I am just me?

What if I want to write about my friend who left me
And two seconds later my love is like the sea…
But not like the sea expansive and beautiful, tranquil, blue maiden,
but instead the sea the Mistress of so many devils flaring in every color of doom
threatening to swallow anyone that enters her path.
Love is like the sea may be cliche but what if the sea rips out your throat.

I am not here to say that love isn’t hope,
That love is a nightmare that I always want to escape
But can’t because I am drowning.

I am come to say that Sometimes, I think so.
I am come to say that while love is sometimes like the sea on a calm summer’s day
Sometimes it eats through your heart like a vampire hidden away in the deeps.
And even if sometimes Notre Dame is a grand Cathedral and it takes your breath away,
Sometimes it suffocates you, and makes you want to cry,
And sometimes when you want to cry it chokes you up
And when it chokes you up, you gasp for air, and gasp and gasp
And when you come up for air you brand yourself a heathen
Because what was once in there was greatness.
What if the roses in the field i see are sometimes blood mongers
And sometimes a breath hardly breathed?
What if I talk abot my writing as if it is about to devour me,
And in the next moment I beg for it to return?
Does this make me a glutton for abuse?
I refuse to believe that and instead beg for every moment
Of this imaginary life that refuses to leave and I ask you to whisper

Into me.

That everything is going to be ok

That even if Modern Poetry is About the Simple Things,
You will not leave me.

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