What’s the point of having the upper hand
when you had to break fingers to get it?

Isn’t it funny?
We’ll step on the backs of friends
just to keep our own shoes clean.
Yet we could easily preserve our soles
and our souls
with one side step

The same amount of effort
and yet we choose

What’s the point of having the upper hand
when the fingers point at you?

I said, I meant

I said I was in love with the moment
The perfect lighting, easy smile

But what I really meant was
I fell in love
With the glow on your cheeks
And the shape of your lips

I said I was in love with the moment
The sun’s warmth, reflection off the snow

But what I really meant was
I fell in love
With the warmth of your body
And the gold in your eye

I said I was in love with the moment
The expanse of the woods, the little house

But what I really meant was
I fell in love
With the possibilities and the reality

I said I was in love with the moment
But what I really meant was

I fell in love

With you.

Excerpt from a short story I’m working on

This is a line from a short story that will hopefully come together soon. Anyone else find it easier to write in moments or short scenes than an overall story line?

Anyway… turning A Winter Scene into a real story, and here’s a little more insight into the main character. She says:

I didn’t fall for him in the sweeping, dramatic way they show in movies. I didn’t have a fireworks show in my chest or an “Aha” moment where suddenly I was head over heels.

For me, it was different. It wasn’t a feeling, but an absence of feeling. For the first time in my life, anxiety didn’t third wheel. I didn’t feel stupid after everything I said, I didn’t keep my phone in my hand eager for a text, and I didn’t lose sleep wondering if this was going to happen.

The absence of everything I hated about myself, became all of the things I began to love about him.


The Entertainment Blogger Award

Big thanks to Alex for the nomination! A fun, entertaining blog filled with witty posts – check it out!

The Rules:

  • Thank the person who nominated you and provide a link to their blog.
  • Add these rules to your post.
  • Answer all the questions below.
  • Display the award picture in your post.
  • Nominate 12 other bloggers who are funny, inspiring and most important of all ENTERTAINING!


Since I could write, my poems and stories have lived between the lines of journals, handwritten and private. But lately I’ve been wanting to move forward in the writing process, so I’m turning to the fellow writers of the interwebs for feedback, advice, & the occasional ego boost – (mostly) kidding about that last part.


It’s hard to pinpoint one book because I do dabble in so many different genres, but one book that just hits me hard every time I read it is Paper Towns by John Green. I’ve seemed to relate to it at every stage in my life & that’s pretty cool.


Lying & those that lie.


My health-nut tendencies don’t lead me to eat at the mall often, but if I do, I grab a salad.


Reading, writing, dog petting & weight lifting. If all can be done in a day, it’s a good one.

Keep this going! Here are my nominees:

  1. Emily
  2. Hazel Meadows
  3. Poetry lover
  4. Written Therapy 
  5. Gen Y Bother?
  6. Duri Rolvsson

I don’t have too many followers so picking more is tough, but much love to all of you!


Meeting you was like winning the lottery,

The surreal moment where too good to be true
Meets here and now.
Where it’s never going to happen to me
Meets never say never.

My first thought was not
what to buy or where to go.
My first feeling was not disbelief
Or elation or joy at all.

In fact,
I was scared and mad and torn
And damning my fortunate luck.
My first thought as a wealthy woman
Was wishing I picked different numbers.

Meeting you was like winning the lottery,
But I know my tendency for squandering riches.

A Winter Scene

Her eyes traced the path of the snowflake through the frosted glass door. Downward yet weightless, it descended from the overcast sky until the branch of the small tree in the front yard interrupted its journey. Without protest, it took its place in the accumulation, as if it knew it were meant to do so.

Snow is a funny thing–each individual flake seems so insignificant, but together is so powerful. Destined to be made into snowmen or thrown at little brothers, or even willing to get pushed around for the sake of a snow angel.

How nice it must be to be part of something bigger than you. How nice it must be to belong.

Snapping her thoughts back to reality, she saw her neighbor outside attempting to shovel, completely bundled except for his eyes which, even from a distance, gave away his unhappiness with the weather. The snow was relentless, so he finally gave up and went back inside, defeated.

“It’s February in New York, what can you expect?” She mused rhetorically to the dog at her feet. He, too, was silently protesting the snowstorm by remaining an immobile ball of fur on the floor. He didn’t so much as lift his little chin off the carpet.

“Come on, be happy, it’s beautiful!” she nagged–to whom, I’m not really sure.

She even surprised herself with this newfound positive disposition. She was still getting used to being happy.

If this were last year, she would have welcomed the excuse to close the blinds and post up in bed for the day. She would have joined her neighbor and her dog in dismay for the snow–wet and dirty, inconvenient, altogether unwelcome. So what changed? The temperature was still frigid, she still would have to spend hours digging her car out of the snow just to sit in an extra hour of traffic to make it to work tomorrow. Nothing about the winter in New York had changed.

But she had. Or should she say, he changed her.

Maybe it wasn’t that she hated the snow and the winter. Maybe it was that she related to it all too well. If she were weather she’d be a snowstorm: cold, dark, impossible to navigate through. She remembers like it was yesterday the day the first snowflake fell within her, the day he walked out of her life and left behind a trail of ice.

She thought spring would never come. People tried to shovel and scrape and push through the drifts, but inevitably they would just cause an avalanche. Like a snowball, if you held on to her for too long, you’d be left with frostbite.

But today, she makes two cups of tea and sits down on her couch. Curling up, she lays her head on his shoulder. She has found her something bigger. She has found where she belonged. She has her sunshine.

She opens her journal, and writes…


But, this winter’s not quite as cold…

Frost still glistens on windshields and lawns in the predawn stillness. Breath still dances in clouds from mouths meeting at train platforms and bus stops. Scarves hug necks, gloves hold hands, boots trudge the ground more heavily than their summer counterparts. Water still freezes, cold & impenetrable, stubborn but cracked–like I used to be.

But now I hold within me a perpetual spring.

This winter’s not quite as cold.