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.

A promise to myself…

Write the way you think: sporadically, suddenly & often.

Write the way you feel: intensely, extremely & honestly.

Write the way you learn: slowly at first, then all at once & never stopping.

Write the way you love: with your whole being, from the inside out & meaningfully.

Write the way you live: honestly, fairly, & fully.

Write the way you breathe: constantly, to sustain life, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes gasping or reaching but sometimes controlled and deliberate, sometimes quietly but sometimes too intense to silence…

Just promise me you’ll write. 

Dear Diary, You Changed My Life

Just a little reminder of why I do this…

Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,
‘Fool,’ said my Muse to me, ‘look in thy heart, and write.’

Sir Philip Sidney was on to something that many people today don’t realize: everything you want to say is already inside of you.

Even though he was talking about expressing his love, the same holds true for people’s hopes, dreams, and goals. Recognizing goals alone will not change peoples’ lives, but writing them down, making them into real, concrete things – that can change lives.

Asking people to write their goals and aspirations transforms the goals from ideas to tangible things, waiting to be grabbed. Writing down fears and apprehensions turns them into paper monsters, easily defeated with each accomplishment.

Hopes and dreams – as well as fears and insecurities – don’t disappear with age. Looking in your heart and writing can be life changing for anyone, regardless of age. Maybe you already have a career but you have goals to move up further or change paths. Maybe you have a career and are facing barriers you feel you cannot overcome.

And maybe you have children, and your goal is to show them how to accomplish their goals.

No matter their situations, or age, people always have goals. That’s because accomplishing goals is addicting. There is no better feeling than being able to say “I did it,” no matter what “it” is.

That is why writing down goals – whether they are career related, academic, or personal – can change people’s lives. Once on paper, these goals seem like a contract. They are like individual promises that people make, guiding their decisions whether they realize it or not.

Would people be more likely to make the decision to skip their classes and not turn in assignments if they had a written challenge to “get a 3.5 GPA or better” sitting on their desks? Although some might ignore their writings, most people would decide that they owe it to themselves to make decisions that bring them closer to their goals.

The same goes with insecurities people face when working towards their goals. Thoughts are so abstract and emotions can seem to have no root, only leading to further anxieties. Forcing people to put them on words solidifies them, changing them from feelings to problems with solutions.

Sometimes people don’t even know what they are feeling… until they write it down. Whether it is in a journal, a blog, or on a post-it note stuck to your desk, these feelings are now confined to a finite set of letters. That’s not so scary, is it?

Keep a diary. Make lists. Cover your walls and ceilings with notes. Do whatever you have to do to get it all out of your head and onto paper (or a screen). It is never to late to change your life with the power of words.

Plus, it is not as difficult as you think. As Sir Philip Sidney points out, it’s already inside of you. Just look in your heart and write.


Four Leaved Clovers

“I can’t believe I’m doing this right now.”

I hesitated for a moment, but eventually went on with it.

I squatted down on the front lawn, careful not to kneel since there was still remnants of morning dew on the grass. This was so much easier when I was six.

When I was a kid, I had a talent for finding four leaved clovers on my front lawn. The place was a gold mine for them–some trips I’d find five or six within minutes. Our lawn had some kind of supernatural powers, mutating half the clovers to have four, five, even six leaves.

If the lawn could grow leaves with its superpowers, maybe it could do other things too. So I used it as my compass, my decision maker.

“If I find a clover in the next thirty seconds, I should apologize to Mom for our fight,” I’d say.”

As I grew older, the sentiments changed. “If I don’t find anything in 45 seconds, I shouldn’t go through with dying my hair,” or something more like that.

So here I am now. At 23 years old, my sights set on leaves and stems. Years of books and computer screens have taken their toll on my eyes, but they haven’t forgotten their usual clover-hunting path.

“If I find something in the next minute, it means he does love me.” It sounded even more stupid when I said it out loud. But I was getting desperate. He’s been like a newspaper left out in the rain–you know there’s something in there, but you just can’t read it.

My eyes jumped from leaf to leaf, grass patch to grass patch, as the clock ticks down. My heart flutters with hope as I think I see one, but sinks into my stomach when it’s a false alarm. This lawn isn’t what it used to be, it’s seem to have lost its magic–and I’m starting to think that so have I.

“3, 2, 1…” and time runs out. I stand up, watch a fly take flight, and wish I could do the same. I was stupid to think there was any magic left in this world, let alone this stupid lawn.

But that’s life. Sometimes there are no clovers, and sometimes boys don’t love you back. It’s just hard to accept when you love to pick the clovers, and love the boy dearly.

So I walk up the walkway back towards the house. On one hand I’m humiliated that I resorted to clover picking to determine my future, and on the other I’m seriously bummed it didn’t go my way.

So through the door I go, back to reality, leaving my hopes behind. Leaving my hopes on that lawn where, if you trace the fly’s flight back, a four leaf clover stands tall, dew drops glimmering in the midmorning sun.