Two months ago, I asked God for a mentor. His response was one I didn’t expect. Start a mentoring program at your church.

I was torn. The idea was strong, but so was my understanding of my own shortfalls. I don’t have a lot of free time. I’m scattered. Loose. Willing, but not necessarily able all the time.

God said that was okay. God said He had able covered.

So I took a deep breath, and one Sunday after church, I shared my idea with our pastor’s wife, Linda. She lit up. Yes, she said. We should do this.

I hammered out a framework late one night when the girls were in bed. Linda and I met for lunch. Yes, she said again. You’re on the right track. She gave me a mentoring how-to book. I read it, and got overwhelmed.

I wanted this to be simple, I told my husband. So keep it simple, he said, and kissed my forehead.

018 (661x800)Simple worked. Sign-up sheets went up at church. Names were collected. Surveys sent. Matched prayed for, and made.

Then another hurdle. Put together a training session. Lead it. I felt a little like Moses. Me God? I’m about as qualified as a snail.

I said something similar to Linda and to Jan, a pillar in our church’s women’s ministry. God will anoint you. Just watch. He’ll show up, said Jan.

Somehow, that was comforting. Anoint sounded foreign, but I knew what it meant to show up. I also know God does that. He shows up. And often, all I have to do is ask.

I asked. I prayed in tired, run-on sentences on Saturday night as I made labels and stuffed folders. It felt a little like my former job prepping for Board meetings, and suddenly, I woke up. I was gathering. Preparing. Listing and checking. Saving files and wrapping up all the details I could remember.

Give me the right words. Clear ideas.

And suddenly it was Sunday afternoon, and there they were. The names from the list turned into real live women, and I got excited. This was happening.

017 (800x518)The next two hours were a blur. I spoke the things that had been in my heart – things that made sense to me in the context of mentoring and being mentored. I talked about Naomi and Ruth, and respect and expectations and willingness. Jan read a letter from Linda, who couldn’t be there. We all went into sugar bliss from the outpouring of homemade treats. I sat down with my own amazing mentor, and felt a light click on in both our spirits.

At the end, I watched two women talking and laughing in the parking lot. Around them, the late September wind was warm and dry, and every angle of the landscape reverberated orange and red and yellow.

I know it sounds weird to say, but I tangibly felt their happiness. It was as if the space itself around them was alive and full of connection.

It brings to mind the chorus from Channels Only, a ridiculously old hymn that comes to me sometimes, as songs from growing up in a small country church are apt to do.

Channels only
Blessed Master
But with all Thy wondrous power
moving through us
thou canst use us
every day and every hour.

This was never about me. This was about a group of women who all felt the same way I did, and simply needed a pair of hands and a voice to connect them. Channels only.

Layered Chicken Enchiladas

I put together dinner in ten minute windows these days. Anything beyond that results in full chorus whining. So I’m attempting to make a quick and dirty list of methods that I can prep and finish in ten minutes or less.

It’s a tall order.

Enter: Layered Chicken Enchiladas

Skip stuffing and rolling. This method, which I first read about in a great memoir called Bread and Wine, is genius. Layers. Think lasagna, but in the form of tortillas and chicken and salsa verde. It’s adaptable to what you have on hand, and can be done gluten-free (use corn tortillas) or vegetarian (use beans instead of chicken) if you’re so inclined.

A quick word about method recipes.TRUST YOURSELF. You don’t need exact measurements, the perfect tools, or all the listed ingredients. Understand the method, and then take your meal in whatever direction you want. In this case, layers of flavor are laid on top of one another and baked. Fast, simple, and really, really good. 

Ready?

Layered Chicken Enchiladas – by Method

Leftover blitz - mix and match!

Leftover blitz – mix and match!

Here’s what I had on hand:

  • leftover rice
  • leftover rotisserie chicken
  • salsa verde
  • flour tortillas
  • queso fresco
  • sour cream
  • cherry tomatoes
  • fresh oregano
  • chives
  • dried cumin
  1. In an 8×8 square pan, spread a layer of salsa verde. Top it with tortillas, sour cream, more salsa, chicken, rice, tomatoes, cheese, oregano, and chives. Sprinkle with cumin.
  2. Put down another layer of tortillas. Repeat.

    Layer #1

    Layers are waaaaay better than rolls.

  3. Put down one more layer of tortillas. Top with sour cream and salsa verde.
  4. Bake at 350 for 30 minutes.
  5. Pull out and garnish (oh yeah, fancy town) with more queso fresco and oregano (I used cilantro here because it needed to be used.)
  6. Eat. Eat. Eat.

When it’s time to broaden your focus

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For the past three years, I have been paring down parts of my life that required regular, scheduled time. Babies do well with one schedule – their own. After I realized this, I started letting things go.

Volunteering. Grad school. Worship team. Work outside the home.

I’m not crying in my soup about it. These were my choices. Some were easy, while others required a little coaxing. Last year I let go of my last remaining scheduled time, and spent every waking moment with my babies.

For me, having twins and a toddler called for that. I physically could not do anything else.

This July, Gabby and Lucy turned one, and Ellis turned three. And just like that, the baby phase was done. We closed shop on breastfeeding, put away all the bottles, took down the swings and bouncers. I remembered that one-year-olds should probably wear shoes.

Life has taken on shades of normalcy. The twins sleep from 7 pm to 7 am most days. Ellis is on a similar routine. Within reason, we know what we can expect from them.

I also know I can expect a little more from myself.

Complete and sole focus on my little girls has been a huge blessing. But I’ve also felt the quiet ache that comes from boxing up pursuits your heart really loves.

As wonderful as motherhood is, there are other people in the world besides the three I gave birth to. And if I’m going to teach my three how and why we should love others, I need to get back to doing the same.

Menomonie CMA peeps hanging in our tiny house.

Menomonie CMA peeps hanging in our tiny house, 2005.

This fall, I’ve decided to start volunteering as a high school youth leader again. Call me crazy, but I love the wild and formative years in a girl’s life. They are gifted with passion, with focus, with feeling. When they stake a claim on something, they mean it.

I’ve seen it over and over. In Ames, IA. In Hopkins, MN. In Menomonie, WI. In St. Croix Falls, WI. God is fiercely doing battle for the minds and hearts of emerging young men and women. And when they are encouraged, loved, and empowered, they grow able to do things far beyond what they could even imagine.

Things that matter most – things that moth and rust cannot destroy, that set their minds on things above, things that do not change like shifting shadows.

Maybe you’re there too, feeling that stirring, that readiness to wake up a part of your life you’ve put to sleep for a while. Say yes. Don’t put it off. Don’t be scared of the commitment, the time, the practice it takes. God’s love is wide enough to cover every life you reach out to, and strong enough to cover your insecurities.

Go. Do. Live in love.

And let me know how it goes, eh? I’d love to hear what you’re venturing into this fall, and connect you with others that might be doing the same thing.

When kindness makes a difference

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downloadBecause the refrigerator shelves were empty.

Because there would be seven extra mouths to feed.

Because there must always be bananas and cheese to make my world go round.

Because there was a new Aldi in Forest Lake.

Because Aldi is like crack for the cheap grocery maven.

Because there are double seated carts.

Because I have two babies and a three year old.

Because the three year old has laughing blue eyes, and is the very definition of mischievous.

Because gum.

Because we needed fruit, and bread, and things to make the guests feel at home.

Because the cart was close to overflowing.

Because the babies started shrieking.

Because big sister had to use the bathroom.

Because twice. In five minutes.

Because tandem screams in tiled hallways are louder.

Because we had to leave before the entire store gave us the evil eye.

Because we unloaded the cart, item by item.

Because I reached for my debit card, only to find it missing.

Because Aldi doesn’t take credit cards. Or checks.

Because I stood still, calculating my losses in terms of time, card, groceries, naps.

Because there were four people in line behind me.

Because one was an angel.

Because she had mercy in her wallet and it paid for my groceries.

Because I wrote her a check with shaky, grateful hands.

Because she asked if I needed any extra help.

Because that question is like chocolate ice cream in August.

Because we loaded up the groceries in canvas bags.

Because I buckled in my girls, then searched the van for my missing card.

Because I wanted a piece of gum.

Because there was my card, tucked behind the spearmint.

Because a mischievous someone proclaimed that it FIT!

Because grace has to laugh instead of cry.

Because Love is always on the lookout for those in need.

Because God, rich in mercy, first loved us.

Just Because.

Romance vs. Reality – how we *almost* got a dog

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Some people test drive cars. This weekend, we test drove having a dog.

I’ve wanted a dog since we got married. I have stubborn, animal-loving streak in me (horse girl alert) and for some reason, our farm-yard seems a little IMG_4155 (800x533)empty without a furry caretaker.

But we have this problem. Well, ten problems to be exact.

The chickens.

Don’t get me wrong. I love our chickens. I love fresh eggs and bright yellow yolks. But apparently dogs and chickens tend to be incompatible unless there’s some significant training going on.

A normal person would get a puppy. But I have to admit that A. I don’t know anything about puppy training, B. I’m not particularly patient enough for puppy training, and C. I don’t have consistent time to commit to puppy training.

I thought the answer was getting a dog in the middle of his puppyhood– one that had been given a head start so that we could just come in, finish the job. Enter, Snoopie.

Snoopie was a beautiful guy – a seven month old goldendoodle newfoundland (breeder’s oops, I’m assuming) with long lines and an easygoing disposition. He was medium-sized, black and white, and loved people.

Sigh. Turns out, he also loved chasing our chickens.  And barking. There were also the mammoth-sized piles of waste, and the constant attempts to get in the house. And then this: the realization that I’m more in love with the idea of having a dog than I am with the actual logistics of keeping one.

You know. The romance of an idea vs. the actuality of it.

Because it seems so easy. The beautiful, well-behaved dog. The woman in high-heeled shoes. The basketball player’s arching jump shot. Never mind the hours of training. The years of callouses. The thousands of shots that bounced off the rim.

Romance is not reality. Reality is hard work. Reality is hard-won. And gracefulness is realizing you’re not in a place to put in the time.

No anger. No bitterness. No need to keep wanting something that’s not possible right now.

I know it’s much more trendy to tell people to chase their dreams, reach for the stars, all that business. But what about the times when that’s just not possible? What about the days, months, years when we have to wait?

What about the desires that have to be patiently brought back to bed, time after time, until they finally fall asleep?

What can we learn from knowing our limitations, instead of cursing them?

Snoopie went back home to his family last night. It was a quiet ride, me second-guessing myself, my ability to commit to things. Afterwards, I stopped on the way home for Chinese food. I listened to someone else bang pots around in the kitchen. I let someone else take my plate.

The night air was full of haze and dew when I left. I was tired, but content. The decision to return the dog was the right one. The reality of my life doesn’t leave me with time for extra right now.

To everything a season.

Grow or Die

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Gabby slideThere’s a strange theme running through my summer. It’s everywhere – in the stems of the sugar snap peas that faded from bright green into a tired tan, in the hanging basket that didn’t appreciate our extended vacationing, in the suddenness of my daughters’ ability to do new things.

Things either keep growing, or begin to die.

Ever since midsummer’s solstice, I’ve been reminded how every year is a build-up to the longest day, the day when the sun stretches itself into eighteen hours of light here in the Midwest. And then after that?

This current shortening of daylight, a slow slide from life to dark.

Meanwhile, the twins are crawling, yelling, reaching, wanting, and there are days I don’t know what to do with all this NEED. The only thing that calms me down is a gentle reminder that if they weren’t growing, something would be wrong.

They have to grow. The converse is unthinkable.

But I can’t help but wonder. What about you? What about me? What about us, here, in the pleasant middle of life? The only growing I’m doing is the kind around my midsection that I try to prevent. But that’s not exactly dying, is it?

Or is it?

Now that the girls are one, I find myself trying to set a new list of goals. We survived year one. Go us. So many twin parents say that the hardest year is the first one, so this makes me feel like we accomplished something. (Exactly what, I’m not sure. I’d say mastering the art of carrying two babies up and down the stairs, but I tripped this morning and ruined my record. No one was hurt, btw.)

But I don’t just want to write down five lines of cutely bulleted things to accomplish next year. I don’t want the next phase of our family’s life together to be some sort of stylized bucket list.

I want us to commit to growing. I want to see my babies learn to speak. I want to watch my three year old start loving an instrument. I want to start a female mentoring program for all ages and all walks of life at my church. I want to memorize more of the Bible so I have a better chance at holding my temper and catching my tongue. I want to firm up those places, physical and emotional, where carrying and caring for babies has left me changed.

***

On Monday night, my parents were visiting. The girls were in bed. My husband and father were sitting in the hot tub, and my mama and I relaxed by the dormant fireside. I attempted a set of sit-ups; she caught up on email. After a while, she asked if I wanted to hear a blog post.

I sat up, knees tucked, toes spread quiet on the rug. She read author and blogger Ann Voscamp’s most recent post, How to Get Really Living Instead of Merely Existing. (A must read. Please check it out.) And it struck me, there on the rug, that there really is no middle ground. I really do have to strive to grow in that which I love, or face the fact that I immediately start to wither.  

This principle is in my faith – to grow in understanding, or lose meaning. In my marriage – to grow in love, or risk falling out of it. In my children – to grow in stature, or worry something’s wrong. In my self – to reach toward my goals, or watch them waste in silence.

Grow or die.  There’s no other way to say it. There’s no other way to live.

Ten Tricks for the Family Trip

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Picture7Ten Tricks for the Family Trip

Welcome to high summer. Before we had kids, this season meant one thing to my husband and I. Road trips. A lot of them. They are the reason our old 4Runner is knocking on 300,000 miles, and the only logical answer to why we know almost every Willie Nelson song by heart.

Then there were kids. Three of them – all girls. And when they travel, these young divas require their favorite blankets and life jackets and sippy cups and an endless parade of My Little Ponies. The twins also require two Pack’N’Plays, diapers, wipes, a cooler of snacks, a bag of toys, and at least four nuks.

Why all this stuff? Because every scenario should be accounted for. I’m not a Type A by any stretch, but I have learned a very important rule in road tripping. When you’re prepared, everyone has a good time. When you’re not, you’re pulling off at exit 203B with no gas station in sight, stripping your toddler of noxious clothing, and re-dressing her in pants that are a size too small.

We just completed our fourth and most spontaneous road trip of the season, and we now feel like well-seasoned professionals. Here’s what worked for us.

Pack a toy bag

Preferably, one of those grocery store types that stands on their own works the best. Grab a few toys, and make sure you pick a few that light up and play really obnoxious songs. Annoying as they are, sometimes kids need the distraction. Keep it within arm’s reach, so that when the whining starts, you can swoop in with Mr. Potato Head and save the day.

Bring snacks

You get hungry in the car, right? So do kids. Really hungry. Bored hungry. Snack hungry. Whatever time of day, make sure you have at least one option of something you can put in a cup and pass back. For little ones, applesauce in a pouch is a lifesaver. Yes, this is how you end up vacuuming ten pounds of cheerios out of your car, and washing seat covers. Who cares. The kids aren’t screaming, and that’s what counts.

Take a break

Kids don’t do well skipping meals, pushing naps, or missing bathroom breaks. Let’s be honest. Grownups don’t either. So keep an eye on the clock. Stop to change diapers, go potty, and eat lunch at the normal intervals your kids do those things. No one benefits from the keep-on-keeping-on mentality 387 miles at a time.

Buy an atlas

I know. Paper. Bulk. I have a phone. I have a system. Yada yada yada. When you’re in the middle of nowheresville and your phone doesn’t get service and your GPS can’t figure out which satellite to track off of and the babies are screaming, nothing beats a good old fashioned map. Unless you like being the idiot at the gas station, mispronouncing road signs and admitting you don’t actually know which direction West is.

Go. Go. Go.

Ever been stuck reading the sign “Rest stop – 27 miles” when your toddler was yelling at the top of her lungs, “But I need to go potty now?” Always keep an eye on the map and the mileage to the next town. Make friends with your GPS. And when all else fails, don’t force anyone to wait. Pull over. Now. A little embarrassment is better than sitting in a booster seat full of pee for the next six hours.

Be a wipe packrat

Your mom stashed Kleenex in her purse and baby wipes under the seat for good reason. Kids make messes. But there’s no sin a pack of wipes can’t handle. Keep them handy, keep them close. At least one for every row of seats you have. Use liberally.

Keep a garbage bag

I’m notoriously bad at forgetting this, but having a plastic bag stashed away for emergencies is amazingly helpful. Road trips generate mess: diapers, wrappers, ice cream cups, Go-Go Squeeze packets, wipes, etc. Take a tip from backpacker mentality, and Pack It In, Pack It Out. The poor schmuck stuck doing post trip van clean-up will thank you.

Tell stories

Need an idea to keep kids entertained that doesn’t involve the DVD player or the books that keep falling off the seat? Make up silly stories, pack them full of potential or future events that may occur, and keep them going as long as you can. Ask your kids to tell the next one. You might find yourself busting a gut at their yarn-telling skills.

Let sleeping dogs lie

I know the best family picture is just begging to be taken out there on the pier… but the kids are fast asleep in various broken-neck car seat positions. Whatever you do, don’t wake them up. No picture is worth the thousand decibels of scream you’re about to subject yourself to if you interrupt their hard-won sleep.

Stop for ice cream

It’s messy, it’s sweet, and it can always be found in a drive-thru if you can’t stand to unbuckle everyone one more time. And if you didn’t get the cute picture on the pier, you can always take one of your toddler mowing down a cone-in-a-cup and call it equally as summertime-good.

Turning the Tide – The Twins are One!

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The most important things are somehow the hardest ones to get down on paper.

My babies turned one year old. You guys. One.

IMG_0711 (800x533)

My darlings (Gabby left, Lucy right), day one.

Bottles. Pumping. Newborn diapers. Midnight feedings. Swings. Play mats. Burp rags. Bouncy seats. These things marked our reality for a certain set of months.

The girls’ infancy was glory unfolding. Perfect pink hands curling and uncurling like sea anemones. Slow blinks, dark eyes working to focus on our faces. The sweetest smells of milk and baby wash. The ease of holding, yet somehow feeling held ourselves. Two babies. We couldn’t stop repeating it.

But their infancy was a work like none other. There were days that felt like the sun was stubbornly stuck at 3:43 pm. There were some months I remember only in fog and through pictures, because I spent them stumbling out of bed in two hour increments every night.

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My specialty: folding tiny clothes

Everyone tells you “it’s a stage”, and “it’ll pass”, and “you’ll never get these days back.” This is about as helpful as starting a road trip and seeing your destination on a highway sign: New Orleans 1800 miles. You still have to drive every single one of those miles, yellow lines flashing in your wake.

You have to break it down.

In one month, the newborn clothes will start getting tight. In two, a schedule will start guiding your days. Smiles will play on the edge of his lips. In three, she will start holding her head up, no longer an infant. At four, the clothes become tight again, and the drawers need to be cleaned out. In five, sleep may become elusive as they grow. At six, a glimmer of change, a flurry of arm and leg movements.

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Gabby’s favorite toy: Daddy

Seven, solid foods. Sitting up. More drawer cleaning, more clothes. At eight, there may be teeth starting to arrive. In nine months you’ll put away a few bits of baby paraphernalia – the bouncy seat, which they wiggle out of, the swings, which are boring. You become their favorite toy. In ten you’ll start debating whether or not to grab baby and car seat, or just baby, because the combination of weight is enough to break your arm. Eleven – movement. So much movement.

IMG_4026 (800x493)

Mama! Look! Fingers!

And suddenly at twelve months, she is big. You put her down at the end of the day and wonder just how it was you made it from here to there in a manner of months. The baby has become a person. A person with (very) vocal needs, great belly laughs, and keen interest in the surrounding world.

It is as though time is based on desire. The more you want, the faster the minutes pass. The harder the hours, the more everything slows down to the second. Tick. Tick. Which means that maybe, just maybe, though we can’t control time, we can control our perception of it.

Perhaps then the key is simply a matter of want.

It’s okay not to want to change diapers and launder blowout-stained clothing. It’s also okay to wish his head would rest forever on your shoulder. It is this combination that moves the days forward – motivation and movement, reverence and rest.

***

IMG_4732 (800x533)We didn’t throw a giant birthday party with themed gifts and pinterest-style decorations. To be honest, I’m not good at that kind of thing, nor do I have the time to care. So my mom did the work of invites, and I blew up a few balloons, hung them on a Happy Birthday sign, and combed everyone’s hair. My family gathered in the yard at my parent’s farm, ate amazing home-cooked food and adorable cakes kindly made by my sister in law, opened presents, and played with the kids in the sprinkler.

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Lucia -1

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Gabrielle -1

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Ellis -3

It was summer and it was lovely. Really, really lovely, according to all three of my girls. And that, my friends, was all I wanted.

Letter to the soldier I do not know

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Dear soldier,

You are a keeper of peace, protector of strangers. You know fear and pain and the pervasiveness of dust.

I am an average American mother of three.

I have only seen movies of you on the front line, in documentaries of war, in headlines and radio blips. I am fully sheltered from the deep, dark difficulty of your work.

But please hear me. I am no less grateful.

Independence means I can take my girls to the grocery store whenever I want. Whenever I need. It means I don’t have to be afraid of a car bomb on the way.

Safety means I can live outside a small town in the country, and I don’t have to worry about raids. No one is killing my chickens for meat, or breaking into my garden for food.

Freedom means I can go into public with my head uncovered and my arms exposed. It allows me to write and speak and call and talk without worry of repercussion.

Pride means having a quiet grace when speaking to those from other places, knowing my position of privilege.

Being American means I can teach my daughters about Faith. About mathematics. About anything they want to know.

The 4th of July means barbeque and beaches and red solo cups, but I’m no fool. These simple things are available because of you. And the man before you. And the one behind you.

To all of you far from home, standing up for a way of life you’re no longer actively able to take part of, I say a strong and quiet word of thanks. It isn’t much, considering all you’ve done.

But it’s what I have to give.

Thank you for your service.

Thank you for you.

Thank you.

#MyWritingProcess and why it works (for me)

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When I first was asked to take part in the #MyWritingProcess blog hop, I laughed. Unlike other writers, I don’t have much of a formal process. I sit at a desk. I write. I get up and separate children and toys. I drink more coffee. I change a diaper. I write some more.

That’s not very inspiring. It’s definitely not a cabin in the woods, or a quiet coffee shop. But maybe that’s the thing. Writing for me isn’t about the perfect setting and the best computer and the quiet and the trendy music playing in the background. Writing is about clearing a space in the mess of normal living for something that’s important.

quoteStephanie from Uptownerupnorth knows all too well what that means. She and her husband and baby are on a 4th generation family farm – a real, functioning, machinery-filled farm – in Northern Minnesota. Farms take time. Farms take everything. But in the middle of all that, they give you the most amazing things to notice, and through her blog posts, I see Stephanie taking advantage of that. Stephanie, thanks for inviting me to take part in the hop, and for the words you too are making time to put down.

So. What am I working on?

I think this is supposed to be a “my next big project” sort of question, but who am I kidding. I have twins and a toddler. I’m working on making sure we have enough diapers to cover tiny butts and enough apples in the fridge to satisfy my daughter’s new three a day habit.

In the odd times I find myself at the computer, I hammer out a blog post, scramble to keep up with emails, and scour Craigslist for things like “medium-sized outdoor dogs that don’t eat chickens.”

Someday I’ll save enough cash to go back and finish my MFA in Creative Writing. In the meantime, I go back and edit my poems, save them in yellow electronic folders marked “done” or “in progress” or “what the.” Once in a while, I do this scary thing called submitting.

And every so often, when the warm little bodies of my girls are heavy and horizontal for the night, I find my way to the keyboard. I’m slowly circling around ideas of food and memory and fellowship, and of this strange word called hospitality. I don’t know where it’s going, and that’s ok. Sometimes it’s better that way.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Is this a trick question? My work is simply my own – my musings, my questions. If you wanted to put me in a bucket, I’d tell you I try to write in Midwestern plain speak. That I need my descriptions to be like mirrors. That I have a voice just as you have a voice. That we all deserve to hear one another in whatever medium we choose to speak through.

Why do I write what I do?

There is no escaping the routine of my daily life, but through writing, I make myself take the time to see my routines as rituals, and this makes me want to live differently.

I write about faith because Jesus is constantly shaping me. I write about grace because being shaped hurts. I write about parenting because it is the event that has changed me the most. I write about food because I love to eat. I write about the ideas and words that tail me through my days, hanging out in my rear-view mirror.

I write because I live in a world that deserves examination. Sometimes that’s in poetry, sometimes it’s in a blog post, sometimes it’s creative non-fiction. Sometimes it’s an email, a caption, a hash tag. But all of these things make me pay attention, and that’s what I need.

How does your writing process work?

People are posting great pictures of scrawly notebook pages and favorite places to write, but for me, it’s about efficiency. I don’t have a lot of time to write, so when I do get a moment, it’s serious business. Here are my unofficial rules:

  • Get something to drink. Anything. (Ok not anything. I never drink milk while I write.) Usually it’s either coffee or water. Call me a purist. Or call me cheap. That’s just usually what I have on hand.
  • Sit up straight. I have to pay attention to my words. I don’t write well if I’m slouched over, sprawled on the couch, or even leaning back in my chair. I always sit on the edge of my seat, like some sort of over-eager school girl.
  • Skip any music that has words. I need my mental playing field not to have any opponents. And yes, I did play sixth grade volleyball. How did you know? (My sports metaphors rock.)
  • Know when to break. You can only push so hard on an idea that’s not fully developed. If I’m not getting somewhere with a thought, I leave it and come back.
  • Come back. Preferably with another beverage. Make yourself come back even if you don’t want to. What happens can be amazing. Or it can stink, and then you just save it away as fodder for another idea later on. Either way, come back. Always come back.

The next three writers in the blog hop are crazy different, and crazy talented. Allow me to introduce them, and to encourage you to go visit them next Tuesday for their own thoughts on writing and process.

Kasey Jackson is a fellow twin mama I met in a Facebook group focused on twins born in 2013. Somehow when I was whining about diapers and mopping, she finished a book. I know. Overachiever. She’s also hilarious. There may or may not be a series of Instagram videos entitled “Kasey vs.” that make me snort laugh whenever they show up in my feed. Her blog is focused mainly on her book, Blue, so you should definitely head over and see what it’s about. You can even download a free preview of the first chapter, which means you’ve got something to read on the bus ride/couch/coffee shop chair tonight.

Anna Palmquist is one of the magical people in my life I wish I got to hang out with more. Luckily, she’s a part of my writing group, and sometimes, when she busts out an idea so full of wisdom and humor and reality, I’m floored I get to say I know her. Anna recently started grad school and is focusing on writing Young Adult Fiction, which is totally hip. She also recently started blogging at Writing Young Adult Fiction , which is exactly as is sounds. For those of you that love process and prose and the YA world, this is your new landing pad.

Courtney Fitzgerald possesses a wisdom that comes hard-earned. She writes poignantly real prose in her blog Our Small Moments and her work appears in the collection I Just Want to Be Alone (I Just Want to Pee Alone). She’s a fantastic photographer and busy mama of two, and may or may not have time to take part in the hop but either way, go read her stories, marvel at her pictures and be reminded about the importance of living in appreciation for the ones you love. Oh, and one more brag. She’s family. 🙂