The day in which I steal a pen from a church and promptly go to hell.


We all have fears. They eat away at us, a little bit at a time. I decided to share my writing journal today, the spiral notebook one, the one I never share with anybody. Ever. I’m sharing because it is a part of who I am as a writer and I want you to see how oddly disjointed, alone and utterly afraid I can be. Why? So that you will know that you are not alone in this crazy world. Scattered in among the journal entry, you will find some writing prompts, tips, and motivational quotes. So here it goes…

February 28th, 2016

In which I steal a pen from a church and promptly go to hell.

Read some Keats yesterday. It was lovely.16

Faded stone pavers cut a pale swath through mown grass and the occasional bare spots where packed, dark soil defiantly stares up at passers-by. Towering pines stand guardian amid bushy oaks and dancing maples. The grass spread down rolling hills, halting against bark chips that mark what was once another faded paver pathway. Beyond those tan chips, the ground gives way to smooth water meandering lazily below a topaz sky.Add a littWhen I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,Before high-pilèd books, in charactery, Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;When I behold, upon the night’s starred-1

A year of writing dangerously day 1, First Lines:

It is not always the first lines that get me. Every day is different. Often times it is not the starting, so much as the continuing. Sometimes the words flow as mightily as the Columbia River, smooth and swift, without effort, and I am swept along my narrative without a fear or a care. other times I am born on the Deschutes River, over bumpy and terrifying rapids that threaten to overturn my confidence.In these moments the roar of the water screams, “Give up! Can’t you see your writing sucks? Burn it and walk away.” I am terrified that I might drown.

“Write what disturbs youAt other times I am plodding along the old irrigation canal in mid-winter. there is no flow and I must struggle along on my own efforts to make any progress. Occasionally I will encounter a pool of water, but to plumb its depth I must first break through the obscuring ice.

Writing Down the Bones, Pg. 36:

  1. The light that drifts in from the doorway is milky. Shadows are softer because the light is indirect. It makes the entry feel young and cold. The tone is blueish as if the sky has descended to reside in the house. This is not the kind of light for basking in. It is as if the heavy winds buffeting the house have also swept away the brightness of the sun until only a dull luminosity remains, painting the walls in a soft glow and easing the sharp lines of the shadows.