The Monster

The Monster

                I felt the monster the moment the car turned onto my old street.  I could not actually see the house, but I knew the monster was there.  My heart beat faster, my palms began to sweat, my breath came out in rapid gasps.  I shifted in my seat, craning my neck to look in the backseat, nearly convinced that my monster would be physically there, behind me, chasing me.  It was enough to make me want to vomit.

“We don’t have to do this.”  My babysitter and chauffer, my mother had been against this little trip from the moment I suggested it.  She’d been against a lot of decisions in my life, yet that had never stopped me.  Of course, if I had listened, the monster would not be there, following me, taunting me, keeping me from leading a healthy, normal, productive life.

But this time, ignoring her misgivings was the right thing to do.  It was the only way to ever get the monster off my back and out of my life.  It was the only way to get my life back, to be free.

And I needed freedom.  Needed it more than my lungs needed the air they were desperately grasping for.

“Keep driving,” I told Mom, forcing myself to face forward.  I closed my eyes, counted to ten, breathed in as deeply as I could, imagined being in my happy place—used every calming technique I’d learned in years of therapy to chase away the monster and every panicked feeling his presence evoked.  Nothing worked.  I could run—again.  But I was tired of running.  “I have to face this,” I said, as much to assure Mom as to reassure myself.

She still wasn’t sure, but she drove.  The car inched closer to the house; soon I could see the rooftop, then the upstairs windows, the porch, and finally the front door.  It stood there, innocently, as if the pain and anguish that had occurred in its walls had meant nothing.

DSCF5249The closer we came to the house, the less innocence I saw.  Sadness.  The years, I noticed with a small sense of glee, had not been kind to the building.  The siding was cracked and pulling away in places.  Paint had chipped off the wooden support beams of the front porch, some of which were cracked, broken, barely able to stand up to the weight of that porch roof, which itself was falling down.  If the house could feel, I think it would be feeling sadness.  Because it knew the end was coming?  Or because of the horrors that had occurred inside, horrors the building had been unable to stop?

Mom pulled the car to a stop across the street.  A workman wearing a yellow hardhat and orange safety vest approached us.  “Sorry, Ma’am,” he said gruffly.  “You can’t park here.  Demolition will start soon.”

“How soon?” I asked.

“Soon,” he repeated.  “The car is not safe here.”

I opened the door and got out, ignoring the look of frustration on his face.  The monster followed me out of the car, once again breathing down my neck.  The door closed behind me and Mom drove away, to a spot we had agreed on before making the trip.  She’d walk the two blocks back, to stand with me and watch the destruction of the first house I’d ever purchased, the building that should have been a happy home for me, my husband, and our children.  She wouldn’t be gone for long.  I turned to the worker, whose face still carried a great deal of irritation.  “May I go inside?” I asked him.

“Inside?”  The sound of his voice conveyed his true feelings; he wanted to ask if I was insane.  The answer, quite possibly, was yes.  Perhaps I was insane.  This house, that monster at my back, both had led to my questionable state of mind.

“It’s my house,” I said.  “Or it was until I sold it to the city.  All I want is one last chance to walk inside.  Is that possible?”

I didn’t wait for an answer, just walked across the street, marched up the three steps, and pushed open the front door.  It didn’t take long for someone to follow me, shouting at me that I needed to stop, needed to walk back outside.  I ignored the voice.  The monster was still behind me, but I knew I could leave him behind in this building.  All I had to do was see it, I had to see that room.  His life had ended here.  If I was going to finally put the monster to rest, I needed to see the place where he had died.  I just needed my eyes to rest on it one last time.

It was old, falling down from years of neglect.  Just like my heart.  The house had to be torn down.  And with it, his recliner, the chair that he had seen as his throne, the chair he’d not been able to tear himself out of to get help in the last moments of his sad, pathetic little life.  I needed to see it, and I wasn’t disappointed.  It was still there, in its place of honor in what had been the living room, positioned so that the view of the television, had it been there, would have been perfect.

As I looked at it, I began to breathe harder again, could feel my heart beat faster, could feel the monster closing in on me.  DSCF5248Hadn’t felt that level of hatred and anger in years, not since I’d escaped the house, escaped his rule.  But the fear, the fear I had always associated with this chair, with the man that lived and died in it was gone.  I was no longer scared of him.  But I was angry.

I hated him.  He was dead, and yet I hated him.  With every fiber of my being, I hated him.

I allowed myself to be escorted out of the house, back across the street to where my mother was standing.  I was admonished to stay put.

A man climbed up into a large crane, started the engine.  As the crane’s claw reached toward the roof of the house, I imagined I was in control.  It was my hand tearing through the roof, pulling apart boards and insulation, reducing the dwelling to broken bits of debris.  As the engine roared, I roared as well.  I yelled, I screamed.  I allowed another piece of my anger, of the monster that had followed me from this house to escape my body.  The claw tore through the upper floor, and I saw myself tearing him apart, piece by piece.  The way had done to me.  I watched the lower floor come apart, could see his precious recliner pulverized.

When it was over, when the roar of the engine died, I could only stare at the empty lot.  Other equipment was moved in to clear out the remains of the house, and yet I stared.  It was gone.  The house was gone.  The monster was gone.  I was alone.  I was free.

“Are you alright?” my mother asked.

I turned to her.  Smiled.  “I am,” I said.  “It’s over. I am free.”

Mary Elizabeth the Spotless Cow

My youngest son is just learning how to read.  He comes home from school every day with a new book that he is supposed to read to

My sons, Seth and Andru, enjoying Mary Elizabeth the Spotless Cow.

My sons, Seth and Andru, enjoying Mary Elizabeth the Spotless Cow.

Mom or Dad, or both of us.  Because he knows so many words on his own now, he doesn’t like to sit down and let me read to him anymore.  So when the opportunity came up to review Mary Elizabeth The Spotless Cow, I couldn’t resist. I told Seth that I needed to read the book for my job and asked if he would sit beside me while I read it.  So we snuggled close together to begin to read….

Mary Elizabeth is a cow on a new farm.  She is a little different from the other cows on the farm—Mary Elizabeth doesn’t have any spots.  This makes her unique.  It also makes her so much different from the other cows in her new home that she has trouble making friends.

Author Salvatore Barbera tells the story of differences and friendship in a fun way.  His illustrations are beautiful and fun.  Seth loved them as much as the story.  When we finished reading it, he couldn’t wait to read it again.

This book is one that will remain on our bookshelf to be read over and over.  And before too long, I have a feeling that Seth will be reading it to me.


Purchasing information: During the month of October, purchase Mary Elizabeth The Spotless Cow from the Sweetles website for only $12.00 (List price: $17.99). When you buy this book, 50% of net proceeds go to Phoenix Children’s Hospital Child Life Program. Visit for more information.

About the book:


Mary-Elizabeth-Spotless-Cow-coverMary Elizabeth The Spotless Cow Book

The story of “Mary Elizabeth The Spotless Cow” takes us on the journey she travels to figure out how to get the cows at a new farm to like and accept her.

While she hopes to find friendship at her new home, instead she learns what it means to be different from everyone else. (Spotless!) Mary Elizabeth uses clever ideas and a sense of humor to help her on her quest for friends at the new farm.

This inspiring tale shows how perseverance in spite of obstacles, using a sound thought process to arrive at solutions and the importance of having fun, using humor and enjoying playtime can build friendships.

When you buy this book, 50% of net proceeds go to Phoenix Children’s Hospital Child Life Program to make a difference in the lives of children with critical and life threatening illnesses.

Lucky Friday the 13th

The kids are back in school, which means Mom and Dad have plenty of time to read.  Right?

I’ve teamed up with some awesome authors to bring you the amazing Clean Authors Back to School event.  Most of our books are $0.99 or less TODAY ONLY.  All five of my novels are a part of this event.  You will also find books from some amazing authors you may not have heard of yet.  Check out the Clean Authors website for the full list of participating authors and descriptions of their books.  Be sure to share this with your friends.  They won’t want to miss, and there are plenty of eBooks to go around!


Parental Influnces

“There is a slim chance that you will not end up like your parents.”

Pastor Clive said that in Sunday School this morning.  He told us that is one thing he often shares in premarital counselling.  The couple’s, he shared, are often taken aback like that.  They’ve lived long enough with their parents and don’t want to turn into them.  It’s possible to change, Pastor Clive said, to break that cycle and create something new.

I had to think a lot about that.  There comes a time in every woman’s life–especially if she is a mother herself–when she begins to hear her mother’s voice come out of her mouth and see her mother’s face staring at her from the mirror. That’s been happening to me a long time now. Not only do I use the same words and phrases she used when I was growing up, I sometimes use her same tone. Occasionally, I even hear her laugh coming from my own body. As for seeing her reflection…. Well, let’s just say there are worse people I could look like.

Somehow, I don’t think that is what Pastor meant, though. When he said it takes conscious effort to break the chains your parents formed, I am sure he was talking more about attitudes and temperament than voices and appearance.

I was blessed with awesome parents, some of the best a girl could hope for. We’re they perfect? Hardly. Twenty years ago, I likely would not have been willing to admit who wonderful Mom and Dad are. Twenty years ago, my parents weren’t all that wonderful. They were–horror of all horrid!–responsible parents who wanted to know where I was and who I was with at all times. I had a curfew and can you believe they actually forced me to abide by it? They didn’t make idle threats. If a punishment was deserved, it came at the specified time and in the specified manner. Occasionally there were undeserved punishments, when one sister was successful in convincing Mom and Dad that another was guilty of her crime. But I suppose that is fair since ever so often (though not so often as some of us might have liked, as Mom and Dad are not idiots) misdeeds would go completely unpunished.

When all is said and done, I have to admit that my parents possessed–or at least developed–parenting skills that were far above average. Ending up like my parents would not be a completely negative thing.

After admitting what a blessing my parents are, I found myself examining my own parenting style. Would I feel as blessed if I’d grown up with me as a mom? Are my boys likely to think of me as a blessing in twenty tears time?

When I came up with the honest answer of no, I nearly cried. I love my boys, all three of them, with every fiber of my being. They are three different children with three distinct personalities. I treat them differently at times because the each respond to different things. That, I think, is normal, though.

What isn’t normal is the way I yell. My ability to yell, I think, came from my Dad. I can recall a few times growing up when he would really yell at one of us girls about something. But he never yelled like I do. One minute, we are one happy family. The next, someone was looked at me the wrong way or said something I didn’t like, and I am screaming my fool head off. It’s like I am some sort of ticking time bomb, ready to explode with no notice.

If my mood swings scare me at times, I can only imagine what they do to my children.

When it comes to attitude and temperament,I am not a good example to my sons. And I am not sure what I can do, how I can change that.

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STFrontOnlyI am celebrating the beginning of July by giving away my novel SUMMERTIME for free on the Kindle!!!  Just click here to download your copy.  Want a sneak peak?  Read on!

“What are you doing in my kitchen?”

I stopped in the middle of cracking open an egg, squeezed my eyes shut, and sighed.  This was not an easy way to start the morning.  Making breakfast for Nana was not a problem.  It seemed like such a small thing I could do to repay her for the years she spent raising my sister Erin and me.  Some days, and this looked like it would be one of those days, Nana’s dementia was worse than others.  She got confused easily.  Sometimes I wondered if it was the illness or just that Nana resented not being able to do things for herself.  That Erin and I could even operate a stove was a mini miracle, given that Nana had always hated having anyone in her kitchen.

“I’m making your breakfast, Nana,” I said, finishing up with the egg and turning to face her with a smile.  Smiling at her was not always easy.  Since Papa had died three years before, Nana’s health had grown steadily worse.  The days of thinking “No way can she be as old as her driver’s license says” were long gone.  Instead of the vibrant, petite woman who loved everything about life, I looked at her and saw a little old lady, patiently (or impatiently, depending on the day) waiting for death.  I watched as she shuffled into the kitchen from her bedroom.  “How do ham and cheese omelets sound today?”

“Humph,” Nana said.  “Can’t imagine it will be any good.  Only my Laura can make a ham and cheese omelet good enough for me to eat.”

I smiled to myself as I went about preparing her meal.  Even if it was a morning when she didn’t know who I was, it was nice to know that she knew my cooking from Erin’s.  Not that it was difficult to tell the difference—I could make just about anything without the aid of a recipe; my sister had been known to burn water.

Nana made her way slowly to the living room.  I heard the familiar creaking of her favorite recliner as she settled in front of the TV.  The television came on, and Nana muttered something about how she hated commercial breaks.  I stifled a laugh.  She had always complained about the commercials during her favorite morning program, NBC’s Today Show.  Nana thought the show would be better with fewer commercials and more shots of Matt Lauer.

I was just moving Nana’s omelet from the pan to a plate when I heard Matt’s voice coming from the TV.  Nana muttered that she didn’t want to hear him, she wanted to see him.  Not for the first time, I thought about writing a letter to the Today Show anchorman.  “Dear Mr. Lauer,” I’d write, “Since Nana remembers more about you than she does about me, do you think you could begin paying her medical bills?”

Yeah, not likely he’d read that and not send the FBI looking for me.

The music floating in from the TV didn’t make much sense to me at first.  Sure, I knew what it was, but I had no idea why, after they’d been out of the spotlight for a decade and a half, ZeroGravity music would be playing on morning TV.  Balancing the omelet plate on top of Nana’s juice glass, I grabbed a tray table to set up in front of her seat.  No way would she eat at the table until NBC’s morning program was over.

I’d gotten good at setting up her tray with one hand through the years.  Nana was mumbling about those idiots, screaming for a bunch of washed up old men.  I finally looked at the TV.  My favorite band was back together and performing live.  “My granddaughters used to go crazy over these guys when they were in school,” Nana told me, snatching her fork out of my hand and waving it at the TV.  “Used to make my husband and I listen to them all the time and drooled over the pictures of them they had plastered their bedroom with.  It was so nice when the girls moved on and got those talentless kids out of their heads.  Used to compare them to the Beatles—can you imagine?  As if any of them could hold a candle to Paul McCartney and John Lennon.”

On my way back to the kitchen, I glanced at the pictures of my daughter, Barrett that hung on the wall above the sofa.  Nana had no idea how much one of those “talentless kids” still resided in the head—and heart—of one of her granddaughters.

For some reason, Nana decided to turn up the volume on the TV.  No point in questioning it.  She wasn’t hurting anything, and since Barrett was already off to school there was no one in the house who would be disturbed by the sound.  I just shook my head, thinking of how Erin and I would have been punished for playing anything that loud, and went to work cleaning up the kitchen.

Then I heard his voice.  There was no mistaking it, and I’d know it anywhere.  The sound of his singing never failed to make my heart flip.  Something was different this time.  The words he sang were new, and caught me by such surprise that I dropped the coffee mug I was loading into the dishwasher.

Walking on the beach that summer day, her beautiful eyes stole my heart.  I wonder if she ever thinks of me, and all the things that we could be?

My right hand fluttered to the locket around my neck, the one I had rarely taken off in the past ten years.

Was he singing about me?  Did I ever think about him?  Of course I did.  I heard myself whisper, “Do you remember it, Joey?  Do you think about me?”

What Might Have Been


It’s never too late to be who you might have been.

I read that on Facebook this morning and I just thought, “HUH????”

I think it is supposed to be a motivational quote.  I think it is supposed to push you forward, to tell you that no matter what, it’s never too late to follow your dreams, to make different choices, to change the direction of your life.

But I think it misses the mark.

When I read that, a song by Little Texas began playing in my head.  It’s a beautiful song, really, about a lost love.  Part of the song says, “I try not to think about what might have, ‘cuz that was then, and we have taken different roads.”  It’s those different roads that make the post I saw on Facebook this morning wrong.

It may not be too late to redirect your life, but you can never know who you might have been if you’d made different choices.

That’s probably not what you wanted to hear.  Heck, it’s not what I want to hear.  But it’s something that I have to face.

This fall I will begin my senior year of college, twenty years after the start of senior year of high school.  I am not the same girl I was back then.  I don’t have the same dreams that I did then.

Twenty years ago, I looked forward to graduating high school, starting college, and becoming a high school teacher.  The plan was to teach English and history from September through May and write best-selling novels from June through August.  Somewhere along the line I would marry and have children, but my schooling and career were the main focus.  I made choices, though, that changed that focus, choices that resulted in no college degree, no teaching career, and no best-selling novels.

Not that I regret those choices.  They also led to 13 years of marriage and three beautiful sons.  And I have written a few novels.  The books I’ve written are not what I would have written had I stayed on the course I planned for myself twenty years ago.

I made the choice to finish my education because I do have that one regret hanging over my head—I regret that I never finished.  My dream now is to earn my BA in creative writing and then move on to a Masters in creative writing.  The desire to teach is still there, but not in a high school.  I want to teach writing at the college level.  It’s kind of funny.  I didn’t realize I still had any desire to teach at all until one of my instructor commented that though I may know how to write, I don’t know much about literature.  She said that knowing how to write a novel is not the same thing as knowing what good literature is.  Maybe I am still somewhat idealistic….  I just don’t think a “teacher” should criticize a student like that.  Her comments just sort of pushed me to not only want to continue my own educational journey, but to help others to reach their educational goals as well.

My goals now are different than they were twenty years ago.  Finishing school isn’t going to help me to “become what I might have been.”  I can’t get back that girl I was, the girl who was untouched by sadness and heartache and the “real world.”  Who I am now is a result of the choices I made yesterday; who I will be tomorrow will be because of the choices I have yet to make.  There is no way to know “what might have been.”  All I can do—all any of us can do—is move on from today, make the best choices we can, and build a brighter tomorrow.

For ourselves, and by extension our families and our world.

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Letter to My Dad

Dear Daddy,

There are five words that I really want to say to you; five words that are so simple and so profound all at once.  While I could just say the words, they don’t seem to be quite enough.  I want to say “I love you” and “thank you.”

For what? You may ask.  Well, let me try to explain.

For letting you five-year-old daughter have the fantasy that her 25-year-old father really was ancient….  And for laughing with me as much as at me when your grandsons have used similar words to describe my age.

For teaching me that while it may be ok to “buy” a friend, it takes a whole lot more than money to keep one.

For comforting me after Hilarie and I were robbed while delivering newspapers…and not letting me know until years later, when my young mind was better able to understand, just how serious that situation really was.

For allowing my teenage friends to spend time at our house and not letting it go to your head when one of them, for reasons I still do not comprehend, decided you were good looking.

For always encouraging me to reach for my dreams, and promising to watch the film version of each of my novels.

For choosing to raise me with five sisters, not two sisters and three half-sisters.

For being the kind of man that causes my son to grin with pride whenever anyone tells him (whether it is meant as a compliment or not) “You are just like your grandfather.”

For loving me when I felt unlovable and seeing my beauty even when I didn’t.

For just being YOU, because really, there is no one I would rather call Daddy.

For all these things and so many more, thank you.

I love you.


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Accepting God’s Plan

I’m open to whatever God has planned for my life.

Have you ever said those words?

I have. So many times that I can’t even begin to count them. And when I’ve said them, I’ve thought that I meant them. But as God’s plan has unfolded in my life, I have to wonder…. Did I really mean it? If I had known then what I know now, would I have said them? If I could have seen just what God had planned for my life, would I have been so eager to follow His plan?

I don’t really suppose it matters. One thing I’ve learned over the years—God gets what He wants. He is in control, and His plan will be worked out in my life, whether I open myself up to accept it or not.

It’s just up to me to choose whether to be happy about it or not, whether to be happy with it or not.

In all honesty, I can’t say that I am pleased with the plan He is working in my life. Apparently, God’s plan includes some physical difficulties. About 18 months ago, I had a severely herniated disc in my lower back that had to be repaired. Unfortunately, the disc wasn’t repaired as quickly as it should have been (and I am not going to go into the reasons why) and I’ve been left with some long-term problems. I am 37-years-old, and I have to rely on a cane because of balance issues and I have to use adult diapers because of bladder control issues. At the time the herniated disc was found, I was told that within a matter of weeks, I would be paralyzed from the waist down. That I can walk is a miracle, and I am very grateful for that. Please understand that I am not complaining about that at all. I know that God has worked in my life already.

That doesn’t really make it any easy to deal with the way that my body is betraying me.

There are things that I want to do that I physically cannot do. I am dealing with a severe kidney infection right now because I didn’t know that I had the infection until it got to this point. My sons are 6, 9, and 12—I thought my days of carrying a diaper bag were long over. But, no…. I can’t leave the house without carrying an extra st of clothing with me, just in case. There are times that I am scared to leave the house at all because of the issue.

And I can hardly believe that I just shared that on this blog!

Some days, I sit at home in tears—or close to it. How could this be part of God’s plan for me? Well-meaning friends will tell me things like “It’s going to be ok” or “It will get better” or “God will heal this,” and all I can do is smile and nod. The truth is, I don’t think it is going to be ok, I don’t think it is going to get better, and I don’t think that God is going to heal it.

That’s to say that I don’t think that God CAN heal this. Of course He can. At any moment, He could say, “OK, enough,” and all of the nerve damage will be reversed, the strength will be back in my legs, and my body will be whole again. I have absolutely no doubt that God could do that. My doubt, if you want to call it doubt, comes into play with whether He WILL do it. I don’t think it’s wrong for me to feel this way. For thirty years, I’ve prayed that God would physically heal my mother after her cancer surgery. He didn’t. Instead, he brought an emotional healing, an acceptance of her limitations and the ability to adjust to the “new normal” of her life. That is the kind of healing that I am trusting Him for now.

I haven’t found that yet. I am still having a hard time adjusting to this and accepting that this is what my forever life will be like. And yes, I do wonder, “If I had known this is what God had in mind for me, would I have been so eager to follow Him?”

The scary thing? I cannot confidently say yes.

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Sports Lessons

Sports have never been my thing.  As a kid, I was never interested in playing.  To play a sport would require me to set aside my book, pencils, and notebooks in order to participate.  Not to mention the whole getting off my hind end and actually moving aspect of it all.

As a certified lazy person, I am highly allergic to intense movement of any sort.

Even watching sports has never been a favorite thing of mine.  Well, except for the Olympics.  But those don’t count as sport.  Those are more art.  At least they are to this observer.

Anyway, my athletic aversion ended when God chose to bless me with son’s.  My third son in particular has put an end to this.  Oh, even he has not succeeded in getting me to actually participate in a sport.

But his enthusiasm for pretty much any activity that involves chasing a ball has caused me to spend many Saturday mornings watching different athletic contests.

Even worse, it’s caused me to begin learning rules for different games.

That is not all I have learned this year from watching my boy play ball this year. I’ve also learned that I do not enjoy watching sports with my husband.

I suppose this is not a new revelation. I have watched college and professional sports with him since our dating days. The man takes his sports seriously. (Except the Olympics, which he also does not view as sport; to him, they are an every-four-year annoyance.) I thought, though, that it would be different watching our children play. I have no athletic ability and while my husband has been known to at least attempt to play, he is not exactly Michael Jordan either. To me, it seems only logical to expect our boys to follow in footsteps. We should be sitting on the sidelines, cheering them on for attempting to play (which is far more than their mother has ever done) and for giving their best effort.

What I did not expect was that one of the boys would actually show some athletic talent.

That middle son of mine…. Wow! He not only enjoys sports, he is good at them! My heart swells with pride when he is on the football field and another parent says, “Did you see what number 5 just did? That kid’s got moves!” And it brings tears of joy to my eyes when I am on the sidelines of a soccer game and I hear, “Way to go, Robin!” I may not always understand what he did, but someone else does. And it feels good that he is being recognized for it.

But then to hear his dad during a game grumble about what he is doing wrong…. That about breaks my heart.

I am not one who thinks that kids should get a trophy for showing up at a game. If the child wants an award, he or she needs to work hard and earn it. And if the child does something wrong during a game, by all means he or she should be told after the game , “Hey, if that situation comes up again, you should….” But I don’t see how comments such as “What are you doing?” Or “Can’t you move faster?” Or “What in the world are you thinking out there?” Should be shouted at the child during the game.

Or maybe it’s just because this is MY child and I am still amazed that something that carries my blood is coordinated enough to participate in an organized sport. But anytime my husband and I sit together at a game, I leave feeling bad for my boy.

He is out there, trying his best, putting his whole heart into the game. Can’t the correction wait until we are home?

Book Reviews

I haven’t done a good job of keeping up this blog.

Yeah, big surprise.

I mean, it’s not like you couldn’t figure that out on your own, right? There was a post in January, somewhere around the 8th, I believe, and then nothing again until May 28th.

I think it would have been a greater shock if I’d tried to tell you that I had done a good job of keeping up the blog.

I’m not going to try to make excuses for it. Mainly because I don’t think that I can. The only excuse that I have is laziness. I’ve gotten into a funk, and just haven’t been able to think of anything to write. And sometimes, it’s too much work to try to force myself to think of something to write. In those times, it’s easier to just not write. So I take the lazy way out and I don’t write.

It’s not good. It’s not right. It’s just what is.

I’d like to say it won’t happen again, but I don’t want to insult either one of us by making promises I don’t know that I can keep.

My funk has not completely lifted. For reason I cannot explain to myself, let alone to anyone else, I still feel really down. I want to write, but I don’t know what to write. But I have been reading a lot this year. So in an attempt to get myself back into the habit of writing a little something every day, I am going to start reviewing the books I have read.

And I must say, I have read some pretty interesting books!!! Hopefully you will find something that you’ve never read but you might like to give a try.