Tag: writer

  • The Longest Day – Sanitized, Signed In, and Socially Distanced

    I’ve had long days before. I mean, who hasn’t. Everyone has a horror story or two about work, some more drink worthy than others. A friend and I were recently comparing notes over coffee, as one does when caffeine doubles as a therapist. The conversation inevitably twisted itself around the question: who had the longest…

  • A Little Bit of Us in Everything

    I saw this quote today, and it resonated with me deeply:“We are writers, my love. We don’t cry. We bleed on paper.”I have no idea who wrote it, but it hit me anyway. As a creator—writer, musician, photographer, cook—it applies across the board. Our emotions are always on display through our work. Not always overtly,…

  • Speaking Into Silence — That’s Faith with Wi-Fi

    There’s a specific type of crazy needed to be a content creator. And I mean that in the most loving way possible.  Think about it…. You sit there, just you and a camera (usually a phone) and talk to it about …stuff.  It’s one way dialogue.  Sometimes it’s live, otherwise you aren’t talking to anyone…

  • Factory Settings: Old Model — Advanced Operating System

    I’ve mentioned my ADHD before. My over-caffeinated brain monkeys have made cameo appearances in more than a few of these pieces. For those who know me, you know I’m driven by a motor. My “slow” setting is probably illegal in at least twelve states and two Canadian provinces. To those who really know me, I’m…

  • Eight Days and Counting: The Monkeys Found the Wi-Fi Password

    Is there such a thing as over-writing? We’ve all heard the term overeating. Some of us have lived it. No point in lying about it. Just accept it and move on.  There’s over-drinking. Over-exercising. Overworking. Over-seasoning (no one asked for that much paprika, sir). Over-texting — because three question marks in a row is not…

  • On Writing, Remembering, and Talking Too Long

    There’s a particular kind of conversation that only seems to happen after you’ve written a book. Not during interviews. Not in those polite, well-lit moments where someone asks, “So what’s it about?” and you give the version you’ve rehearsed in the mirror. I’m talking about the real conversations—the ones that happen over sips of coffee…

  • Not quite famous. And still mostly unknown.

    So yeah—I wrote a book. If you’ve been following me, you’ve heard this a few times already; this’ll be one more. (Don’t blame me. That guy in the mirror made me do it.) The book went live a little over two months ago. And yes, it’s sold a bunch of copies. Not bestseller-list, airport-bookstore, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it…

  • On Being a Writer (Ay, Sí… Mira Qué Chingón)

    As a writer—ay, sí, mira qué chingón—I’ve discovered something both humbling and infuriating: I find myself completely at a loss for words far more often than I care to admit. It’s not for lack of ideas. Oh no. I have tons of ideas. I keep notes. I keep too many notes. I’m like a hoarder…

  • Somehow, I Published a Book (And Survived)

    Somehow, I Published a Book (And Survived)

    Ideas have always shown up unannounced, like they were crashing a party I didn’t even know I was hosting. Some linger politely, evolving over months or years, migrating between my head, notebooks, and random scraps of paper. Others disappear the moment I think I’ve got them figured out, leaving me staring at a blank page…

  • A Writer’s Manifesto

    (Or Am I Just Rambling?) I remember, when I was still a teacher, how I answered the question: What makes a good writer? I always said, “Just write every day. Practice it.” Now, with many years of surviving life on this rock, I see how naïve that answer was. And honestly, a bit lazy. Writing…

  • What Writing Looks Like (for Me)

    What Writing Looks Like (for Me)

    I’ve always been drawn to creating things—music, sketches, photos, splashes of color and sound—but writing? That one snuck up on me. I didn’t grow up thinking I’d be a writer. I didn’t carry a journal or dream of publishing a book. But over the years, I started noticing little stories piling up—between mariachi gigs, painting…