Some people plan out every detail of their novels in advance. Not a word is written into the actual first draft of the manuscript until every grain of sand is worldbuilt. I, on the other hand, planned out a children’s picture book and ended up with a new adult faerie fantasy story with romantic undertones.
Faerie Blood & Cold Iron Hounds Is out for preorder now! It’ll be out November 15th, but if you order now, it’ll auto deliver to your kindle app when it comes out! There will also be a paperback out for preorder early November. Preorder here! A brownie raised Lavender, an iron hound protected her, and then
I love writing, but I also love organizing. Not sock drawers, or bookshelves, or basically anything physical in my home. I don’t even like organizing my books. But I do like to organize people. Of all the chances I’ve had to gather humans like unruly cats, my favorite experience has been with National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo. I’m
It smelled like pancakes outside this morning. Maple syrup and everything. It was drizzling, and I expected more petrichore, but I’ll take pancakes. I like to drive with my window down, and the rain was light enough that I could. I pulled up to an intersection and noticed that I could smell cinnamon. It made
So I haven’t posted here in a while. I’ve been busy with other aspects of writer life. And life. I got married, is a thing. And prior spent 3 months in Britain, for the second time. And now I’m drowning in the thorny tendrils of US to UK Spousal Visa applying and processing and I
I write a lot of goofy nonsense, I know. But I’ve been itching to write a story that, regardless of humorous content, has a serious message. I want to preface the story, though, with another story. A true story.
I used to work at Starbucks. It was kinda my first job. Technically my first job was at a Starbucks inside a Target, and the Starbucks where the following took place was a different store, but whatever. I was young. Just 18. I was dealing with a lot of stuff in my non-work life. And, y’know, even for a kid whose outside life is perfect, retail food is hard. I once got shouted at for making a hot chocolate that was, er… hot. People are interesting. They’re often finicky and cruel, and so many times they treat you so inhumanely that you wonder what it means to be human in itself.
Then, if you’re damn lucky, someone will remind you. For me, that person was Sheila.
I don’t know her last name. I don’t know where she lives, or her phone number, or anything. Hell, do I know if she’s still alive? No. Because to me, she was just a regular customer at my Starbucks. But she was also Sheila.
Sheila would come in and tell us stories as she waited for her coffee. She told us how she picked up hitchhikers and how she left her front door open on Thanksgiving, letting in anyone who wanted a free meal and free conversation. She was constantly inspiring us with tales of kindness that most people deem “going too far.”
Sheila was not one for this rhetoric that your generosity should only extend as far as your own neck. I remember her telling us, in some number of words, that if she went out doing nice things, then that was just okay.
I admire the heck out of that. I know it’s scary to risk yourself for somebody else. I know people will disparage you for supposed foolishness. But when I think about her, I don’t think about someone who needs to learn to take more than she gives.
I think about that time, on a hectic Black Friday, where she brought us Thanksgiving Turkey. For the record, yes, it was delicious. But it was also the single most thoughtful, touching thing that anyone has ever done to me, for me, while I was at work. I have to fight back tears of appreciation every time I remember it. Quite frankly, she’s what reminds me what it means to be truly human and have humanity.
Between the time that I put in my two weeks notice and the last time I walked out those Starbucks doors, I didn’t see her again. I wish I could have given her the heartfelt goodbye that she deserved. Alas, that’s life. A glorious human being touches your heart for a flitter of a moment, and then they’re gone. At least in physicality. Never in your mind.
So this story is for her. It’s also for you, dear reader, to remember the good in the world, and to remember that you can be that good.
It’s been a long time since I’ve posted here. To be fair, I spent the last three months in Britain. To be less fair, I had an internet connection the entire time, and I think I went radio silent way before May 8th. But uh. Let’s just ignore that. Here! Story! Unedited save for typo-fixing-in-the-moment,
I’m not inspired. I’m just tired. I could write, but I could also go to sleep. (I’m doing something. I can’t go to sleep) I haven’t written for a while. I’ve been busy. Oh, and I’ve written. But not prose. Not for this blog. Instagram got some poetry. That’s it. Here, you TOO can have a poem.
I’m a lady of many a name. There have been numerous times that I’ve used a name that is not my own. Numerous times! Numerous reasons! Numerous nominal nameity names. Rosalind Wulf is one of those names. When I was born I was not dubbed “Rosalind” nor did I inherit the surname “Wulf.” Rosalind Wulf
I thought we were safe. We were safe, until the family dog activated drill mode. Was he just shaking his ears? No. No he was not. We watched in horror as he channeled the ancient demigod of drillish dogs, Ryobark. Like a fiendish serpent he writhed and slithered, lead by his spinning head. A flash