I will write 500 words…
March 10, 2026 by Tari Jewett in category Charmed Writer by Tari Lynn Jewett, Writing tagged as Motivation, writingAnd I will write 500 more…
I’ve been struggling with my identity, on so many levels in recent years. My kids have all moved out of the house, I’ve changed my address, lost nearly half of my body weight and completely changed who I see in the mirror, in fact, where did the white hair and wrinkles come from… and there are days when I wonder am I still a writer?
Obviously, I’ll always be a mom, but for so many years, my life was entirely wrapped around my boys, and being a mom. Many of you will understand the sense of loss and even floundering when your kids all move out, and you realize they’re probably not coming back. And that’s as it should be, they’re adults. Sitting at the dinner table, Hunky Hubby and me, having a peaceful dinner, no interruptions, no loud conversation, arguing with brothers, fighting over who gets the last serving of whatever is on the table…or fighting because someone took the last serving while no one was looking. No food being thrown…not that my little angels every would have done that. I’ll never be a mom in the same way.
I prepared for this, or I tried to prepare anyway. I’d written for magazines and newspapers since my oldest was 9 months old. While I didn’t call myself a writer ̶ writers are people like Nora Roberts, Phillipa Gregory, Megan Hart ̶ I wrote, was published, and paid. So, when people asked what I did, I said I was a stay-at-home mom. If they pushed, I might say “I write”, without making it part of my identity. When my boys reached their teen years, I realized how hard it was going to be to let go of that part of being a full-time mom. I needed to prepare.
I’d always wanted to write fiction. I wrote short stories. I wrote children’s story. I even wrote a complete novel by hand. So, I wrote fiction, for myself. But I wasn’t a writer.
I joined our local RWA Chapter, and my motivation grew. I wrote at every opportunity, and one by one, my boys moved out. Before they had all moved out, my first novella was published in an anthology. It was hard, but when people asked what I did, I stopped saying stay-at-home mom, or housewife, and started saying “I’m a writer”. And I wrote and published several more books as a hybrid author.
Then I got a second chance, not as Mom, but as Grandma. Grandma, the best title ever. For two years, I was totally wrapped up in Milo as I got to spend time with him full time while my son and daughter-in-law worked. A gift I never expected.
But life is constantly changing, and Milo went off to preschool where his mother is a teacher, Hunky Hubby retired, and we moved from the outskirts of Los Angeles, to rural Arizona. The rural part is a dream I’ve always had. I grew up in rural Ohio, and loved living in the small peaceful farm town where my father had also grown up.
I worried that Hunky Hubby would have a hard time with retirement. He’d worked hard his whole life. He immediately started talking about getting a job. But then something happened. He shifted his focus. We bought the house next door, and he made it his new job. He gets up every morning at 5am, and goes to work remodeling the house. He found a purpose, and he’s thriving.
I find myself getting up, glancing at the computer, and heading to the kitchen to unload the dishwasher. It’s not writer’s block. Characters are talking to me, I have more stories to write than hours in the day, but I walk away.
And I find myself wondering, usually quietly, today publicly. Am I still a writer? Who am I today? Who do I want to be? I still want to write, but am I relevant? Do my words matter in a world I no longer recognize? WHO AM I?
Okay, my rant is finished. Have you ever had a total identity crisis? A collapse of your belief in yourself and the world? Tell me your story.
And in the meantime. I’m going to write 500 words, then 500 more, and maybe I can get back to who I was, or at least find out who I am.
Tari’s Books
Joining the HHH Blog as a Contributor
February 12, 2026 by Denise M. Colby in category Columns, The Writing Journey by Denise Colby, Writing tagged as Denise M. Colby, writers life, writingI’m excited to share that starting this month, I’ll be a regular contributor to the HHHistory blog. The HHH blog is the Heroes, Heroines, & History blog. It’s mission? Uniting those who love to write about history with those who love to read it.
I’ve been following this blog for a while now. There’s such a wide range of history being shared. The rules are simple. Do not duplicate any topic that has already been written.
Although there have been some posts about California, I was happy to see that there wasn’t specific topics related to the flooding, the rebuilding over the existing city of Sacramento, and several other points of history that I’ve researched for my stories. So as an HHH blog contributor, I get to write about all those things.
My first hhh blog post is February 14th
My first blog is titled Sacramento, California Origins and How They Dealt with Floods. Much of my content I had found when I wrote When Plans Go Awry, but I also found new content, including an image on the Sacramento History Museum’s Instagram page, showing how much devastation occurred because of them.
I have gathered a lot of research and fascinating tidbits over the years, but I couldn’t put it all in my stories. Now I have a place to share the details. My posting date each month is the fourteenth, and my first post goes live on February 14. (I can’t share a link until it is live).
I would love to have you join me.
Sign up to receive the posts here on the main page. https://www.hhhistory.com
Or sign up for my newsletter to receive the link to the post each month.
Denise M. Colby loves to share about her writing journey (see all her posts here), including her word of the year (this year it is BALANCE), her novels, and all the things in between. You can visit her at her website and blog at www.denisemcolby.com or on her facebook or instagram. Please note: some links include Amazon Associate links where Denise can earn from qualifying purchases.
0 1 Read moreTardy Slip
January 30, 2026 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as fate, short fiction, tardiness, writing
Most of the seats at the DMV were filled when Charla arrived, license renewal form in hand, and she ended up taking an unoccupied plastic chair against the far wall. She had an hour and maybe a smidge more to get her new license before Sam started docking her pay for being late from her lunch break.
She’d meant to renew weeks ago, when the notice first arrived, but lateness was programmed into her psyche. Her license was now expired, and what with people getting stopped routinely and forced to show their IDs, she worried about driving with a permit no longer valid.
The room was subdued despite the crowd of fifty or so, with conversations kept muted. As a chime sounded at intervals, a steady stream of people rose from their chairs, made their way to the counter and conferred with the official on the other side of the plexiglass window. Six numbers lay ahead of Charla’s, with the clock ticking. She studied her expired license: Only four years had passed, but she grimaced at the image that stared back. The smile, tepid; her hair a mess, and that sweater, making her round face rounder.
“Those cameras are designed to make us look like criminals.” The man seated to her right was shaking his head, showing her his own license, which did indeed show a portrait that could have graced a wanted poster.
Charla, laughing, shoved hers back in her purse. “We’ll see what they capture of me today.” She checked her phone. “If they call my number before my break ends.” She’d missed doctors’ appointments, movie theater starts, and parties because she was always running late. Why couldn’t she ever be on time?
Her seatmate was soon off to the counter. The room slowly emptied, but Charla’s number still lagged, now behind two others. She had exactly five minutes left to complete the renewal. So much for lunch. Maybe Sam would let her sprint to the Wawa for a quick sandwich if things were slow at the dealership when she returned.
At last, she stood at the renewal counter and handed over her paperwork and old license.
“Waited a little too long, did we?” The clerk’s tone was kind despite the snark of his words.
“I kept meaning to get here,” Charla said, her face warming. “And then it was too late.”
The clerk checked her information on his computer screen. “It’s never too late.” He grinned. “The good news is that you’re not so late that you have to retake the written test.”
“I’d have to do that?” She was not prepared for any exam.
“Only if your license was more than six months overdue.” He directed her to sit back in the chair. “Ready for your picture?”
She patted down her frizzy hair and smiled half-heartedly at the camera. She should have primped in the bathroom before her number was called. Too late now.
Within ten minutes, she was done. Her photo caught her smile—and the wild patch of hair that always stuck up. Now fifteen minutes past her lunch break, she left the DMV lot and sped up the road.
Two blocks from the dealership, cars stacked up behind flashing police lights.
More delays. Sam’s annoyed face loomed in her mind. Was this the day she lost her job? Time was never her friend.
Turning onto a side street, she looped through an adjacent neighborhood to reach her workplace from the opposite direction. The Wawa store was on the way, so she stopped to buy a snack to get her through the afternoon—and early evening, to make up for the extra half hour she’d “borrowed.”
Traffic was backed up on this side of the wreck, but Charla cut through a parking lot to reach the dealership. She hustled to the door, feeling like the tortoise in the race against the hare of time. A fire truck pulled up to the wreckage, and sirens continued to blare.
Instead of an angry frown over her tardiness, Sam’s face showed only relief. Several salespeople joined him, and Charla was wrapped in a sudden cocoon of welcome.
“You’re safe,” Sam said. He stepped forward as if to hug her, but stopped when she backed up. “We were so afraid you got caught up in that mess.”
Charla’s shoulders relaxed. “I was running late…” As usual, she almost added.
For once, time had been on her side.
More of Dianna’s Stories
Finding Peace and Joy Again by Kitty Bucholtz
January 9, 2026 by Kitty Bucholtz in category It's Worth It by Kitty Bucholtz, Writing tagged as ADHD in writers, It's Worth It, joy, Kitty Bucholtz, menopause, Perimenopause, writing
It’s been a rough few years for me. Burnout, butt-kicking perimenopause, then menopause that didn’t “pause” my symptoms much. I’ve felt broken. And every January, I hope and pray that this year will be better. This New Year’s, I barely let myself consider the idea for fear that I will be disappointed yet again.
And yet…
A friend of mine has been urging me for months to read some of the materials she’s found on ADHD in adult women. I’ve resisted, feeling these diagnoses are yet another fad created by Big Pharma to increase their profits at our expense. But I finally listened to one of the audiobooks over Christmas vacation. I felt as gobsmacked as when I took the CliftonStrengths test a year or so ago!
Suddenly, it seemed a light turned on in my head showing me what I already knew about myself but with a lot more depth and clarity and understanding. Both times, it was like I could see things I knew were there (like the living room couch, the TV stand, the window covered with blackout curtains) but now I could SEE them! The couch is red and has thick, soft cushions. The TV stand is small, made of pale wood, but the TV is quite large. And the window is bigger and lets in more light than I realized when it was curtained.
What a difference!!
Personality traits that I have been both comfortable with and frustrated by now appear to be different than I’d thought. Maybe I wasn’t actually broken; maybe some of my tools had broken. The tools I’d used to cope with life (we all have them, whatever our personality traits) stopped working as well when hormones and stress blind-sided me. But the books I’ve been reading have reminded me that I am not broken and I don’t need to be fixed. I’ve just been shoved, hard, off course and need to catch my breath and remind myself how to get back up again.
I have no interest in getting tested for ADHD by a psychiatrist or psychologist, but I am very interested in improving my toolbox: sharpening old skills, developing new ones, perhaps letting go of mechanisms that no longer work as well for me. And I think this is going to make a big difference in my writing.
I’ve just started reading The Artist’s Joy by Merideth Hite Estevez, and The ADHD Advantage by Dale Archer, M.D. Both are blowing me away and making me feel — I’m not the only one who feels this way!! (The book that I first read on my friend’s suggestion is A Radical Guide for Women with ADHD by Sari Solden, M.S.)
If you’re feeling overwhelmed with life, or lacking joy and passion, perhaps some of these books or other similar titles will help you get a better handle on what’s not working and how to get back on track again. I’ll continue writing about this in the future in case it’s helpful!
0 0 Read moreSeason’s Greetings
December 30, 2025 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as holidays, short fiction, writing
Just one week until Christmas. This is my last craft fair for the season—thank god! I have been selling my hand-crafted greeting cards every weekend since early October, and let me tell you, I’m burned out. I’ve done okay, made my table fees back at most events, but it’s a grind. Today, I’m set up in a community center near Reading, along with what must be forty other vendors.
This is your last chance, people, to find the perfect gift! My perfect gift would be a medical miracle for my dad. He’s been unconscious for two weeks, since the car wreck on I-80. The doctors say he should recover—if he wakes up. But he’s pushing eighty. It may not happen.
That would make a good card theme, right? A get-well wish made for people whose loved one is in a coma. May they snap out of it. Or, how about: Wake up, sleepy Jean. But that’s my dark humor bubbling up. Damn it, now my eyes are blurry.
The crowd today has been steady, and there’s plenty of buying going on, judging by the packed bags people are toting around. Most of the merchandise has no appeal for me; I’m not into ninety-dollar stone reindeer, or fat crocheted cats, or ceramic tabletop Christmas trees, or polished plaques that say “What-cha cookin’.” To be fair, my stuff doesn’t appeal to everyone either. I’ve had window shoppers tell me point-blank, “I don’t send cards.”
Still, I have my regulars and I love ‘em. They buy from me every year, oohing and ahhing over my new designs. But the nonbuyers are right: Who sends greeting cards anymore? Especially when you can zap out an e-card or text an emoji or even write a general Insta post—that takes care of a lot of people in one sweep.
Greeting cards are special to me, though. I used to do a bit of calligraphy, fancy addresses on envelopes, cool name tags, that sort of thing. Then I discovered watercolors, and the people at work said I had talent, and here we are.
But you can’t please everybody. Some folks don’t like my designs. Not religious enough, they say. I say, my cards touch people’s souls; do you? Other folks want a poem inside—they’re the Hallmark crowd. I don’t do poetry, not that kind anyway. Make me write a poem, and I’ll give you Macbeth: Foul is fair and fair is foul.
And some people even expect me to mail the cards for them. If you pay for postage, I’ll think about it.
It’s about a half hour before this craft event is over and I can stuff my wares into my SUV and head home. Later, I’ll stop by the hospital and sit with Dad for a while. And keep my fingers crossed, hoping. Mom passed six years ago, and he’s all I’ve got left. My brother lives across the country and can’t be bothered.
I reach for a box beneath my table to start packing up. The place is emptying out; I doubt I’ll get many more customers at this hour. Then I see him, one of my regulars. He’s heading my way, his eyes roving my displays and finally finding my gaze.
“Hi, Roy,” I say. “It’s about time you showed up.” I rib him gently; he always buys a handful of cards.
“What’s new this year?” He stands about my height, stocky with a beard. His watch cap in Eagles green has slid up his forehead, revealing the worry lines that come with life. I know nothing about him beyond his first name. He’s friendly enough, but he’s never revealed anything personal in our interactions. Married? Loner? I have no idea.
I spin the rack to a new design, a swirl of deep indigo tinged with a hint of orange along one edge. The dark of the storm before the dawn. Before I can pick it up, he has his hand on it.
“Yes,” he says. “This’ll do.” He selects a half-dozen other designs, then stares at me briefly. “The storm clouds are thinning, I think.”
I record his purchase and place the cards and their envelopes in a slim paper bag. He hands over the cash. Without thinking, I blurt, “Peace be with you.” Where that came from, I have no idea. I’m not devout about anything but my cards.
He nods once. “Best wishes for your father,” he says, and strides away.
“What?” I murmur. I must have misunderstood. When I open my hand to count the money, mixed in with the bills is a Patriots key chain. My dad’s favorite team, even years after he left New England. “Wait,” I call out, but when I look up, Roy has merged into the trickle of customers. I no longer see him.
Odd. He must had carried the key chain in his pocket and pulled it out without realizing it. I run a thumb over the raised logo. A Patriots symbol deep in Eagles country, just like Dad. He’ll chuckle at the irony—. I stop my thoughts before I lose my composure. How did Roy know about Dad?
As I box up inventory and break down my racks, my phone lights up. It’s the hospital. Suddenly lightheaded, I sit on my folding stool, gripping the phone so hard my fingers ache.
“Yes?” I say, afraid to hear whatever news they have to share.
There is a pause as a connection switches and it’s the nursing station.
They say: My father is now awake and alert.
And he’s asking for me.
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