Tag: writing

Categories
Reflections

When Holiday Magic Gets Messy: Parenting Through Big Emotions and Broken Expectations

The Day a Snow Globe Broke My Expectations

My son broke a snow globe yesterday.

It was an accident, sort of.

After a morning of crafting (peep Nina’s gold hand ornament below) and playing outside in the snow, we eagerly pulled out our Christmas tree.

I turned on one of YouTube’s fakie fireplaces with cozy, instrumental Christmas music and we set to work. The kids helped me assemble the fakie tree and squealed with delight at each ornament they pulled from the storage bin.

Standing atop stools at either side of the tree, they sang our “Working Together” song as they strung our eclectic collection of garlands around the tree before hanging their precious ornaments.

All signs pointed to a perfectly beautiful memory.

That is, until the snow globes came out.

For context, the kids and I made snow globes a few years back. It was our first Christmas after their father and I separated and I wanted to make the holidays extra special.

So, I bought us Frozen and Mickey Mouse snow globe kits. They were a big hit and I, of course, had a grand vision of displaying them on our metaphorical mantle in perpetuity.

Nina cracked that vision last year when she told me she wanted a real snow globe.

Felix shattered it today.

When Nina took out her Goodwill snow globe (that Felix had all but ignored last year) and turned the music on, he turned green. Suddenly, Mickey was chopped liver and all he wanted was one that played music, and he wanted it now!

Somewhere between tidying up and trying to assure my hysterical four-year-old, Mickey was hurled across the living room. With a cracking thud, Grandma’s carpet and flooring were covered in a mess of plastic shards and sticky, glittery water.

Feeling overwhelmed, I immediately sent him to his room as my mom and I hurried to clean up the mess. I felt angry. Like, really angry. Probably a disproportionate amount of anger. Ok, definitely a disproportionate amount.

As I wiped up the seriously sticky glitter, I wondered if my own sticky anger was about his meltdown, the damage, or the mess itself.

I realized it was likely because the globe held more meaning for me than it had for him. To me, it was a symbol of fresh starts, new beginnings, making hard decisions. To him, it was just a boring snow globe that didn’t play music.

Once the glitter was gone, or as gone as glitter can be, I went to talk to Felix. I found him crying on his bed and when I asked why he was sad he replied, “I want one with music!” I felt the anger start to bubble up again. Really?? I huffed internally. Then, I took a deep breath and met my four-year-old where he was at.

He talked; I listened.

I talked; he half-listened.

We apologized, hugged, and didn’t let that one moment stain the rest of the day.

We all have our own snow globes; things we attach deep meaning and expectations to. And while my metaphorical mantle won’t look how I initially envisioned, it will still sing of fresh starts and new beginnings.

Categories
Reflections

Books Lists and the Joy of Going Off-Script

Ok, I’ll admit it. I’ve both fallen victim to and become addicted to book lists. They’re a wonderful thing: resources that allow you to outsource your literary curation and taste to the experts. But is that always a good thing?

A few years back I turned to a book list to complete that year’s reading goal. I was ambitious and the list I found on Pinterest boasted the books as “must reads.” So, in a flurry of inspiration, I purchased the first five on the list. I can’t even remember what the titles were, I disliked them that much! They’ve since been donated, and I’ve learned to slow down, do some research, and rent instead of buying.

I haven’t given up lists entirely, though, especially when it comes to my kids. I have a strong desire to foster a love of reading in them, and book lists have introduced us to some truly beautiful stories.

My go-to book lists are from Read-Aloud Revival, a movement created by Sarah Mackenzie to help inspire and revive your family’s reading habits. I especially love her September Book List. For the past few Septembers, I’ve been consistently renting the list in its entirety from my local library. Every year though, my kids gravitate to the same few books:

Goodbye Summer, Hello Autumn
Flora’s Very Windy Day
The Apple Doll

They all but ignore the rest or are downright distraught when I pull out a Clarkson favorite, Ox-Cart Man by Donald Hall, or the classically illustrated Autumn Story by Jill Barklem.

So why do I keep renting the entire list, especially the books they explicitly, and quite vocally, dislike? Am I holding onto a small thread of hope that they will suddenly wake up one day with the same exquisite literary taste as Sarah Clarkson? Or do I feel pressure to manufacture that taste for them?

Growing up, my sister loved Nancy Drew, while I was more of a Trixie Beldon fan. Both of the protagonists were young, female detectives, but each one spoke to us differently.

Our mom didn’t push either one on us, they were simply readily available on our bookshelf, and we were given the individual freedom to choose.

This memory gave me an idea. I called Nina (5) and Felix (3) into the office and pointed them to our bookshelf. “Out of all the books we have here, which one is your favorite?” Of course, I thought, Felix will choose Little Blue Truck and Nina will choose Extra Yarn.

Needless to say, that was not the case. Watch Our Favorite Books Right Now to hear their earnest responses.

I had the strong urge to ask Nina to pick a different favorite. A book about farting would never make an appearance on a Sarah Mackenzie booklist or on a Clarkson’s bookshelf!

But then I remembered when Nina picked it out at the library’s book sale, how excited she was when I agreed to buy it. I remembered her wit and sense of humor and decided that sometimes the best things in life aren’t from a carefully curated list, but rather the things that organically spark joy.

It’s a fun read too, with a surprisingly tender message about the flawed beauty of being human.

Categories
Uncategorized

Local Lore: The History of Wisconsin’s Elusive Werewolf

I grew up in Walworth, a small southeastern town in Wisconsin, but always a little apart from it. I say apart because we belonged to the uber conservative, Baptist homeschool community. This community consisted of cousins, a few close (like-minded) family friends, and a deep-rooted belief that the secular world was to be avoided at all costs.

You can imagine then, the challenges that arose when my parents’ divorce thrust my siblings and I into the terrifying realm of public school. I spent most of 8th grade stumbling awkwardly through my new environment and it took me a while to find a new sense of community.

When my mom married my stepdad, Terry Mayer, in the spring of 2013, it was easy to see how involved he was in his community. He’d worked at The Week newspaper for many years. During his time with the paper, he met and photographed countless musicians, local public figures, and participated in the occasional investigation into werewolves.

Yes, you read that right. Call it what you want, beast, werewolf, cryptic, but The Beast of Bray Road is a big part of Wisconsin’s folklore. It dates back to its first “sighting” in 1936 and is often described as a towering, red-eyed, humanoid creature covered in thick fur.

A documentary and horror film have been made based on this local lore and the late Linda Godfry, who my stepdad worked closely with, turned her series on The Beast into a book titled The Beast of Bray Road: Tailing Wisconsin’s Werewolf.

I don’t remember who told me about The Beast back in high school, but I do remember being too terrified to ride along with my new friends to Bray Road. They were hoping to catch a glimpse of the creature of legend, I wanted no part of it.

I’d since forgotten about the lore until recently. I was searching for an event to attend and cover for my Digital Storytelling and Social Media class when I stumbled on the 2025 Beast Fest event. I mentioned it to my stepdad and his eyes sparkled as he shared about his time investigating the story alongside Linda Godfry.

So, he agreed to go with me to Beast Fest and even said he would try to find his original “WereWolf Of the Week” shirt as seen in this 15-year anniversary article. Stay tuned for updates this afternoon on my X and Facebook accounts as Terry and I revisit the legend of The Beast of Bray Road. I’m looking forward to an afternoon steeped in community and folklore.

To learn more about the late Linda Godfry, see the articles below:

Tracking down ‘The Beast of Bray Road’
Beast of Bray Road Author Linda Godfrey Has Passed Away
Categories
Uncategorized

When Love Lingers Too Long: Releasing Romanticized Relationships

You will never
have to chase
what is meant
to knock
on your door.

-Mark Anthony

I think most people can relate to the experience of teenage heartbreak and a love that lingers long after last words are exchanged.

They aren’t just the one that got away.

They’re the one you’d light your life on fire for, travel across the globe in half a second at even the slightest chance of a second chance.

I lit my life on fire for different reasons, and I traveled across the globe for me, myself, and I.

Still, most of my life I’ve been haunted by a love that never fully bloomed, that left me weeping uncontrollably like a fool.

Because in my mind, he was perfect in every way.

Minds are funny that way.

Or at least, mine is.

The network executives of my mind play reruns of the happy times.

They romanticize every late-night chat, every stolen glance, every chicken dance. The brain freeze and drama free drive with his hand on my thigh.

The network blurs out the bad and censors the pain.

The first betrayal, second, and third are scrubbed from the record, the film stripped and burned until the viewer starts to wonder if those episodes were imagined.

But once the execs get canned, a harsh reality sets in:

What I’d clung to all these years, was nothing more than a fantasy.

The fantasy of him, of us.

Because I’m sure, to him, I was nothing more than a blip, a fleeting friendship, a minor attraction. Forgotten faster than it lasted.

I wrote the poem below when I decided enough was enough.

Because I think when it comes to love, real and lasting and mutual and beautiful love, the idea of it won’t hold a candle to its reality.

Renovation

I let the idea of you
overshadow the truth of you
for far too long.

Now, here I stand
reclaiming the corner of my mind
where you used to reside.

I ripped up the carpet,
painted the walls with the lyrics
from my favorite songs.

Unbarred the windows,
let in the light, felt the weight
of your presence disintegrate.

Now I breathe in the air,
fresh and new, as a garden
of hope within me blooms.

Heartfelt gratitude is extended to The Nemadji Review for publishing Renovation in their 14th edition.

Categories
Reflections

Submittable: A Cautionary Tale on Reading the Fine Print

Some days were stronger than my bones, some months were stronger than my soul, but no year was ever stronger than me as a whole.

-Ruchi Acharya, Founder and CEO of Wingless Dreamer Publisher

It was May 2024, and I was hot off the high of my advanced poetry workshop. I’d just learned about Submittable and spent hours sifting through the endless open calls for submissions. I took my professor’s advice to heart and did my research—no sketchy sites and no fees over $3. I was a new and barely published poet, but I was cautiously optimistic.

I found three promising landing pads for my work: MER, 805, and Wingless Dreamer. After meticulously drafting cover letters, bios, and manuscripts for each one, I hit submit. There was something equally exhilarating and terrifying about sending my work out into the world to be judged by experts in the craft.

Then, only five days later, I received my first acceptance letters. I was stunned. And immediately suspicious. Funny how my brain works, huh?

I skimmed Wingless Dreamer’s email and got stuck at the line “We will proceed with the necessary steps for publication, including editing and formatting.” Most people would think, Hurray! My poem is on the path to publication! Not me. I saw that and immediately turned into a poema bear.

I responded with gratitude, and a request to be involved in the editing process. I sweated it out for 24 hours before following up again. Finally, the editor Shreya sent me a reassuring response, promising to loop me in if there were any major changes. I thanked her and asked a couple follow -up questions regarding the publication timeline. After ten days with no response, I started to question their legitimacy and wrote that I wanted to withdraw my poems. One poem’s status was changed to “withdrawn,” but the other remained “accepted”

I wondered about it, but life got busy. A couple weeks later I received an email congratulating me on my publication in the Mother’s Reverie Anthology. I followed the link to Amazon and there it was, a legitimate book for sale! I was still skeptical, especially since contributors didn’t get a free copy, but I bought it anyway.

It made the perfect 2025 Mother’s Day gift, and yes, my poem’s integrity was still in-tact. Recently, I looked back over that initial acceptance letter, and something in hyperlink blue stood out for the first time: their Terms and Conditions. I opened it read: We reserve the right to modify the accepted work in terms of phrasing, punctuation, word usage, spelling, and capitalization. We will notify the author beforehand if there are any major changes.

I took an experiential course on literary magazines in spring of 2025, and all I can think of now is how annoyed that editor must have been! I know now that it’s a thankless, often unpaid job and she was probably rolling her eyes at my crash out. To Shreya, if you ever see this, I apologize for my barrage of questions that could have easily been answered if I had simply slowed down and read the fine print.

I have yet to receive any more acceptance letters in Submittable, but I know that when I do, I will read them in their entirety.

Below is my poem as it appears in Mother’s Reverie by Wingless Dreamer Publisher:

Mother Greeted Us

With Spring came the promise
of dirt-black fingernails
from digging trenches
and shaping mountains
to sprinkle with new beginnings.
When the seeds took root
and the garden turned green,
we went to war with the weeds
invading its borders. But,

before the battle could be won,
humidity rode in on Spring’s delicate back,
driving us to the sandy shores
of Geneva Lake. It was here
that we shapeshifted into
crooning mermaids or shipwrecked pirates
and always returned home
lobster red. Mother greeted us,
coaxing the burns out
with sticky, soothing aloe vera.

When Autumn’s gentle kiss
bade Summer’s heat farewell,
we raked orange needles
into a town. Piney Point
with the best mudpies around.
We strung sheets from trees’ low hanging limbs
that ripped beneath our weight,
sending us tumbling to the earth.

When snow erased this made-up town,
we attacked snow-ploughed mountains
with shovel and hand and foot;
carving caves and tunnels to shelter us
from the biting cold.
We journeyed, trudging, dragging broken sleds
past True Value and over train tracks
to the slopes of Old Faithful.

We slid down the hill’s slippery face
and returned home sloppy, chilled
to the bone. Mother greeted us,
coaxing the cold out
with gentle kisses and steaming cocoa.

Categories
Reflections

From the Desk of a Flawed Poet: Editing after Publication

If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word.

-Margaret Atwood

I’ve heard that good writers are never truly satisfied with their work but simply know when it’s time to put it down. Sure, they might see the possibilities that tweaking a line here and there might offer, but they are able to step back and discern when a poem or story is polished and complete. This, I recently realized, is a skill I’m still honing.

My poem 528 Kenosha St. was published in the 13th edition of The Nemadji Review. It was crafted from a freewrite exercise in my Intro to Creative Writing course. The assignment was to tap into our childhood memories and wonder by describing the house we grew up in. Then, we were instructed to take that description and turn it into a poem. My instructor’s feedback on this assignment changed the trajectory of my academic focus. She was the first person to call me a poet and encouraged me to submit the final version to the school magazine.

I remember the day I received my two contributor copies in the mail—how I eagerly opened the magazine to my poem, my first poem since childhood to appear in print. The first poem to make me feel like a true poet. A published poet. Imagine my disappointment when, upon reading it, all I could see were its now glaringly obvious flaws. I immediately saw a need for different line breaks, more white space for the imagery to breathe, and a more formal structure (I have a penchant for tercets and quatrains).

The version below is how my poem “528 Kenosha St.” appears in my Onedrive. There are so many details I could include, so many memories I could relive. For now, though, this version feels polished and complete. When—if I may be delusional for a moment—my published poems are formed into a collection, this will be the version I include. Though let’s be real, when the time comes, I’ll probably still find flaws in it!

528 Kenosha St.

The house peeked out
from behind
a spattering
of pine. Decrepit

but alive, its white
exterior crackled
like a thousand
smiling eyes. Broken

concrete danced
past flowers
tenderly pruned,
and cheap lace

filtered sunlight
on the carpet,
tired and blue.
The bathtub sighed

beneath the bottles
and mildew
crowding its ledge,
and the kitchen’s

peel-and-stick tile
curled up
’round the oven’s legs.
The bank didn’t see

the memories etched
into its walls and
floors and heart.
When the passing

of childhood
left it hushed
and hollowed,
they fed it to the flames.

Reducing memories
to a slab of concrete,
all evidence of
my childhood erased.