Wow. It’s really intimidating to put a sentence on the page when I’ve been gone for so long. I know the first words I say have to make an impact, and that is kind of… scary. So I apologize in advance if this post isn’t as stunning and life changing as you had hoped.


When I began writing this blog, I didn’t know where it would take me. I just knew that I wanted to start writing again to get my creative juices flowing again.

Obviously, it worked.

As we speak, I’m 4,046 words into my National Novel Writing Month project. That’s 4,046 words in a single day. Actually, in a single three hour writing session. I’m not claiming that it’s literary gold, but I’ve got a plot. And characters. And conflict, and internal/external motivations, and a lot of other things that lurk in the background and make a story work.

Over the course of my NaNoWriMo career, I’ve tackled mainstream fiction, a YA horror, and medical thriller on uppers. This year I’m going back to my roots and attempting a full-blown romance–the kind that will make my mother wonder where she went wrong with my upbringing if she ever chooses to read it. Have you ever read Gary Paulsen’s Hatchet? Well, imagine if that book got humped on the leg by 50,000 words of heaving, thrusting, romance-y goodness. My novel would be the result of this unholy union.

And I’m completely in lust with it.

I’ve got this vague idea that after I’ve written, revised, re-written, and re-revised this novel, I’d like to submit it for consideration by Harlequin’s Blaze line. Unlike the bodice-rippers of the past, Harlequin now focuses on savvy characters, solid writing, and really sexy sex by new authors. I think I’ve got a unique voice, but so do the other 6,000 authors who submit manuscripts to them every year. First things first, though. I’ve got to get the damn thing written.

I love writing. Love, love, love it. Last night when I really hit a stride, I kind of leaned back, sighed happily, and realized, yeah, this is what I want to do for the rest of my life.

Don’t get me wrong. I have no plans to give up on teaching, because I’m infinitely more practical than that. I’ve got to be able to support my family. Writing comes in a far second. But one day, if God is kind, maybe I’ll be able to make money doing what I love.

Right now, I’m lucky enough to be writing for Charm Fashion Agency, a hybrid online magazine specializing in up-and-coming designers, models, photographers, trends, and beauty. I’m the brains behind the beauty part of that, which means that I’m responsible for at least three features (1000 words or longer) and two fillers (500-700 words) per week, as well as daily beauty picks (100-200 words).

In other words, I’m freaking busy.

I’ve always been busy–there’s no other way to exist when you’re a mom to toddler bent on destroying everything in his path. Just this morning, he decided it would be a fantastic idea to divest himself of his diaper and take a massive dump right there on top of his stuffed animals.


I’ll spare you the details. Suffice it to say that this was NOT the way I wanted to start my morning. No amount of Starbucks Via instant coffee could help me forget what I had to do to get everything clean. I doubt physically removing my brain from my cranium and dousing it in industrial strength bleach would help.


So the long and short of it is that I’m back. Kinda. Most days I don’t have enough creative juice left over after writing for Charm and knocking out my NaNoWriMo wordcount to be witty here. I’ll try to poke my head in a couple times a week to give some brief updates, and then I’ll be back in full force in December. Until then, here’s some photos to placate you.

Red remembering how little they start out


Ahckmehd, the Dead Terrorist Baby, Jr.

Ahckmehd, the Dead Terrorist Baby, Sr. (Yes, their Halloween costumes matched. Wanna fight about it?)

Boo and my Papa

Waiting to get candy from Daddy's unsuspecting colleagues

Boo inspecting the interloper


About Chelsie

Mommy. Beauty product whore. Plastic lawn flamingo enthusiast. Nosy neighbor. One day novelist.
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