The Musings of a Latte Queen: Narratives of Everyday Life

All the presents have been unwrapped to the sounds of children's glee. The evergreen still holds center court with presents still under the tree.  The Wii was a hit for everyone and the girls proved they are sports stars.  The teenager has more clothes to make a mall and there is still wrapping paper down the hall.  It was a wonderful Friday with a moment to reflect on the real reason we celebrate the giving of gifts.  From the youngest to the teenage child, they read the story of the Christmas child.  Each one, in voices clear, read the story our hearts hold dear.  Their father prayed in his booming voice, giving thanks to God and for the moment to rejoice.  The gift-giver took her job with glee and handed out presents to everyone...even to me.  She smiled and she sang as she skipped about, covering her ears when her sister let out a shout!  "Just what I wanted, I'm so happy to have it."  She moved and danced and could hardly sit. ...

One week from now the presents will already be opened, the wrapping in the recycle bins, ribbons and candy canes about the sitting room, perhaps an ornament or two fallen off the tree, the dining room will have the remnants of the leftover holiday meal, the children may have already forgotten some of their new toys and went to sleep with their old faithful teddy bear, and some people will already be lining up outside the retail stores to pick up even more stuff. Why? The shopping frenzy took our nation by storm, as it does every Black Friday, and for a month we have been bombarded with television, radio, internet, newspaper, and mailbox ads touting one store's midnight madness or better-than-black-friday sale.  And the purpose of it all?  To do what Americans do - shop.  To get, conquer (only five in the store, come early for the best bargains!!!!!) and acquire even more things that are meaningless, take up space, and do not fill the void that rests like an insatiable...

Reprinted from Pink Latte Publishing There was a primal scream so loud is shattered the chandelier overhead. Fists pummeled the stiff body lying in repose on the velvet cushions inside the polished mahogany. Utterances of anguish emerged from many decades of compliant silence. Unanswered prayers now to be buried in the heavy chamber of clay. Fury burned the eyes were widows tears should rest. Strong limbs enveloped heaving frame pulling back to life. Wells of bottled tears erupted like a levy broken flooding out unspent waters. Screams of rebuke to the sewn lips and penny shut eyes for the years of fire from a controlling tongue. Weeping and sobbing to heaving and breathing the clay to burn fury in hulking frame no more. Gentle touches and breezes to douse the pent up searing of the soul to be released for a tomorrow yet to be. Too much living lost waiting on the dying to end the chain that binds.

Writing is the inhaled essence of life that sweeps me along the currents of my everyday existence, without it, I am less than who the universe meant me to be when my unformed clay was being molded in the inner sanctum of my mother's womb.  I write because I live and I live because I write. In the years since my father first gave me the pen, I have written short stories, prose, poems, a play or two, and a children's book.  I have written newsletters, marketing materials, engaged in copywriting, wrote some articles, always with the pen in hand.  The art is what makes my heart skip along with unblemished glee like my daughters doing the happy dance. The other day as I sat starring at the hungry vastness of the blank screen, working out ideas for my character, Kambridge, I realized that everything in my life has led me to this moment.  Writing is the craft, publishing is the business.  Finally, I had that ah-ha moment, I saw a use for my M.B.A. in marketing. O...

I decided, about a week after the start date, that I would participate in National Novel Writing Month.  Why not give it a short, I foolishly thought.  50,000 words, I could do that, easily, again, foolish thinking.  My quest to write a novel in the month was met with trips to and from school four times a day for my three kids.  Meals and laundry and illness.  Meetings and life and mourning.  And dressy dinners. The people I live with are not exactly giving of time.  They are all demanding and want pieces of me like that sweet potato pie my husband made for Thanksgiving.  It doesn't help that we live in a loft-like setting with my office a stones throw from the TV room and a footstep from my daughters' office.  I listened to them fighting and cajoling, my husband fussing at my son to study, and the drone of the TV while I tried to get into my characters. I went to the library and the coffeeshops to find writing time, my red zip drive fi...

Today, the heavens open up and poured out sunshine. My daughter is six years old today!  I can not believe this little princess has been on earth this long, regaling us with her laughter and encouraging us with her strength.  "I'm ok!" is her mantra every time she falls down.  She jumps right up, dusts herself off, and keeps stepping to her next task.  Restoring, refining, and refreshing everyone along the way, just the meaning of her name! Keziah has enriched our lives and added pink sparkle everywhere.  No other little girl could play dress, have a doll collection that rivals the toy stores, run like the wind, and still wrestle her big brother or try to climb a tree.  She triumphs!  In her kindergarten class, she is clearly a leader and magnet for other kids.  She is courageous and has overcome more health challenges than I could ever handle.  Keziah never makes a big deal of it and just accepts for a fact that it is just something th...