Libbie the Lobster

To purchase the children's book "Saving Libbie the Lobster" go to

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Do You Ever Wonder if You’re a Good Writer?

Libbie The Lobster:

Thank you as always Tim Baker for your wise words.

Originally posted on blindoggbooks:

“Good taste is the first refuge of the non-creative. It is the last-ditch stand of the artist.” ~Marshall McLuhan

Writing is a bi-polar occupation.

It can fill you with pride, confidence and satisfaction that you never thought you’d feel (ask any author how it felt to hold that first book in their hands) and it can make you feel unworthy of teaching basic composition to second graders (for more on this, ask an author who gets a rejection letter or a scathing review).


Since the release of my first novel in 2009 I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know many authors and I haven’t met one yet who hasn’t ridden that roller coaster of emotions.

Some jumped off and went in search of pursuits with more predictable results, but most of them hung in there and ran back to get in line for another ride.

I guess that’s…

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The Day I Stopped Trying….

Libbie The Lobster:

I think we all want to run away from our lives and ourselves from time to time. I’m glad to have learned I take me with me wherever I go. My dear friend and fellow author Becky Pourchot is learning this is true.

Originally posted on The Transparent Author:


I woke up yesterday morning sure as hell I was leaving. I was going to go to Marrakesh. I was going to pack my bags, kiss my kids and my husband goodbye and head overseas. Oh, I’d be back, maybe in a month or two but in the meantime I’d be off wandering open air markets, riding camels for fun, and eating all the humus my heart desired. That’s what one does in Marrakesh, right??

Frankly I knew nothing about this city. It’s in Morocco, right? But I did know- if I could throw a stone over the ocean, from the beach where I mediate each day, I’d hit this far off land.

And flying over the Atlantic to a distant world, where I wasn’t me, where my problems didn’t exist seemed like the best solution…because frankly I was sick of me….this me anyway.

“Traveling Me” wasn’t failing her…

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Annoying Things Only #Writers Will Understand

Libbie The Lobster:

My friend Tim Baker writes about the true life of a writer. I think he is so right about this. How about you?

Originally posted on blindoggbooks:

It is said that writers are a different breed. Hopefully the word different isn’t used in place of a less ambiguous word…like warped.

I don’t know if writers can claim exclusive rights to such a label, but they definitely don’t fit neatly within most accepted classifications.

With that being said, I’d like to talk about some annoyances and problems only writers will understand, facepalm

because in many respects we are different—but not in a bad way. There are just some things that we deal with on an almost-daily basis that normal people would react to with a shrug and a “So?”

Here is a partial list of such things – but it’s NOT a Top Ten List

Temptations, Obligations and Favors:

If you’re like me, you have a full time job, and the majority of your writing is done on the weekends.

While your friends are firing up the…

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Life From My Window or Lack Thereof

Barely able to reach the window to see outside, I pull myself up with all my strength. A repeated pattern of houses all in a row meet my view with only the door to tell one from another. And trees, every second or third house has a tree in front. It is all the same tree, growing the same height in the same way. Do the people all look the same too, my child mind wonders.


Fitting just right on the window seat on a cushion made of forest green velvet I watch the snow falling slowly, gently blown by the wind. The long sloping hill is covered with a bright white mantle. I squint in the brightness to see the sheep with their thick wool coats huddled together in the field at the bottom near the shed. The trees, now bare and snow laden make the woods look mysterious. article-2246917-167B19B2000005DC-697_964x636

Leaning on my elbows looking from the second floor bedroom window, I glance at the driveway below. Mine is like every other along the row. Living in little boxes is boring when everyone’s is the same. But there are flowers on my windowsill even though there are none outside. A088-00146_Flower_pot_on_a_window_sill

A parking lot. All I can see is a parking lot. Oh, I know there is a swimming pool over there somewhere behind the fence but all I can see is a parking lot with cars, some old, some new but none are interesting. I wish it was water, all water out there or a field of flowers, but not a parking lot. download

Curled up on the window seat, I can feel the chill come through the old window frame but I love looking out at the city with all of its life, going on in every which way — buses on their regular route but always late, cabs rushing past everything as if there are no traffic laws, horns honking, people shouting or just talking over the noise. But even in the seeming chaos there is order. One rarely sees the sky here. It is a concrete jungle full of life with a few old trees asserting themselves along the sidewalks. philadelphia-city-center

The horn of a cruise ship bellows and wakes me from my slumber. I turn in my bed to see it across the bay and I smile. I feel like I’m on a boat in the water myself since it’s all I can see from here. Sail boats, and yachts sparkle in the sunlight which also dances on the water. EP-140639983

Looking outside at all is difficult. All I see is these four walls . It is lonely here, there’s not much to do even if I could. I wish I could be in those other places, any other place will do. I am forlorn. armoire-in-bedroom

As I sit writing this now, I turn to look out the windows to my left and there the sun is sliding toward the horizon, the day is coming to an end. In the cloudless sky, the sun is brightest now but I cannot close the blinds. I love the light too much. The large windows to my right show me the magnificent Atlantic Ocean in all its glory. The sun is shining on the break of the waves making them bright white in contrast to the slate blue of the incessantly moving sea. The palm trees are swaying in the onshore breeze common to this time of the day. So many windows, so much to see. This is truly home to me. flagler-beach-municipal

As always, thank you for reading and whatever you see from your windows, I hope the view is filled with wonder for you as it is for me.



The Agony and the Ecstacy of Writing

I am a writer. At least that’s what I call myself. I write. That’s what writers do — we write. Right?

I have been telling people I am a writer for a couple of years now, which is not very long I know. Each time I hear the words leave my mouth, I wonder if I will ever finish my novel, The Jumping Off Place. Write-and-keep-on-writing

I love the experience of writing once I begin. It’s the starting that is torturous for me. I can think of a thousand unimportant things that simply must be done before I can sit down and immerse myself in a wonderful, timeless journey into the world of my story. Am I filled with self-doubt to the point that I choose to ignore those around me who consistently tell me I write well? Or am I perhaps afraid I will actually succeed after all?

Certainly at the end of a day of writing, I feel quite accomplished and even energized. I am closer to the end of the story than when I began. In fact, the end is in sight. I can see it! It is so close I can taste it. So what keeps me from sitting down for as long as it takes to write 2,500 more words, the last two being, THE END?

For the last two years I have been climbing a mountain, a very high, rocky mountain with several difficult obstacles. There have been times when I thought I reached the summit. It was beautiful there. Maybe that was good enough, I thought. Did I really need to go on climbing? I could sit back and enjoy the success of the climb to that point couldn’t I? But climb on I did. I went on with trepidation and doubt, but go on I did. Little by little, one step at a time, I climbed ahead.

My attempt at metaphor may have been flimsy but nonetheless, it describes my uphill journey as a writer. The beautiful place I spoke of, was the publishing of our children’s book, Saving Libbie the Lobster, of course. But meanwhile my novel sat unfinished. I had a yearning to tell the story I had inside of me, the one I had begun to write. After all, I  want to leave a legacy in some small way that I have been here.

I look forward to the day when I can look back on this time with my novel in hand, in awe, and wonder how I could have struggled so.

Many thanks to my readers. I would love to hear if any of you experience these same struggles and if so, how you overcome them.

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Libbie The Lobster:

My own truth is spoken in this poem so beautifully written.

Originally posted on Paris Poems:


Some epiphanies take a lifetime to form
Moving slowly, but inextricably from darkness
Through shades of grey, to full-blown sun
While others take you unawares like a sudden
Spotlight you find yourself standing in
Where all that was once hidden by shadows
Is revealed with an unassailable clarity
Embrace enlightenment, allow your soul
To ascend to a higher plane

©Paris Poems 2015  ~Day 19 NaPoWriMo~

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The Ta-da Factor

Libbie The Lobster:

Wise thoughts from my friend Becky M. Pourchot.

Originally posted on The Transparent Author:


Over the past few days I’ve done some very important, very nonscientific social research. And lucky you get to hear the results–

So, my new book came out on Amazon a few weeks ago. ( The whole thing happened faster than I expected, and Amazon posted the paperback three days earlier than planned.

I was thrilled beyond belief when I saw it up there, so without much thought I shouted it out to the Facebook world sharing how absolutely ecstatic I was that my “baby” was finally out in the world.

My friends and supporters shared my post like mad. It was amazing.

There was one problem.

This “announcement” was too soon. The kindle edition wasn’t out yet, so people were heading to my site and the kindle version wasn’t there.

Nothing was choreographed like I hoped. My words in the post weren’t carefully crafted, just blurted out…

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