Real, live people from other realms come to me. The first time it happened, I was a kid—seventh grade, I think?

We saw what the world offered; we weren't interested then, and I can tell you, baby girl—we aren't interested now.

Writer Dear, writing practice is all about the messy mind, the naked thoughts that surface come 3 a.m...

In a secret cobwebbed part of her, she knew what he wanted from her was youth, innocence...

Young Howie writes a story even he doesn't understand...

Life changed, my worldview shifted, and a very different picture took shape as bigger questions surfaced.

So, how does a writer write? I don’t know if there’s a way to do it with any level of sanity no matter how you broach it. I can share what worked and what didn't work.

I want my childhood back. I want to feel safe. To disappear inside a book or TV show and not worry over the state of the country or the...

...That is not what I do. I am not a soft sunset, kissing the mountain peaks. I am not a guiding star high atop the clouds, lighting the...

I don't even really understand anything I've done until I've done it. What's more I can't see its value until I write about it.

I felt like I’d duped myself; sold my lake cottage to live in a camper for an undetermined amount of time.

After a year of not drinking and being okay with it, I gave myself what I'd been looking for: an excuse.

Sacred Contracts (or karmic relationships between souls) are fixed before birth. Souls enter into agreements to aid one another’s growth.

Sorrow and grief are simply misplaced love with no where to go, and I'm kicking myself for not showing love more when John was here.

The bottle had not kept her company like she'd told herself it had, and there were plenty of times she'd convinced herself it did just that.

If writers are lucky, their writing will be the seance, their keystrokes—the ouija board.

"We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep. We rise; one wand'ring thought pollutes the day." ~Mary Shelley

A shift's a-comin'. They don't know it yet but it's comin'. A soft breeze tickles ears of corn out yonder; they sway, gently rockin'...

Why did I decide to ditch the traditional publishing route? Because I did so, does that mean I’m just “playing writer”?

I’m not really sure when it started. Maybe twelve? Thirteen? Probably younger than that but I specifically remember that the voices grew stronger in my pre-pubescent years. They’re not like the voices those with schizophrenia hear. I’m not being told cut off my ear like Van Gogh or solve complex math equations for the U.S government like John Nash. My voices are telling me to do something else entirely. The voices started out pretty faint and far away, like a soft echo dancin