writing quotes

I love quotes. Literary quotes, quotes derived from books: I find myself in them. It always surprises me when I realize that the things that puzzle me, inspire me, plague me, and excite me have already been discovered, dissected, and transformed into pieces of poetry by strangers whom I will never know. Isn’t it amazing how words can transcend time and space that way?

I’m preparing myself emotionally and spiritually to begin tackling my second book. Here are a collection of 21 quotes on writing that inspire me. (21 being a nod to my 21st year of life – gah!) I hope they can inspire you too!

  1. Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about. Be willing to be split open.

― Natalie Goldberg

2. Write what should not be forgotten.

― Isabel Allende

3. When we read, we start at the beginning and continue until we reach the end. When we write, we start in the middle and fight our way out.

― Vickie Karp


5. Don’t be a writer. Be writing.

― William Faulkner

6. Quiet people have the loudest minds.

― Stephen King

7. If it is still in your mind, it’s worth taking the risk.

― Paolo Coehlo

The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say.

― Anaïs Nin

9. There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

― Ernest Hemingway

10. Be the instrument playing the sound of your life’s passing.

― Jonathan Safran Foer

11. Nothing haunts us like the things we don’t say.

― Mitch Albom

12. The first draft is just you telling yourself the story.

― Terry Pratchett

You don’t write because you want to say something, you write because you have something to say.

F. Scott Fitzgerald

14. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.

― Anaïs Nin

15. The best time for planning a book is while you’re doing the dishes.

― Agatha Christie

16. This is how you do it: you sit down at the keyboard and you put one word after another until it’s done. It’s that easy, and that hard. 

― Neil Gaiman


18. A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.

― Thomas Mann

19. I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn.

― Anne Frank

20. Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.

― Anton Chekhov

21. Don’t be paralyzed by the idea that you’re writing a book – just write.

― Isabel Allende

Are any of these quotes your favorite?


Memoir, Writing


healing trauma

“Each of us is a book waiting to be written, and that book, if written, results in a person explained.”

Thomas M. Cirignano

For those of you who have read Our Story, you know already that I lost a brother; I actually lost two – the first was eight, the other was only five weeks old. I was also, along with my siblings, removed from my home by CPS and placed in foster care twice. It goes without saying that these were traumatizing and life-altering experiences, and since then, I have had to live with the fear that it could happen again. I have had to endure the nightmares and face the old memories of loss, of separation, of tragedy.

Somewhere along the way I got it into my head that I needed to write our story. I was only ten, but I had no qualms about doing it. I knew it needed to be told, and it seemed to make sense to me that I should do it.

At thirteen I started writing.

At first, I could only work on my book during the afternoon or the evening. I was setting myself up for a miserable day if I worked on it in the morning. Depression would set in and I would find myself confronted with the all-too-fresh memories, the ones that I only wanted to bury away.

 “…it takes strength to remember, it takes another kind of strength to forget, it takes a hero to do both.”
James Baldwin

It was a battle to write. It is still a battle to write. It’s only gotten incrementally easier, and that’s only because I’m slightly more confident now that I have several years worth of experience beneath my belt.

But if someone were to ask me today if I felt healing through the writing of my memoir, I honestly wouldn’t know what to say.

Writing my memoir was messy. It was confusing. It was painful and scary. It is only upon reflection that I can look back and see the ways in which I was able to grow from it.

“The features of character are carved out of adversity.”
Rick Barnett

I made peace with certain memories.

This seems strange to say, but I found acceptance in my heart about certain incidents that happened after I wrestled them out on paper. Somehow, seeing it there in black and white was a form of restitution. Everything was stripped from me as a child – my family, my home, my security, my innocence, even my sense of safety. Being able to put into words what that was like was powerful. It didn’t restore what had been taken – only God could do that – but it gave me hope that by sharing what I had gone through, I could lay to rest the things that had always haunted me privately.

I found a voice.

I felt powerless as a child, a victim of circumstance, of injustice and prejudice.

I read in this superb article a quote by David Kessler, that “Grief must be witnessed.” I so completely agree. It is terrifyingly lonely to experience loss of any kind. We feel as if no one on the face of the earth has ever known the depths of what we are experiencing, and to be unable to express our pain is a choking feeling that leads to suppression; it leads to feeling invalidated.

As a child, I was denied a voice. I felt hidden in plain sight. People walked all around me and they seemed oblivious – in a sphere all on their own, untouched by tragedy of any kind. Did no one see what I was going through? Did no one care? Being able to – finally – tell what I had experienced was liberating. In some ways, writing restored elements of what was stolen from me.

I faced the ones I was afraid of.

There were men and women involved in what happened to me whom I hold, in my heart, most responsible. I am on a journey, right now, towards complete forgiveness, but these faces were the ones that haunted me at night. How could I face these people, even in my writing? How could I bear to repaint their features so they became real again, to infuse their words with those accents I despised?

At first, writing about them angered me. At times, I was afraid. I feared the repercussions. For a long time, I was afraid of turning 21, because I was afraid they would find me – they would track me down and accuse me of libel, of defamation of character. I insisted upon being kind to their memories, even when they did not merit it. I wrote as truthfully as possible, and when I was unsure, I erased rather than proving, even to a fractional degree, that what their ghosts ranted at me in my dreams was true.

But eventually, I grew accustomed to seeing their names in black and white, over and over again. I stopped seizing up with dread and anger upon facing their existences in my story. I confronted every terrible moment, and I triumphed over them by writing them. Rewriting them. Reading them over and over and over again. I didn’t let their strength prevail against my need to see this story told.

“Aren’t autobiographies born in a question we ask ourselves: how did I get to this point? Don’t we look back over the path and tell ourselves a story? This is how it happened. This is who I am.”
― Frederick Weisel

How did writing – in any of it’s forms – help you come to terms with your past? Have you ever considered writing a memoir?


7 Reasons

To me, journaling seems to have a bit of a bad rap. When you say the word “journal,” what comes to mind? I think of angsty preteens with fuzzy, pink diaries and feather-tipped pens scribbling away about their first crush or that horrible thing that so-and-so said at school today. Journaling almost seems petty – trivial.

However, coming from firsthand experience, I can say that it’s anything but.

I have journaled off and on again since I was ten years old. I originally started because I was in foster care: not only did my dad want me to record everything that happened, but I had nobody to talk to and I was lonely. I carried that journal with me everywhere.

I started up again the following year during my second bout in foster care. This time, the habit stuck, even after we were returned home.

The older I got, the less I needed to rely on journaling. But in recent times, I have gone back to it and I have discovered a bit about the underrated practice – and myself – along the way.

  1. Journaling is cathartic

“Journal writing is a voyage to the interior.”

Christina Baldwin

For me, journaling is the freest form of expression. It’s the only place where I can truly admit what I am experiencing, knowing that no one will judge me. I am still teaching myself to let go more, to delve into those thoughts and feelings that I usually ignore – the ones I don’t want to put a name to. But whenever I do? I feel nothing but relief.

Don’t be afraid to state in your journal, in no uncertain terms, what you’re feeling or going through. It has an immediate cathartic effect that will help you to make peace with whatever life is throwing your way. 

2. Journaling helps you make sense of what seems senseless

“Writing is the only way I have to explain my own life to myself.”

Pat Conroy

Often, when I’m journaling, I find myself writing, erasing, and rewriting as I go, trying to capture the exact feeling, the exact emotion, trying to recreate every altering moment, every twisted thought and half-formed fear. Putting an exact name to the feeling or to the situations that I experience was, I used to think, just another symptom of my raging perfectionism. Now I know better: what I’m really doing is trying to make sense out of what, to me, is senseless; every time I erase, every time I rewrite, I am understanding more and more about myself, about my troubles and fears and pains, about the people that feature in my life and the experiences that we share.

Why is it that this happened? Why did it make me feel this way? Journaling will help you find the answers to those questions. 

3. Journaling is a form of praying

“This is what you do when you journal. You are recording God’s grand, epoch-spanning redemptive story as it unfolds in your limited, temporal sphere of existence here on earth. Your journal has the potential to record the continuation of the Holy Spirit’s work in our world!”

Adam L. Feldman

Did you know you could write your prayers down to the Lord? Write down your hopes and dreams, your pains and fears, and be open and honest – with Him and yourself. Not only does this increase intimacy between you and the Lord, but it’s a great way to keep focused and not get distracted. I don’t know about you, but I often struggle with not getting distracted in my thoughts when I pray. Praying aloud – even if it’s in a whisper – helps, but when I’m alone inside my head, my thoughts wander. Writing down my prayers is a focused, deliberate conversation with God and seeing the evidence of the state of my heart does two things for me:

  • Forces me to acknowledge those areas about myself that I would rather close my eyes to, i.e. selfishness, pride, pettiness, etc.
  • Gives me a play-by-play of what God is doing. I love reading back old entries and seeing the areas where God has caused me to grow or the things He has answered prayers about.

Pour out your heart to the Lord and watch Him heal you. One day you will look back and read an old entry and think, “wow, I remember how horrible that was! It’s amazing how God brought me out of that place.”

4. Journaling is a way to record memories

“These handwritten words in the pages of my journal confirm that from an early age I have experienced each encounter in my life twice: once in the world, and once again on the page.”

Terry Tempest Williams

Your journals can become the chronicles of your life – they are your unpublished memoirs, if you will. Cameras can’t capture everything, and there is something very priceless about reading over old journals, recalling and acknowledging the different chapters of your life story. Based on what you write, you may even choose to share your journals with someone someday; maybe a daughter, maybe a spouse. It will provide both you and them with an unfiltered glimpse into the past. And your heart.

Journaling is the evidence of a life lived. Record all those moments that you don’t want to forget; you’ll enjoy reading them over again someday.

5. Journaling helps you heal

“These empty pages are your future, soon to become your past. Twill read the most personal tale you shall ever find in a book.”


Sometimes the things we go through seem almost too painful to put into words; we’d rather repress it than face it head-on. We all have our different coping techniques, and repression has definitely been high on the list for me. So I don’t always feel like journaling. In fact, when really horrible things happen, I’d rather not acknowledge it – even to myself. For example, I’ve been avoiding writing about a certain experience in a my journal for several weeks now. Last night, I finally confronted it in my own way, and I felt freer afterwards.

You don’t have to force yourself to write down what is too painful to express, but you might be surprised by how you feel after getting it out. Working through each phase of the grieving process is a part of healing, and writing down your thoughts as you go through your trials will help you in accepting your circumstances. 

6. Journaling is synonymous with self-discovery

“Often as writers, we are surprised by what we learn about ourselves. It runs counter to what we’ve thought about who we are. But it is closer to the truth.”

Rob Bignell

To journal honestly is to take a good, long look at yourself in a mirror built for souls. I used to struggle with truthfulness when it came to journaling. I’d rather have been lenient, painting myself as the victim of life’s circumstances, a damsel in distress. I shielded myself from my own bitterness and anger. But, with time, I realized that I would rather give an exact representation of my thoughts and feelings than have to face them later – the hidden shadows in a sentence made of sunshine.

The truth is, we’d rather not face that we are shallow, mean, resentful, and silly. But how else will we grow? The Bible teaches that we must confess our sins before we can be forgiven and made new. To confess means to acknowledge. And acknowledgment happens naturally when you journal. You are forced to see yourself for what you are. You come to understand yourself.

Through journaling, you will grow and you will change. Embrace it. It’s all a part of the process.

7. Journaling is a safe place

“And so I just kept writing to myself.”

Kimberly Novosel

My journals are like a scribe’s record of secret closet meetings. The Bible speaks about the secret place – a place where you are alone with the Lord, a place where you find His presence. My journals are the essence of what that secret place means to me. They see the worst of me – they see my frustration, my anger, my bitterness – and still, empty pages remain, waiting to be filled. My journals also see what is most fragile about me, the hidden wounds that no one but the Lord knows of, and I can trust that it will remain that way. There’s no one but me and God there.

It’s an escape; it’s a place to run to – a place that doesn’t exist within the crowded walls of my home. It’s where I pour out my heart with only God as my witness.

In our lives, we are often faced with terrible challenges and bitter truths. Journaling provides a safe place where you can express what you’re going through.

I hope this entry inspires you to keep a journal!

“Why, then, do I set before You an ordered account of so many things? it’s certainly not through me that You know them. But I’m stirring up love for You in myself and in those who read this so that we may all say, great is the Lord and highly worthy to be praised. I tell my story for love of Your love.”

Augustine of Hippo

Memoir, Writing


“My book… was written on stalled subway cars, noisy cafes, and park benches…”

— Lincoln Michel

I wrote my book in between music classes on loose-sleeve paper in a library. My oboe sat on the floor at my feet and in my ears I had a cheap pair of earphones. I couldn’t write much in those days – the most I ever finished was a chapter or two. It was still too raw.

I wrote my book in the public library with my father at my side. He was creating a multilevel marketing company; I was writing books. I brought my USB stick and inserted it into the old computer. The librarian hovered nearby, anxious to be of assistance. When the afternoon had drawn to a close, we could hear the chains jingling on the gate outside, signaling the end of the work day. We would pack up our things – my father, his papers, me, my bag – and say goodbye to the librarian. We rode home through the city on our bikes.

I wrote my book at night, when the generator had run out of gas, and I was all alone in my Dad’s office downstairs in the dark, my laptop hooked up to a cable that ran out the screen door and to the car that was parked ten feet away, the hood up, wires entangling around the small electrical box that was attached to the car’s battery. We had no electricity during that year and had to charge our electronics by the battery in the car; every half hour, I would go out to the car, climb into the front seat, and turn on the engine, letting the battery recharge while I sat in the dark, damp silence.

I wrote my book sitting on my bed, staring at the unpainted walls of my new bedroom. Sweat formed on my upper lip, my temples, and I shifted uncomfortably, staring at the same pages on the same old Word document. Nothing changed much during those months.

I wrote my book on the back porch of our apartment, beneath the shade of a single tree – the which I often stared at, wondering how it got there, surrounded as it was by buildings and broken down gates. The fading sun glinted on my laptop screen.

I wrote my book after poring over old pictures, articles, newspaper clippings, journals, and medical notes. I compiled a box full of this sort of memorabilia.

I wrote my book at the dining room table. The television was blaring and the children played on the balcony outside the window. Trucks blared as they lumbered past and tires screeched as teenagers in their cheap, little cars raced past our humble little apartment – the Bucket House, as we called it, because of the leaks in the ceiling – blasting reggaeton music.

I wrote my book on a breaking down laptop, the wire rigged up to keep the battery charging. I kept it on a little desk next to my bed. No more sitting at the dining room table or hiding on the porch out back. I was stuck on my bed, staring at the now painted walls, struggling – as I had for years now – to put down on paper the words that tumbled around inside my head.

I wrote my book on the bedroom floor of a stranger’s house, now on my sister’s laptop. “Hiding out again?” People joked with me. I didn’t try to explain.

I wrote my book sitting in the living room of our new house. It was quieter now. The children still played and now there was the barking of dogs and the neighing of horses, but the trucks and screeching cars were gone. I wrote every day and the months passed quickly. At night, I scribbled my thoughts on scraps of paper in the dark and in the morning, tried to decipher them.

On New Years Day, 2015, I told my father that I had a present for him. I was newly twenty. The project that had encompassed my life from the time I was thirteen until the week I left behind the number nineteen had come to something of an end.

“I finished my book,” I told him.

“This is how you do it: you sit down at the keyboard and you put one word after another until its done. It’s that easy, and that hard.”

Neil Gaiman

Writing prompt: where and how did you write your book? 


I saw this mini Q&A on Advice To Writers and I thought it’d be fun to do the tag!


How did you become a writer? 

Through reading. I always adored books. As a child, I wasn’t as interested in writing as I was reading – probably because I was inherently lazy, and I just remember being exhausted at the idea of figuring out an entire story and creating characters when I really just wanted to continue traveling to other worlds, without all the tedious bother of writing it down. But I did write. Poems, short stories, etc. I remember having a running series about a girl named Lisa when I was around nine years old: Lisa’s father had a private jet and Lisa spent her days cozily nestled on a plush seat, stroking her white kitten while tapping away on her high-speed laptop (fantasies circa 2003). I remember writing another story… it took place on Christmas Eve, and a little girl with a baby brother named Elijah wakes to a winter wonderland, neighbors cheerily calling out greetings outside her window as they string their houses with twinkling lights. Downstairs the scent of muffins and cinnamon wafts from the kitchen where said little girl’s mother happily bakes enough to feed a small army. #lifegoals

From these two examples, you can learn several things about me: I was obsessed with having a laptop of my very own (I once saw a business associate of my father show a small group of people a demonstration on her laptop and I literally could not stop thinking about it after that). I was obsessed with kittens. I was obsessed with my little brother Elijah. I was obsessed with the idea of traveling. I liked to fantasize about my father being ridiculously wealthy. I grew up in Puerto Rico and the closest I came to winter or snow was the television set, but I liked to dream about it all the same. And, naturally, food. Because what kid doesn’t dream about buckets and buckets of baked goods?

Name your writing influences (writers, books, teachers, etc.):

Writers: Harper Lee, Ann Brashares, Emily Dickinson, Irving Stone, M.L. Stedman, Laura Hillenbrand, Tracy Chevalier, Jane Austen, L.M. Montgomery, Charlotte Bronte… and so many more, it’s kind of ridiculous. But I’ll leave it at this.

Books: To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, The Agony and the Ecstasy by Irving stone, Girl With a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier, The Light Between Oceans by M.L. Stedman, Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, Night by Elie Wiesel, The Diary of Anne Frank…

When and where do you write? 

At my dining room table, surrounded by people. Mostly during the afternoon.

What are you working on now? 

I’m starting the preliminary work on my second book, which is the second half of my memoir. I actually have a large chunk of it written, but I’m working on an outline.

I also have a couple of fictional pieces that I work on when I have spare time.

Have you ever suffered from writer’s block?

Every day of my life. Isn’t that somewhat counter-productive? You might be thinking.

The answer is yes, it’s as counter-productive as you can imagine. Join me in my bewilderment.

What’s your advice to new writers?

Read as much and as often as possible. Read everything. You’ll soon be able to differentiate between the Good and the Not Good, and from there you’ll start forming your own opinions on writing style, giving natural way to your developing your own.

The reading of all good books is like a conversation with the finest minds of past centuries.




Last week, I wrote a post on my search for inspiration for writing. Since that day, I have been puzzling over its absence, wondering where on earth it could have gone and why I can’t seem to grab hold of it now.

In my puzzlement, I stumbled upon this reality:

I stopped reading.

It was the love of reading that drove me to begin writing. It was the desire to create and evoke that led me to put my pen to paper. Because reading is so deeply ingrained in me, I hardly noticed it when I began reading less and less, a natural consequence to reading all the books you own (multiple times) and finding yourself stumped for new ones. I read online occasionally, but not much.

At the beginning of the month, I posted that I wanted to read more this month – and I have been. Dutifully, I read some books my friend lent me, A Countess Below Stairs (meh) and Forever in Blue (interesting + well-written). The former suffered from lack of character development, amongst its other issues; the latter made me look up its author, wondering what else she had written. Discovering that Ann Brashares is actually, like, a really good writer, I read Sisterhood Everlasting (totally jumping on the Sisterhood parade fourteen years late: go me!) and I was overwhelmed with nostalgia and, interestingly enough, inspiration.

It’d been so long since I read a good book.

I found myself suddenly itching to write. Write anything. Something moving, intriguing, insightful. Something that managed to evoke the same yearning, understanding, resonance, and that this book did in me.

And then I realized this is what used to inspire me. This is why I started writing in the first place.

Incidentally, I also realized, in the same token, that I’ve become something of a book snob. I started one book a couple nights ago, a novel my sister won in a giveaway, and snorted over it in snobbish superiority (my, what a pretty picture I give thee). It seemed like it could be interesting enough, in a fifteen-year-old-me-would-gasp-and-giggle-over-this kind of way, but alas, I’ve matured past the point of being able to enjoy the type. I kept pointing out its errors: where is the character development? What a Mary Sue. Oh, please, three seconds in her presence and he’s in love – bah! No back story. Let me guess – poor, sweet, innocent creature, the victim of lecherous eyes and abusive parents, sob! 

(Really, by this point, I was sick of my inner critic. What a highbrow she is!)

I skipped ahead, chanced upon the big climactic scene of the book, read it, found it could have been more intriguing if better executed, and laid the book aside. Not a bad book for fifteen year old me, I might add. Just a bit too young for great, old twenty year old me.

Anyway! I ramble. The point of this blog was to announce that I have found the fountain of inspiration and I plan to tend it well. Here’s a list of books that I personally found well-written, moving, well-plotted (is that a word?), and/or ultimately inspiring, in no particular order.

  1. downloadTo Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee: Gahh. Must I even? Can I even? I am not qualified to verbalize how much I love this book. How purely genius it is. The skill of the writing, the authenticity, the characters – oh the characters!, the themes and morality it presents… Honestly. It deserves pages and pages worth of enraptured, meticulously detailed impressions of its worth, but I’ll leave you with this: there’s a reason it’s a classic. That is all.
  2.  76847 Girl With A Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier: This book is one of my favorites. I first read it as a twelve year old when it had somehow wandered into my house in a stack of used books which twenty year old me is horrified I dared to read (always so desperate for a new book, I usually grabbed at whatever my itching fingers could find, oblivious as to the effects of its contents). While it’s true that this book’s themes are a tad too mature for a twelve year old, it’s nonetheless a book I can appreciate now: it has a subtle quality to it, an understated approach that is somehow genius in its execution. The characterization is my favorite: Griet’s shrewdness, her quickness, and understanding. How quiet and demure she must have seemed on the outside: how many thoughts on the inside; how much she perceived with her keen, calculating eyes. This book is another one of those that I could go on and on about.
  3. jane-eyre-cover-image Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë: Another classic that has earned its title. The passion, the prose, the characters… this is a book I go back to over and over again as the years go on. The writing is genius, the building suspense in its pages is fully realized in the most gratifying manner, and again, the passion! It’s a passion only found in the best of literature. My favorite scene in the book, as terrible as this may sound, is the scene after the botched fail of a wedding, after Jane realizes Mr. Rochester’s secret, when she tells him that she must leave, that she will not be his mistress. It’s like the most epic break-up scene of all time, and I love it ardently.
  4. Sisterhoodeverlasting Sisterhood Everlasting by Ann Brashares: this is the kind of book I may only read once. If I read it again, it will be in a year or so when I can experience all the pathos and anguish afresh. I found this novel to be somewhat brilliant. Incredibly insightful, deeply resonant, I was swept away in the grief and loss these characters experience, amazed at the skill of the author, and knee-deep in introspective musings. I want to read everything this woman has ever written. Seriously.
  5. the-agony-and-the-ecstasy-400x400-imadg35cqfffcyp3 The Agony and the Ecstasy by Irving Stone: Thick, wordy, intoxicating. Written with the hand of a painter: I found it to be a masterpiece, as thrilling and intense and interesting as it’s protagonist. I fell in love with Michelangelo, Florence, and Irving Stone through this book.

I must sign off in a rush, I’m afraid. I’m on the hunt for more books like the aforementioned: any recommendations? Leave me a comment, and tell me what inspires you! 

Memoir, Writing


Now that the outlines are out of the way, I have turned to working on the final chapter of my book. It seems a little ridiculous, even to me, that it has taken so long. I’ve already had a few people read my manuscript and I’ve had to embarrassingly inform them all that the last chapter is still in the works. Today I sat down to work on it and I was surprised, yet again, by the total lack of inspiration that I found myself confronted with.

I think it’s a combination of the fact that somewhere in between announcing to my family that I had finished my book and present time, my brain has switched off writing. Not writing in general, but writing, specifically, related to producing new content for this book. I feel like my inner writing genius is kicking back somewhere in the figurative Bahamas, sipping on a piña colada, while I roam empty beaches, shouting desperately for help.

“This is how you do it: you sit down at the keyboard and you put one word after another until it’s done. It’s that easy, and it’s that hard.”

Neil Gaiman

Now that I know what my direction is in terms of publishing, I’m more keen than ever to make sure that my book says what I want it to say, in the way that I want to say it. And that pressure only intensifies when I think about the ending and having it hit all those marks that I want it to.

But the inspiration just isn’t flowing.

It’s sitting like a stagnant pond instead of gushing like a river.

I have several pages worth of unfinished sentences, broken statements, and randomly placed paragraphs, and it all seems so unrelated. I know what I’m trying to say… I think. But it’s not meshing. It’s not coming together. I’m a little perplexed even as I write this.

I want to find that niche of inspiration, that little burning fire within that puts the wind in the fingers, the words on the paper, but I’m stuck.

I’m reading this article on overcoming writer’s block and it’s super helpful, but anyone else have any tips for me? I feel like I just need to get in the right mindset and it will just come together perfectly, but that mindset is being annoyingly elusive.

Abjgkrnlgbrfehgbvlkh perfectly sums up my current mood. I think it’s fitting that this isn’t a word.

Any tips on finding inspiration? What works for you, fellow friend?



If you have yet to take a peek at my ABOUT section, then I suggest you go and pop over for a general review on all things that constitute the make-up of yours truly 🙂

Did it? Yeah? Good.


So! Now you know a few things about me. I’m 20 years old, I’m a writer, I live in Puerto Rico, I have a gazillion siblings, I’m writing the first of two parts of my family’s STORY, and I love books, cats, chocolate, Europe, tea, coffee, reading, writing, and so on and so forth. All those clichés, with the added twist of a truly unorthodox family and an unquenchable penchant for using big words in situations that don’t require them. I am wildly indecisive. I also tend to over-think and analyze absolutely everything, as well as ponder the deeper meanings to life and grief and trauma and happiness, etc. My posts will duly reflect this, of that I have no doubt.

I have been tip-toeing around the blogosphere for over a year now, peeking in figurative windows and scribbling notes on how to go about this whole thing. I tried my hand at Blogger but I walked into too many closed doors. Just when I thought I was starting to understand the fundamentals of the process, I had a collective moment of “aw, what the heck,” and just decided to go for it (that would be the current mood that I’m writing in, FYI). I have my little plans and ideas for this blog, and I hope it grows and changes as I do, reflecting all that I’m learning and beginning to understand about the world, about God, about writing, life, my family, and how it all relates. In order to understand a little better about where I’m coming from, check out OUR STORY. It’s from that murky cesspool of pain that we’ve emerged and my goal, my hope, is to be able to share it with the world.

So now that you know a bit about me, how about you leave me a comment telling me a bit about you? 🙂