I’m often amazed how easy it is to tell a story to someone else, but the minute we switch into writing mode, the same story dies on the page. Writing too often equals overthinking. This morning I was coaching my client Katie and we were both caught in this trap. She had an interesting story to use for her blog. As we worked on it together we kept getting lost in “crafting” sentences
Last week I offered free recordings of my Inspirational Blogging class to the first three people to email me the words “I’m in.” I heard from Shirley, who shared with me much more than those two words. She told me about the death of her ex-husband and the power that 30-year-old memories can have.
Add Links to Old Blog Posts in Your New Posts Relevant internal links are a smart way to let readers see old content, reducing your blog’s bounce rate (visitors moving away from your blog after they view one page). You can do this manually or if you are on the self-hosted WordPress platform, use something …
Tell the story you don’t want to tell.
Not that one.
The real one. The one that makes you blush. Or cringe. Or quake.
Go for the jugular.
Write the moment you f**ked up.
Or the instant your life changed.
Kids enter the world with wonderful sensitivities but over time can lose their ability to trust their choices. By tuning into the energy around them and in their food, kids are empowered to feel their best on all levels: body, mind, and spirit. With the help of a friendly ant, a little girl named Genevieve walks us through her way of choosing a meal, letting her fingers lead the way.
Recently two moms I know were diagnosed with adrenal fatigue. I’ve had this myself, and I know it’s no picnic. Or maybe the kind of picnic you throw together on the fly in an effort to impress someone, where you run to Whole Foods for imported olives and chocolate truffles and then to Linens N Things for some marked-down cloth napkins, and maybe to World Market for one of those little folding tables… yeah, maybe that kind of picnic.
When I was pregnant with my first child I was enamored of the idea of using a midwife. I hired a seasoned professional named Lorna. But my son was breech and arrived via a scheduled C-section, so Lorna was replaced by an anesthesiologist, a surgeon, and a floating sea of faceless, masked nurses. I was disappointed that our preparations had been for nothing. Until I awoke one morning, groggy from morphine, to hear her arguing in the hallway with the pediatrician. She was refusing to let him give my son a shot that we hadn’t discussed.
Terminal prepositions. Are they acceptable, or is the “rule” against ending a sentence with a preposition outdated? A Merriam-Webster editor clears up the confusion.
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’ll never forget the moment I put on my first pair of glasses. I was 12 years old, and as my mom and I walked across the optometrist’s parking lot, I slipped on my new tortoise shell frames.
The tree above my head burst from a vague smear of green into hundreds of sharp-edged, clearly-shaped leaves.
Oh! I had no idea how glorious twigs and bark and knotty tree parts could be.
👉 Enjoy dedicated writing space just steps from Lake Michigan
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