My Western Sky

I have considered myself a "writer" ever since the fifth grade when I wrote "Sister for Sale" and got to attend the Young Authors' Conference at North Garland High School. I read like a writer--that's why it takes me forever to finish a book. I think like a writer--over-analyzing the smallest of details. I see the world through a writer's eyes--storing moments in the file cabinet of my mind for later inspiration. And like any writer, my goal is to write a book and get it published. This is my ultimate dream. Until this past summer, there was a big problem with my so-called "writing" life. I could effortlessly compose lengthy Facebook and blog posts about the mundane events of my life. I sporadically wrote in my journal about nothing at all. So to call myself a "writer" was hypocritical because here was the problem--I did not have an idea for this book that I so desperately wanted to write.  I was really just a wordy woman posing a

Back in my younger days, New Year's Eve brought a lot of pressure. I felt like I had to do something "cool" to usher in the New Year. Now I'm older, wiser, and so over that. Proof: It's New Year's Eve 2012 and here is how I spent my evening: I survived the mass of humanity at Wal-Mart (with my daughters in tow) and came home to make a fancy dinner of taco salad (I say fancy because I whipped up some Rotel dip in the crock pot. AND I made guacamole.) While the girls watch ed Cars upstairs and snacked on popcorn and hot chocolate, determined to stay up until midnight, Jason lounged on the downstairs sofa and flipped between football and one of the Star Wars movies. I was tucked away in our study, reflecting on the books that I read in 2012. I am sure my younger, hipster self would say, "LAME!" but I say, "BLISS!" (If it's any consolation, I drank champagne with a splash of cranberry juice as I blogged ; it's NYE after all. I am