They say it is not good practice to write novels with characters based on real people because made up characters can not sue you and because inevitably, real people seem boring on paper. I think these people that say this, have never met the people in my life. It seems to me that for my friends benefit, I should write this stuff down so that they can at least grab a coffee or some popcorn. It has also occurred to me that in order for these people to sue me, they would have to prove their own guilt…

The sad part, I think, is that these people actually live their lives like they are characters in some B-list psychological thriller. It seems that such people are so busy living fake lives, that they never realize the thrill of the truth. They waste time making drama in their lives, and fail to appreciate the simple pleasures that come from appreciating what they already have.

He's figured out that music makes the soul dance... and the bum wiggle.

Sisters... what's a brother to do?

She tells me they are the most beautiful shoes she has ever seen.

A Legacy of Black and White

There is a series of stories I began to read to my girls when they were four.
They are silly little stories that leave you rolling on the floor laughing every time you read them.
They capture the attention of the mischievious small child inside all of us.
When L learned to read, in Grade one... we would read them together...
She read, and I filled in the words she didn't know
By the end of the year, she could read them all herself.
She's almost 12 now... and she still reads those stories.
And here we are, after a year of stressful beginnings in a new school with a new language...
Finally, in a story she has read from beginning to end a hundred times
She realized that French is not the source of the pain
And somewhere inside her a tiny piece snapped in place
That turned an attitude of inadequacy
To one of confidence...
And Lord I pray it continues...
For all our sakes.

Isn't it true of all of us though... that when we least know how to go forward, we need to start by looking back?

And Thank you God for Barbara Park... and Junie B Jones...

The silence is eerie.
The complete absence of sound.
Running feet and chattering voices are quietly tucked in their beds.
Not even a clock ticks in the background to mark the passage of time.
Perhaps as I sit here not noticing the time pass, it has really chosen to stand still.
I am like a child who wonders why people can see her when she covers her eyes.
A woman who lets minutes run through her fingers like sand on the beach.
One day I’ll count the minutes I have left.
Today it seems a luxury to swim in a pool of time not knowing it’s depth.
Let it not be said, that I wasted time…
But that I had time to waste, and spent it instead.
The clock cannot be fooled or cheated
For Cinderella, the chime always sounds too early

Identity. You are born with it; you can change it; you can create a new one; you can have yours stolen. It is a right and a privilege… something that is unique. But some days I feel like my identity fits as well as a cardboard box. When you look at me, you can not see who I am… the curves of my body or the presence of spirit. You see what you want to see… but you don’t see me. And so I created Arwen… the dreamer… the writer… my twin, and yet so different from me. She finds beauty in tragedy, spins tales to ease pain that emanates from deep scares. She scares me, and challenges me, and begs to not be kept silent… but Elissa quiets her voice. Elissa makes writing hard… but Arwen… her words float across paper before they are even thought… Arwen is the writer… Elissa is just complicated.