Lake Michigan from the view of my friend’s deck.
July has been busy.
The good kind of busy, the kind filled with family and friends, with suitcases packed and unpacked, and with the miles between Michigan and Texas that somehow always seem to disappear when you’re going home.
We’ve traveled from our home in Texas back to our little cabin in Michigan, and somewhere in between, I’ve spent this month redesigning more than just a website. I’ve been redesigning my life a little, too.
I’ve been thinking about the writer and author I want to be in this next chapter of my life. And I’ve realized that I don’t want to rush this part.
Sometimes I think I might be the Grandma Moses of writers.
Maybe my best stories aren’t the ones I need to hurry to write. Maybe they’re the ones I need to live first.
Hemmingway’s cigar stubbed into the bar he hung out at while writing.
I’ve been following the footsteps of Ernest Hemingway through the Northern Michigan places that shaped his childhood, letting myself wonder about the boy who would one day become the writer we all know. Walking those same streets and breathing in the same landscape has reminded me that stories don’t always begin at a desk. Sometimes they begin with a place. With a memory. With a moment that stays with you long enough that you finally have to put it into words.
This summer, I’ve stepped into the cold waters of Lake Michigan.
Leland, Michigan (Fishtown)
I’ve wandered the cozy streets of Leland, one of my favorite little Michigan towns.
I’ve been surrounded by family and friends, and I’ve been reminded again and again that this is the life I want to remember.
I grew these strawberries. They were quickly eaten by someone.
I’m assuming a chipmunk.
My sister will arrive at the cabin in just a week, and I’m already looking forward to long summer days spent floating in the lake, playing cards, talking, laughing, and letting the hours drift by without worrying about what comes next.
This writer is taking some time this summer to live a good life.
A really good life.
This beauty was right next to my porch.
And perhaps that’s where my stories come from now.
They come from the life I’m living.
From the people I love.
From the places that make me feel at home.
From the quiet moments I don’t want to forget.
So, yes, I’m still writing.
I’m still dreaming up stories and collecting memories and thinking about the books I want to bring into the world.
But I’m also learning that the life I live between the words matters just as much as the words themselves.
Because someday, I hope my grandchildren will read the stories I’ve written and find pieces of me there.
But I also hope they will see something else.
I hope they’ll see a woman who lived fully.
Who loved deeply.
Who traveled.
Who laughed.
Who stepped into cold Michigan water just because she could.
Who sat around a card table with her sister and let a summer afternoon slip away.
Who understood that a good life isn’t something we wait for.
It’s something we choose, one ordinary, beautiful day at a time.
And maybe, in the end, that’s the kind of writer I want to be.
A writer who doesn’t just write about a good life.
A writer who lives one.
Blueberry Pancake Publishing 