Elora Nicole Ramirez's Blog, page 15

when stories and dreamers collide.

I don't know when I first saw Melissa in my twitter feed. Her posts she published were guttural, straight from her core. Her stories were vulnerable and hilarious and had the tint of a writer who believes in her words. And her friends? 

One thing was clear immediately: she ran with giants who dream.

When I was looking for partners for Rebel Diaries, women who know what it's like to take the leap of writing what you really want to write—even if it makes your breath hitch—Melissa was one of my first asks. She said yes immediately and within an hour sent me a piece that had been sitting on her computer for months. 

"I've had this written for a while and never shared it," she said. "I think I know why now. Take it. It's yours. Let me know if I can do anything else." 

It's not every day you come across a kindred who understands the way a dream can take over you and fill every fiber and pulse through every vein. Do you know those dreams? The ones that grab you by the ankles and dangle you over a cliff until you leap?

Melissa knows. Over the past few months, we've had conversations surrounding dreams and the relentless pursuit of your purpose. It's hard. There are always setbacks (Resistance is a beast, you know) and sometimes, you want to throw in the towel.

And since I've known her, Melissa has thrown the towel back in my face multiple times.

Last week, she took the leap:

Inside of you is a dream that wants to mutiny. Maybe it already has. Maybe you can feel it growing in you. Maybe you haven't even found it yet. My journey, these stories, let them shine light on your own dream, on your journey. When the desire to the live the adventure you were created for overwhelms the willingness to live the mundane. It comes from certainty of gifting. It is called the mutiny of dreamers...

Anyone can live with a dream inside. It takes someone with gumption to act on those dreams. I want to help Melissa with the mutiny, and so I've devised a little plan.

I have a limited number of spots available for coaching this fall. Do you have a dream inside that's stuck? Do you need to find language for this story haunting you? Maybe there are words vibrating in those bones of yours and you don't know how to get them out.

Let's work it out. I've worked with entrepreneurs needing to fine-tune their packages. I've helped novelists find wings for their plot. I've guided memoirists in the fine line of telling your story well. I've worked with photographers, artists, dreamers, leaders of nonprofits, readers and teachers and anyone with a creative bent that needed an extra boost in getting their dream untangled. 

And in getting your dream untangled, you'll be helping someone act on theirs.

Book a coaching session before midnight on September 8 and 50% of the proceeds will go to Melissa's dream. We'll meet via Skype and with my intuitive guidance we can work through the steps of artistic visioning. You'll leave with cohesion, understanding and steps to find your own rhythm to achieve your dream.

Interested? 

Fill out the form below. I'll get back with you in 24 hours.

Can't wait to work with you.

 

Name *
Name



First Name



Last Name


























Email Address *









































Coaching Packages start at 90 dollars. How many are you wanting to book? *















































Message *
What are you wanting to accomplish in coaching? What dream is causing a mutiny inside of you?














































Thank you!

the book that became a favorite and the one I threw away.

In the past week, I've read two books.

One became a favorite of mine. 

The other turned into ash and scraps of paper as I ripped it up and threw it away, burning the rest taking the form of quotes on journal pages. 

A quick aside: I love literature, and because of this deep admiration, never really condone the burning of books. I mean, Fahrenheit 451 is one of my favorite books and I can assure you it is not, in my case, a pleasure to burn. I've only ever thrown away one other book. However, in this moment, I could not ignore the shaking in my bones. Maybe you've been there? There are countless reasons, one of which I would be willing to say it was nonfiction and written as truth. I won't release the name of the book, or include it in my Goodreads as one I couldn't finish. I believe in people finding their own way with words and books and if you're really curious about it, shoot me a message. We can chat more about it. 

Moving on.

A couple years ago, I was at the STORY conference when Andrew Klavan began speaking of his experience reading Crime and Punishment. It was his conversion story, set in between the pages of a plot ripe with grace and beauty.

I thought of this story as I watched flames lick the cover of the book I had been so interested in reading. The one I purchased seven months ago, almost to the day. The other half of Klavan's tale includes a book that's dark and twisted and revealed to him the path he was taking. He too had read two books, with one shaking him to the core with the evil and darkness apparent.

Put simply, he didn't want the narrative of the second one. He wanted the grace and beauty, even in moments of discomfort and darkness.

I don't often write about my spirituality, mostly because I've grown to believe the relationship I have with God is inherently intimate, and therefore not meant to be put on display. However, in this moment all of those intentions went rogue.

I bolted out of bed.
I grabbed the book. 
I started ripping out the pages, whispering prayers and curse words alike.

You can attribute this reaction to the firm lineage of righteous indignation pulsing in my blood. There was no fucking way I would allow those words in my home any longer.

I can't tell you how viscerally I reacted to this second book last night. I can try, pointing to posts written days after receiving it in the mail. I can attempt to mention the synchronicity of those closest to me speaking truth. 

Or I can explain the conversation I had with my sister on the phone, when I once again realized the power of words placed with intention. It reminded me of what I wanted my words to create: hope, second chances, redemption, love, the beauty of small yet breathtaking human moments. 

And the realization that I can't fill my own story—the one I'm living—with hope and beauty when I'm reading words built around lies and darkness and the power that feeds off the very truth I'm trying to share.

So I build my list slowly, with intention. I'm done taking the words of others as gold. I know what Gold is, and I recognize the moments her name is plastered on tarnished brass. I don't want the words of trite suppositions filling the space meant for belonging and restoration. I've pondered this for a few months now, how as a writer, reading serves as filling up that internal reservoir. 

I will be fierce in my execution of good reads, because I want more. I want the words that leave me hanging on for dear life. I want the stories that leave me breathless and aching to write. My life—my story—my words deserve nothing less. 

This means something for this space: an addition of sorts, a series tried about twice over and probably three years past its time: Elora Reads. The goals being specificity, honesty and ingesting words that make me want to turn around and create.

Because I'm done with the words that stifle that fire. They're now ash in my disposal. They're burning in the rancid dumpster heat.

First up and later this week: The Goldfinch—the book that became a favorite.

because I'm into you, August

In August, I returned to roots—looking for greenery and trees wherever I could. 

August showed herself with roots and chakras as I began working through some things that apparently weren't going to leave me alone. If July came as clarity, luminosity and embodiment, August proved to be alchemic and cohesive.

In fact, as you read this I'm currently on a two week hiatus from social media (thank you, internet scheduling gods). It's not the beach, but it's my couch and if I'm doing this right, there's a book in my lap and a fruity drink in my hand. 

So you know, basically the beach without the amazing view and the gritty sand.

books read :: 

Ugly Love, Colleen Hoover - Ever since one of my friends turned me on to Hoover's writing (way back when SLAMMED was a new release) I've read everything she's published. I was slightly disappointed with her last book, but UGLY LOVE was read in a few hours. It just may be my favorite of hers—primarily because of her toying with structure in order to show two different view points. Loved that concept.

APE: How to Publish a Book, Guy Kawasaki - If you're looking to self-publish, man. This is the way to go. Kawasaki offers so much information in this book I know I'll be referencing it in the future. I used this to beef up my own knowledge (since I only know fiction-related indie publishing) because of a certain-something I'm cooking up behind the scenes. Grab this book if you're interested in pushing out your own words, but buy the paperback because of underlining and tabbing. You'll want it.

Speak, Nish Weiseth - It was a no-brainer for me to have this book on the day of release. I'm pretty sure I pre-ordered it way back in March or April or whenever it went live on Amazon. I loved working with Nish when I wrote for Deeper Story, and this book speaks to her desire for good and true story-telling rather than pounding on our platforms and yelling out our opinions. Grateful for her vision.

Stupid Girl, Cindy Miles - This book was engaging, but a little disappointing. I still enjoyed it, and I would recommend it for a quick read (I found it for free on Netgalley) but the title and the ending just made me cringe. I'm curious to see where Miles is going with the series. 

This Sky, Autumn Doughton - I've been a huge fan of Doughton's writing since finding her last summer, and this book is no exception. I loved the quirky characters and the way she pushed against some of the more common motifs within indie plot-lines. 

The Goldfinch, Donna Tartt - I have ALL OF THE THOUGHTS about this book, and will be writing more about it next week. It did something to me, I believe. Especially that ending. MAN OH MAN that ending.

books still reading ::   

The Enneagram, A Christian Perspective, Richard Rohr 

The Icarus Deception, Seth Godin

Winter's Tale, Mark Helprin 

Book of Life, Deborah Harkness

for the love of poetry ::  

Has it ever occurred to you
it oughtn't to be
it's scarlet fever of the soul.
I choose to do it my way.

-  me, a found poem from this month in my art journal

television ::  

We binge-watched Luther last month but have slowed down considerably these past few weeks because holy cow. It's like the intensity just grows and grows and grows until I can't even take it anymore. There have been plenty of nights where we're watching the show and then the credits roll and I'm just left shaking my head. So we turn on New Girl reruns. 

We also started watching The Killing. I'm intrigued that the entire show is based on one killing — but also I just like to see the rain because I live in central Texas and I forgot what it looks like. 

I also watched the season finale of Scandal and all I can say is OLIVIA POPE YOU CAN'T LEAVE AND DADDY DEAREST IS A HORRIBLE AND MEAN MAN AND HARRISON BETTER BE OKAY. 

I just have feelings about it. 

music :: 

I may have been charged with creating a playlist for a friend's 30th birthday party with the theme of (wait for it) SECOND CHANCE PROM. Other than that, I've basically been listening to this song on repeat >> 

on beauty ::

I've had a minor moment of grief because of canceling my Julep subscription, because I LOVE NAIL COLOR and who doesn't take Discover anymore? Apparently Julep, that's who. 

But that's okay, because I have Essie to fall back on, as well as Sinful. 

Oh and I dyed my hair with Color Brilliance Brights' ROSE and I love it. 

everything else :: 

Thankful for friends who will experiment with me and don't mind having their hands dyed along with my hair. 

Two weeks of reading.Dancing with my friends to songs from our high school years.SOMEWHERE BETWEEN WATER & SKY now available for pre-orderReminders that I am safe and cared for—even when I don't feel it.SynchronicityLaunching the second round of Rebel Diaries with my partner-in-crime Brandy WalkerInvesting in yet another eCourse from Braid Creative (they're brilliant. Check them out. No really.) Surprise books waiting for me in the mail A husband who understands me working late nights so I can eally unplug for two weeksFriends who know me well enough to ask if I'm okay.

What about you? What's made your July magnificent?  

:: Linking up with the amazing Leigh Kramer for her What I'm Into posts ::

shakti energy and knowing when to embrace the rhythm of reading

This post is a special peek into the Rebel Diaries course content. I wrote this for the week of White Space, and it's one of my favorite pieces. Want to figure out how to write what you really want? Registration is open now for the course, and we would love for you to join us.

I am not an achiever. 

At least, not like Brandy.

Where Brandy will run her body into the ground working on her ideas. I exhaust myself by chasing the ideas in my brain and trying to create something out of nothing. 

It's my need for shakti-rhythm I think. Whenever I'm in that creative energy, I will go until I realize I can't go anymore. 

This makes Brandy and I really, really good team. Her Achievement coupled with both our needs for Innovation and Originality and topped with my uncanny ability to connect the dots with Intuitive Research? 

Golden. 

But I can't always be creating. Eventually, if I'm not careful, I'll reach within and come up dry. 

.::.

So there's reading. 

Reading has always been huge for me — when I was younger my uncle would call me Belle from Beauty and the Beast because I would walk around with a book constantly in my hands. I fell asleep reading, I woke up reading, and often in middle school, I would finish about ten novels a week. 

Part of this was my need for escape. My life was deceptively boring, and there was an internal storm I didn't know how to navigate. Reading helped. 

Since dealing with those demons, reading has turned into a way for me to unplug—to dive into another story and remind myself why narrative is so important to me. 

I build other worlds through reading. 
I understand my characters better through reading. 
I create a better business through reading. 

If I'm not reading, it's a sign. I'm diving into that shakti energy, but I'm not remembering the rhythm. And this? It's never good for anyone.

.::.

I'm not sure exactly when it started. I just know one day I was keeled over in exhaustion from the Story Sessions' retreat, and the next I was creating things left and right. 

It was the most exhilarated I'd felt since finished Somewhere Between Water & Sky. 

I developed a rhythm: wake up around 9:00, put on coffee, walk my dog, make some breakfast, and hit the desk at 10. I'd work and create and build until Russ got home, take a break, and then return to work when he went to bed. 

And then I'd work some more. 

This past Saturday I felt my body slowing down. 

I noted a few things: it was the first day off of my steroid regimen for an all-over allergic reaction; it was the moment of exhaustion I often feel the day after my cycle ends; it was the new moon and it was my birthday. 

I have to let go of some things. I kept thinking throughout the day. 

I have to let go. I have to make room for new. 

I went to sleep that night thinking of ways to start fresh. 

.::.

It's 5:40pm and I didn't crack open my laptop until about 40 minutes ago. 

All day long, I've been reading. I'm inhaling these words. Enjoying the quiet and already considering how tomorrow will be a day that I set aside to finish this book that's captured me so completely.

(In fact, when this post goes live I'll probably still be sleeping and I won't even check into the Facebook page until after a massage). 

I need to edit book two. I need to keep organizing my thoughts surrounding the shifts associated with Story Unfolding. I need to schedule emails for courses coming up within the next few months.

But more than those things, I need to breathe. I need to not create just for a moment. I need to not learn. 

By taking a beat and reading, it's going to remind me of the words still inside. And when I reach within to create whatever it is that's calling me next? 

I'll pull out my hand to find words waiting for me.

What are your rhythms? Do you have any? 

the forgotten art of specificity

When I taught AP courses, we had these things called embedded quotes. 

In papers, students were expected to back up their thoughts and assumptions and opinions with specific quotes from the text. 

Like, for instance, writing this —

In his introduction to The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne mentions his desire for people to listen by "again [seizing] the public by the button" (5). This phrase creates the image of a man grabbing one by his collar, forcing his stance. The reader has no choice here. He or she must pay attention to Hawthorne's experiences living in the Custom House.

It wasn't enough to say It's obvious Nathaniel Hawthorne wanted us to pay attention. The students had to show us how they knew this. 

Be specific was something I wrote on almost every single paper that crossed my desk. 

I understood that Bellingham was inherently conflicted, but I wanted them to catch that he was described as "rigidly severe" yet surrounded himself with "worldly enjoyment" (127). 

It wasn't enough for me to read that Cathy was a scary character in East of Eden. Show me how Steinbeck built her as a monster with human skin. 

I knew that John Proctor held his name as something sacred, but I wanted the students to show me they understood the inner turmoil he possessed in giving his name and why he screams at the end of The Crucible "but it is my name! How may I live without my name?" 

Call it metacognition—call it higher level thinking—I just wanted to know my students could take a text and create an argument based on what they read. 

I wanted to know they could use their words well. 

.::.

Since leaving the classroom, I've noticed something. We don't like specificity. It's too much work. 

We say we love a movie, but when pressed for reasons, we mention a brief platitude of it was just really well done.

We gush about a book, and when asked what made it so amazing, we come back with the main guy character was just so hot or I didn't want it to end or it made me stay up all night reading! 

We read a blog post we love and comment yes or this or amen. 

It's in our relationships too. We say someone can absolutely do something, but we don't mention the specific reasons why we see this potential in them. We support, but keep it generic. 

Or someone says something in conversation and we agree, but instead of building on their premise we say ditto or right?! or I know. 

Often, this last one is because we're wanting to talk about something else. We're not really good listeners, as a whole. 

I say we because I'm guilty of all of these times about a million. In a rush to get my point across, I can settle for lesser words. 

But does it work?

Words are important. Our whys are important. I'm starting to reach for specifics, even when it's difficult. If anything, it's slowing me down (which is probably a good thing, honestly) and forcing me to search for the best word, not just the easiest. 

What I've learned: when you begin to take more time building your own personal specifics, this practice will bleed into your writing. 

I'm reading Donna Tartt's The Goldfinch and am amazed by her incredible specificity. I'm only a few chapters in, but there have been numerous times in which she hasn't settled for the typical generic details of characterization. She's aiming for inclusion of human moments — those motions and thoughts we practice without realization. 

The vigilance of surroundings. 
The marking of time. 
The study of personal objects. 
The fantasies involved with difficult relationships. 

Grief is a finicky beast, and she's wrangling him with her words in the beginning of this book. It's mesmerizing and makes me want to keep reading. 

It's also making me more aware of my own movements throughout the day. 

How I always look up at the sky when I take my dog to the park. 
How I look out my study window to watch the wind move the branches of the large oak tree. 
My own marking of time. 
The way my eyes move—and what they focus on most. 
The taste and feel of things—whether it be food or drink or words or situations. 
How many times FedEx or UPS or a moving truck stops in front of the office—and how often this interrupts my flow.

Sure. This makes for longer first drafts. But details never hurt anyone. If anything, they spice up our writing and reveal to others what makes us unique. 

Be specific. 

Don't just tell us something. Show us. Pull a Hawthorne and seize us by our own hyperactive button. Make us want to keep reading, and make us want to come back for more.

clenched fists and haunted faces.

I don't know how to tell you this story.

I don't know how to explain the haunted look in our surrogate son's eyes as he walked down the stairs in our two story house on the east side three years ago. 

My eyes caught the look—the hunched shoulders, the darting eyes, the clenched fists. 

"What's wrong?" I hadn't even gotten two steps in the door. Russ guided me further, his hand on my lower back. 

"They handcuffed me, moms." 

I blinked. "Who?"

"The police." 

This is where the story gets tricky. This is where our son paced up and down the stairs—in his under shirt, gym shorts and crew socks—telling us about the police who came to our door and handcuffed our son and pulled him outside. 

"Why?" It was the only question I could come up with — "why?" 

His hands ran over his face and found each other behind his head. I knew this look too. The one of lost words—of previous trauma—of discouragement. 

"I don't know. There's some robberies in the area? I guess? And they saw me here—I don't know. They thought it was me. They thought it was me and wouldn't listen. They didn't believe me that this was my house."

He shook his head and looked at me. "It didn't even matter that I had a key, moms." 

He sat down on the stairs and clenched and unclenched his fists. 

"I don't know, man. I just don't know. It was messed up. I had to show them pictures. Of us. That's the only way they believed me." 

Maybe you've had those moments where your sense of justice gets a little hazy. I used to teach To Kill a Mockingbird. I know the history. I saw the appreciative glances from students when I refused to use the n-word in our readings.

But this? This was new. 

When I called the precinct the next day, they had no record of an incident at our address. 

I could feel myself getting angry. 

"What do you mean there's no record. Police officers came into my home and handcuffed my son and wouldn't let him back in until he proved he lived here!"

"Ma'am, I understand. Sometimes foster kids have a way with stories, you know?" 

Bullshit. 

I laughed. "And so does this precinct. You can write this down: this is the second time an incident has occurred at this address and nothing has been filed." 

I thought of the week we first moved in—when the pounding of our door startled us awake at 2am. Russ grabbed the gun in his nightstand and tucked it in his sweatpants. I made my way to the door of our room and watched.

"It's just the police," he whispered as he looked through the peephole. 

They didn't flash a badge. They didn't let him know who they were. They just started asking questions. 

"Do you know...." 

"...she doesn't live here anymore."

The only way he knew they were legit was because he saw the flashing lights of their squad car in the distance. They had parked down the street rather than in front of our house. You know. Like in our driveway.

And so again, I was on the phone with someone trying to explain a way the very real situation of my son being handcuffed. 

"Ma'am, now that I'm looking, we do have something mentioned here about a dog?" 

I shook my head out of disbelief. Only then do I remember the squad car creeping by our house later that night when our dog, chasing a cat, raced out into the street and was hit by a speeding car. The tears are threatening now. 

"You have it written down about our dog being hit by a car but not our son being handcuffed?" 

"Ma'am, are you sure your son is telling the truth?"

"Am I..." I pulled the phone away from my ear and glanced at it as if it would change anything. Taking a deep breath I keep talking. "Am I sure he's telling the truth?! Why would he lie about this? Why would he make up a story about police handcuffing him? Why would he when he's scared shitless of doing something that will disappoint us?" 

I close my eyes, images of our son on the stairs, hands shaking and eyes darting every which way in vigilance. The only other time I saw him this upset was when his best friend's father was gunned down in his front yard and all of his memories of his own father's death came rushing back to haunt him.

Just no. 

"I need to go. Please do better. This is not okay." 

I hang up with the precinct, too frustrated and lit up from the inside to talk to them anymore. My words were staccato beats, and I'm not making any sense to them. I could hear their disbelief in the tone of voice.

That familiar weight started building in my chest and I collapsed on our bed, eyes looking out of the blinds on our window to a street wrought with drug abuse, neglect and the stigma of location.

How do you fight the imbalances of power?

How do you live when everything you were told is washed clean and found false?

How do you look your son in the eye and tell him everything will be okay when you don't even know if that's a lie? 

Before he was our son, before he took up residence in our hearts and home and co-opted a spare bedroom for dance crew practice, I heard his story. It broke my heart even then, and I noticed a resilience in this man-boy that wouldn't take nothing off nobody. 

He has anger. Everyone knows it. There were multiple times where he left our presence needing to blow off steam by walking or running or labbing — getting together with other dancers. In one of our first conversations at the house we watched youtube videos as he spoke with animation about krumping and how the creator of the dance-style did it out of recognition of anger. 

"It's about getting our anger out, moms. Punchin' the air instead of punchin' faces, you know?"

I close my eyes and see the clenched fists by his sides that night he was handcuffed. 

a letter to the tired ones.

I woke up this morning with my mind on the tired ones. 

You know who you are. 

The ones contemplating quitting, the ones who can't take one more negative word about their lifestyle or brand or book or artistic goal. 

The ones who cried last night because it feels the brick wall in front of them is made up out of people who just don't get it (and these are the ones who probably should be supporting you the most).

Am I talking to you? It's devastating, isn't it? Negativity can bring you down in an instant. And here's the secret that so many artists try not to think about: negativity will happen. 

Failure will happen. 

Does this describe you? Are the words of others (or maybe even the lack of them) pushing you to consider closing up shop and leaving your art for good?

I see you.

Diving into the creative life is hard. It's isolating. People aren't able to see the way you work yourself to the bone every single day. They don't know the sacrifices made or the frustration building up inside. 

And that's okay. 

Because what they do see? The beauty you release into the world? That makes all the difference. 

So keep creating that art, love. Keep pushing for the words you know will come. Rest for a bit if you must, let the fallow ground gain strength, and then get those hands dirty and plan what you know will be your best work yet. 

It's okay if no one understands. 

You do.

That loneliness? It's the quiet song of inspiration. That frustration? There's anger there that could move people to action. That exhaustion? It's a sign that the creative work within just needs a bit of air to breathe before launching out into the world. 

No one creates anything worth sharing when they're pounding the keys while looking at someone else's manuscript. Keep that head down. Keep those eyes focused. Breathe in the atmosphere of your Muse. 

And then finish. 

I can't wait to see what you create.

cover reveal :: SOMEWHERE BETWEEN WATER & SKY

When I contacted Sarah from Okay Creations to design the cover for SOMEWHERE BETWEEN WATER & SKY, I knew it was going to be good. 

My only request? EVERY SHATTERED THING's cover was dark and I loved that—it was so indicative of the story. This book? I wanted color. I wanted vibrancy. I gave her the blurb and she ran with it and....

....well, you can see for yourself :: 

I heard it said once that every human is a story with skin. 
If this is true, paragraphs would be etched in the scars on my wrists. 
Whole chapters could be written about the way my heart pounds when I startle awake.
And every single one of my tears could fill a book.
But stories, with all their promise, only leave room for disappointment. I don’t have room for that anymore. I left it all—the hope, the love, the promise—back in my old life with the ghosts I’d rather forget: Jude. Emma. Pacey.
Kevin.
This is how I dare to move forward and to believe in a new beginning. I let go of the old. I just grab the new and run. I don’t wait around anymore. I can’t.
Waiting leaves room for the voices. 
Somewhere between water and sky, I'll find a way to burn these voices to the ground.

I KNOW RIGHT?!

Currently, I am in the midst of editing, and really-really can't wait to get the book in your hands. It comes out SEPTEMBER 18 on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Kobo. Mark your calendars. 

Oh and, if you haven't read EVERY SHATTERED THING, grab your copy here. It's only 99 cents for the eBook version.

Also, while you're at it, make sure to add SOMEWHERE BETWEEN WATER & SKY on Goodreads and check out this exclusive excerpt (all other cover reveal posts share a scene from the first chapter) - 

.::.

We pull up to Sunset Cliffs and there’s not a soul in sight. Jessa takes the rubber band around her wrist and lifts and twists her hair into a high bun to fight the wind.

“I can’t believe there’s no one here.” 

I can’t either. I breathe in deep—smelling the ocean and feeling the wind blow my hair loose of its braid. I don’t even care. I walk to the edge of the cliff and hold my hands to my chest as if to keep the ache inside.

Sometimes beauty hurts you with her power.

The waves are rushing up to the cliff and crashing against the rock, spraying salt water up above. My flesh erupts in goosebumps and I shiver. I don’t know if I believe in holy spaces. But here? I gaze out to the almost imperceptible line where water meets sky. 

Here, everything seems sacred.

A wave crashes beneath me and the foam sprays up and over the ledge, baptizing my feet. I breathe in quick and blink away the tears. It’s almost too much. I hesitate, wondering if I should just walk away. Maybe I’m making too much of things. 

But the waves seem to take on a different chorus, beckoning me closer and closer to the edge. 

I find a spot that’s dry and sit down, curling my legs into my chest and resting my chin on my knees. 

The sky is screaming too, but this time I’m not sure I want to hear.

She’s begging me to remember mornings spent watching her grab hold of the blackness and edging it out for another day. 

Begging me to hold on—to believe—to rest in second chances. 

Because there’s always another day coming, right? 

But there’s also the ending—the way the colors give in to the darkness and disappear for a moment. 

Which one of those is truth? 

I sit and listen to the chorus above and below me, wondering if just maybe, that’s where my hope is: somewhere in the middle between water and sky.

Speaking of hope. 

I bite my lip and close my eyes against Jessa and Ren’s giggles behind me. Their happiness reminds me of piggybacks under the night sky and falling stars and running from trains and kissing to beat the storm. A tear trickles down my face and I bury my head in between my legs before raising it again to watch the sun dip below the horizon, the waves gaining intensity and rush as the tide moves inland.

Never leave me, he said. I roll my eyes and feel the anger brimming beneath the surface. If only I knew that “never leave me” meant more for job security than true love. The fissure within cracks a little more and I let my shoulders slump inward to mind the pain.

Sometimes, a broken heart needs to see the darkness take over to know she’s not alone.

because I'm into you, July

Coffee and magenta lipstick. Oh my. 

If I can summarize July in any way, it would be through the words of clarity, luminosity and embodiment. 

It was a month of learning curves, for sure. But even more it was the month of fully accepting and embracing who I am in this season and celebrating with those I love. I entered into the month marking nine years being a Mrs. and ended the month 32 and ready for the dreams taking shape for this next year. 

2014 has been the year of soft — learning more about what makes me move in this flesh and bone. I'm learning more and more — and loving what I find. And I just may have the beginnings of my word for 2015. 

books read :: 

#GIRLBOSS, Sophia Amoruso - I saw a picture of this book on Instagram and immediately went to find it online. Snarky, honest, and at times completely unconventional, #GIRLBOSS was exactly the read I needed to jumpstart my understanding of what it means to be a creative entrepreneur. 

Warm Bodies, Isaac Marion - A tale of a zombie-turning-human again? Sure I'll bite. Great summer read for a local book club. Wasn't disappointed. 

The Here and Now, Ann Brashares - This was one of those reads where I would love the direction Brashares was taking and then suddenly, I was left wondering what the hell was going on. Way too many subplots, I think. Over all I enjoyed it, but I probably was more thrilled about the cover design than the actual plot. 

Landline, Rainbow Rowell - it's no surprise I'm a huge fan of Rowell. This book is no exception—a brilliant and honest look at modern marriage and friendships with a slight nod to paranormal elements. Bonus: her dialogue is still the best out there as far as I'm concerned.

Conversion, Katherine Howe - my favorite book of the month/summer/year so far. I'm serious. Listen, I'm a huge fan of The Crucible and so any book that chooses to tie into the themes of hysteria as well as the pressure high school students are under now, it's just brilliant. My favorite line just might be the APUSH instructor looking at the students and saying (describing Miller's play), "...and because it's Arthur Miller, it's not about the Salem Witch Trials. It's about sex." 

Um. Yes. Spot on. All my geeky-literary respect and mad props to you, Katherine Howe.

books still reading ::   

The Enneagram, A Christian Perspective, Richard Rohr 

Linchpin, Seth Godin

Winter's Tale, Mark Helprin 

Book of Life, Deborah Harkness

for the love of poetry ::  

There are fundamental values
underneath tonight
- and every other night - 
I don't want to get self-conscious
inhibited about it. 
I'd like to leave that entirely 
to you.

-  me, a found poem from this month in my art journal

television ::  

I'm mourning the fact that we finished Chuck earlier this month (but how cute was that series finale). We also finished Orange is the New Black, with me bouncing up and down on the couch as you-know-who did you-know-what in the last few seconds of the season.

And, in the vein of needing to just shut the laptop and unplug, I've had TWO FULL DAYS of Pretty Little Liars binge watching. Hello, Ezra. When did you get so creepy? And how 'bout that season 4 finale? A is most definitely for answers.

Finally. Luther. Oh my. 

music :: 

Definitely still listening to Somewhere Between Water & Sky's playlist as well as this one I created a few months ago for a secret project I'll be starting soon. 

Also? This song from Yuna has been on NONSTOP. 

on beauty ::

I'm still obsessed with violet & magenta lip color. Particularly this line from Bite Beauty. Other than that, July wasn't necessarily a month for beauty—considering I had an allergic reaction to arnica covering a majority of my body for most of the month. 

But yay steroid pills. And lipstick. 

And haircuts from Bird's Barbershop.

everything else :: 

The weekly letter with artistic visioning for the everyday creative. Click on the picture to sign up! 

Celebrating nine years of marriage with my loveClarity that comes after chaosThe launch of ten story-coaches within Story UnfoldingLanguage surrounding where I want to go Falling back in love with Somewhere Between Water & SkyWeekly art-journaling dates with my closest friendsTaking risks and stretching into this skin of creative entrepreneurInvesting in eCourses from Indie Shopography as well as Braid Creative (they're brilliant. Check them out. No really.) Dinner with Preston & Hilary YanceyGetting the cover to book two (cover reveal next week!)Celebrating 32 years with my peopleDays spent reading just because. Launching the 30-Days of prompts

July brought a tradition far too long in the making: Sunday evening wine and art journaling. 

What about you? What's made your July magnificent?  

:: Linking up with the amazing Leigh Kramer for her What I'm Into posts ::

making hustle your friend.

Every week within Story Sessions, the members receive an email focused on the creative life. Sometimes it's encouragement, other times it's equal parts ass-kicking and inspiration. I love writing these emails because they force me to engage in a form of artistic metacognition. Such as this email, copied for you below, on hustle. It's something I've been pondering for a while and was just now able to put to words so I wanted to share it with you. 

.::.

I remembered this past weekend just how much hustle a life of creativity demands.

Editing needs to be done. eCourses need to be brainstormed. Websites need to be updated. Books beg to be read. 

But despite the exhaustion of days spent behind the keyboard, nothing thrills me more than seeing a scene fold into perfection. Saturday and Sunday were sixteen hour days of research, writing, planning and learning. I loved every minute. I felt driven and energized, as if the words on the screen were fuel for my dreams. 

Sometimes, I wonder if the hustle has gotten a bad wrap in the midst of all our talk of rest. 

Don't get me wrong: rhythm and flow are essential for a creative. Seasons are real and sometimes our words look like the fallow ground of winter. 

But if we're not careful, our seasons can shift into spring and that fallow ground can turn into the tough soil of  a land that hasn't been tilled. 

This was me in April. I almost never started book two. If it weren't for coffee with Teresa in the Austin airport and hearing her say "just write the damn book, Elora. You know it's in you" the angst of hidden characters and words would most likely still be eating me alive.

So for you who wait: now is the time. 
For you who doubt: let us believe in you. 
For you who are overwhelmed: just start here.

You know it's in you: the book, the blog post, the drawing, the website, the eCourse, the business. The hustle is your friend. With her, the crazy-making world doesn't seem too crazy anymore. In fact, she often comes arm-in-arm with the Muse. Get to know her. Love her. Welcome her. 

And then sit in that chair and create.

Need more inspiration? Introducing Hustle & Flow: a weekly letter with artistic visioning for the everyday creative. I would love it if you signed up, and I won't ever spam you. Promise. 

You'll get hints and anecdotes about getting unstuck and living your most artistic life within the midst of your every day poetics. Come join us?