Sky Donuts: A Higher Truth

Hol(e)y rollers.



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Peel a Kiwi with a Spoon


This is one of my super talents.





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Write Away: First Drafts


It’s okay to hate them. Or simply not love them. They aren’t children.

Even though, they did breach from the creative loins of their writers.

First drafts are definitely some miserable little bastards.

Their dark, pleading eyes mask their horrific imperfections. They squeal, “Please, please…don’t delete me.”

They create agony in their creators by feeding false genius egos and delivering guilty soul torture.

Confession time.

I have loved my first drafts like a sultry LIONESS protecting her newborn, smelly cubs. I’d sooner slash an internal critic, than let one of my little cubs know the truth.

I’ve also smacked myself awake and said, “No, you didn’t get it right the first time. You’re not brilliant. Kill it.”

But first drafts are necessary evils.

They are the creative sparks for a much bigger flame, burning and lighting the way to development and achievement–one little bonfire at a time.

(Get out the marshmallows. It’s writing time.)




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I’m often intrigued with Seattle. I haven’t been there yet. But I’m going to go one day. I’ve just never had a reason to go.

I’m not a random traveler. Especially these days. But, I am intrigued. Yes, a repeat word.

I am intrigued with Seattle. It may be because I really like the show, Frasier. Or I really enjoyed Sleepless in Seattle. Or just my enjoyment of rain.

I reside in Florida. Sometimes, the sun just gets to me. But when it rains a lot, like it does most summers here, I get bummed out.

So, I’m not sure why I’m intrigued with Seattle. Maybe it’s the space needle. That’s probably it. Wheedle on the Needle.

Or the smell of coffee and wearing sweaters. That could be anywhere, but it looks fun to do in Seattle. Like, maybe the Pacific North West is my place. It calls to me and I don’t know why.

For now, I’m just going to soak in some natural Vitamin D and brighten things up.




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Initially, I named this post Spectacular Serendipity, while focusing on the bird’s stance, and probably inspired by its corporeal S.

As I began writing, I recalled the alligator who was floating just off to the right.

Granted, the moment lacked tension as the alligator appeared to be snoring.

But, I’m always intrigued with these birds’ composure along the murky shores of uncertainty.

This particular bird showed no concern for its reptile neighbor, only frozen interest in the surrounding little fish while they snapped at the hopping water bugs.

Patience wasn’t my virtue that day, though. I didn’t have time to wait for the alligator to awaken from its afternoon snooze. If it was like me, it woke up hungry.




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Cinnamon Comfort


I have this little dream of a running a bed and breakfast. (I know where I’d open it and what I’d name it, but that’s my little dream-secret).

Just a few things stand in my way: I don’t like talking to strangers, I don’t like getting up early unless it’s my day off, I don’t like changing sheets, and I’m very slow when I bake. But I still feel like it’s my secret calling.

I’m the meantime, I make cinnamon rolls on Sundays. I add lots of walnuts and extra cinnamon because that makes them healthy. Yum.




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Write Away: Voice


I’ve never been brave enough to do karaoke.

I was traumatized by a solo in a school musical, something about the American founding fathers. I was cast as Abigail Adams (a smart founding mother).

But still today, I wonder why? Why would they–the school teachers or founding parents–make me sing?

Luckily, no one seemed to notice my lack of talent on show night. Most likely because when it was my turn, I lip synced to silence and no one could do anything about it since we had a “one night only” performance.

Undoubtedly, the audience probably lacked regret. A few years before, I had another solo in a Christmas play where I portrayed a magician, with a large black, paper top-hat, who was supposed to “gently toss” candy canes during my song.

Per my mom, there were audience members hiding behind folding chairs to avoid my sugar ammo. I do slightly recall the thudding sound of wrapper against flesh.

In contrast, I’ve always enjoyed singing out loud in private. No visible audience makes me a happy performer.

Just like writing. The invisible audience lightens the immediate pressure, allowing me to emerge from my tight shell of shyness.

However, the understanding that my voice still defines my performance pumps in the adrenaline and reminds me that I must deliver to my audience. No faking it. No making them run and hide. Hopefully.

Deep in solitary contentment, my writing voice can become anything or anyone, to be experienced without knowing me, seeing me, or literally hearing me. I dissolve myself into my voice, hoping for reincarnation of my knowledge, thoughts, perspectives, style, and ideas into the minds of my readers. Ultimately morphed into their own understanding.

Or at least I try. Keep trying. That’s the joy of writing for me–freedom for my voice. Silent triumph.

(And perhaps, one day, karaoke.)





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