Now, scholars can be very useful and necessary, in their own dull and amusing way. They provide a lot of information. It’s just that there is Something More, and that Something More is what life is really all about.

the tao of pooh

the Something More.

In Stephen King’s book, On Writing, he paints a picture of the imagination. He expresses the magic of creating a story in the quiet of the mind, penning it in language to share with another – no sound, no verbal exchange.

A story. From one quiet space to the other.


The content in the blog posts came from a quiet space. A space of no resistance. I loved each post and was full of goodness and possibility each time I published.

Dedicated to the Something More.

Above is the dedication written for the digital book, Something More. Connecting to the pulse of a Shared Humanity. The book is organized into twelve chapters. Each chapter titled to match its monthly theme. It was a great year to be consistent. I posted 48 blogs on (mostly) Saturday mornings.

To read the collection of posts as one continuous thread allows for a different experience of the content. It’s more.

There is always Something More.

Here is the preface included in the beginning of the book. If you are interested in downloading the pdf, you can find it at the bottom of this post.


I love to write.

I used to write as an outlet for my anger.

You know the people who say they are organized, yet the observable evidence points to the contrary?

I was the person who believed they weren’t angry, yet the content in my journals would have proved otherwise.

I stopped writing in grad school when a professor asked to see my journals. The professor was a licensed clinical social worker who was also the dean of the graduate school for social work. I was excited to show him my journals, mostly because of the sheer number of notebooks I had filled up. It was impressive.

When I went through the journals to glimpse the content I would be showing him was when I realized I wrote the same thing over and over again. I threw the journals away. I stopped writing.

I’m not so sure when I began again.

At present, the new version of my scrappy notebook writing includes a few variations. Maybe a fictional excerpt just for fun and practice. Many affirming statements about myself or anyone for that matter – whomever is on my mind. A desired outcome – either stated in a scratchy written statement, or developed into a pleasurable story about what could be.

I write in every line of the notebook. I turn it upside down to fill in blanks. I use different ink. My notebooks would be confusing to pick up and read.

My notebooks. A notebook for each of my nooks. Three nooks established over the years in my small apartment above a mostly unused office space downstairs. I happen to have access to the office space as it is my brother who owns it. Another nook.

I write. I am a writer.

I created my first blog the year I completed grad school. It was deleted upon its creation, and I used a fake name. I felt like I had taken off all my clothes and stepped outside only to run back in. A dare.

I’m not sure what it is about posting your own content that can at first feel so bare, exposed.

And then. Just like that. It’s not. It becomes a conversation. An outlet. A choice. A choice to write. A choice to read.

What would you do if money, time, and other resources were of no issue or concern?

I’d write.