Social Media Image - Caught my Eye I saw an image recently. Few words. Huge value. Huge meaning. A single match pulled back from many. It lingered with me. In the writing cave, especially during these early hours when the world is undecided, it is easy to let the sparks gather. One idea touches another. Research opens into three more tabs. A deadline leans forward. A message waits to be answered. A scene refuses to rest. Creative fire is a gift. But even a gift must be tended

The Old Red Oak at Bru's Acres II In the early hours of the day, when the house is still and the lamp beside my chair casts its faithful circle of light, I find myself deep in the sequel — The Matriarch’s Legacy . But writing forward often requires walking back. This morning, I stepped again onto the Amish farm where Florence was raised. I felt the worn plank floor of the warm kitchen beneath my feet. I heard the soft rhythm of chores in the sturdy barn. I stood beneath the o

Marsh light before sunrise — the hour that holds its breath. During writing season, my hours begin at 2:00 a.m. The alarm is set Monday through Friday — holidays included. The house is dark. The world undecided. I rise quietly and settle into my soft armchair, back against the wall, lamp glowing on the small table beside me. Not bright. Just enough. In front of me, atop the bed, my guardian dogs sleep deeply — their bodies stretched long, paws occasionally twitching, the slow

The Matriarch's Legacy Manuscript There is a curious quiet that arrives after a manuscript leaves the writer’s hands. For months the writing cave becomes its own small world. The lamp clicks on in the early hours. Coffee brews before dawn. Pages grow slowly—sometimes stubbornly, sometimes with surprising ease. Five mornings a week the discipline takes hold. What begins as inspiration becomes routine, and routine becomes a kind of companionship. The story lives with you there.

The work that slows the writing—and strengthens the story Some writing days look like pages. Others look like maps. In this season of drafting The Matriarch’s Legacy, I’ve learned (again) that momentum doesn’t always mean word count. Sometimes momentum is a folded transit map on the table, a string of station names underlined twice, or a headline that makes your stomach drop—even though you already know how history turns out. Research is where the story learns how to stand. M

Amelia Island Book Festival - 2026 The Amelia Island Book Festival recently celebrated its 25th year — a remarkable milestone for a festival that has poured so much into literacy, local schools, and the love of story. And this year was my first time sitting behind an author table. There is something quietly vulnerable about placing your books in neat stacks before you — stories born in the early hours of the writing cave — and waiting to see who will stop, who will linger, wh

Bigger Than Us - Sequoia National Park with Eric, June 2019 The Loud, the Quiet, and the Eternal Legacy has been living in my writing cave long before I understood its name. It has sat beside me in the early hours — in the lives of Estella, Florence, and William — in the choices they made when no one was watching, in the sacrifices that shaped children who would one day step forward on their own. And now, as we prepare to say farewell to our son as he enters his next chapter,

White Water Rafting Adventure - Arkansas River, Colorado There are moments when danger announces itself with violence—roaring water—and moments when it arrives quietly, gliding just beneath the surface, and others that strike without warning, cracking the air itself. I have known them in that order: first on a river, then on open water, and finally inside the walls of my own home. What remains with me is not the fear, but the unmistakable awareness that I was never navigating

Sunday Stillness Surreal, spectacular Sunday — mist braiding itself through the trees as we followed the trail to the river. The dogs moved ahead, guardians of the quiet, while dew slipped from the leaves in silver punctuation. It felt as though Ansel Adams walked beside us, framing shadow and light in the hush of fog. A spiderweb, bejeweled in morning diamonds, held the dawn between its threads as we descended to the boat launch where river and sky rested in one seamless bre

The Riverview Hotel Reception Lamp, St. Marys, GA While on this writing retreat, I learned that Roy Crane, a nationally recognized cartoonist and creator of Wash Tubbs , Captain Easy , and Buzz Sawyer , once happened upon the Riverview Hotel in the 1930s. One of the hotel’s rooms is now named and thoughtfully themed in his honor—a quiet nod to the creative legacy he left behind during his stay. In 1935, Crane arrived in St. Marys aboard the “Toonerville Trolley,” wandering t

Sunrise Along the St. Marys River Some journeys are not marked by speed or certainty, but by faith practiced quietly along the way. I’ve been thinking about how life teaches us to move—when to press forward, when to ease, and when to trust what we cannot yet see. This poem reflects that kind of journey, one shaped less by arrival than by how faithfully we are carried through each turn. This poem was shaped during a brief writing retreat in a small riverside town, miles from m

Riverview Hotel, St. Marys, Georgia A brief getaway to a quiet place along the river beckoned me—not too far from home—on a cold January morning. I came to focus on The Matriarch’s Legacy : to fine-tune, to listen more closely, and to allow the story to grow into another dimension. For a few days, I set things down. Responsibilities waited elsewhere. I discovered a charming old hotel where other writers had once found sanctuary and inspiration. Wrapped within the walls of thi

Winter Lambing The lambing days still appear on my calendar faithfully, a quiet and welcome reminder of our seven beautiful years on the farm. Of all the seasons, lambing may have been my favorite—new life arriving on unannounced schedules, wrapped in fragility and strength all at once. There is something about lambs that pulls spring forward. Delicate yet sturdy, joyful in a way that feels instinctive. Leaping across frozen pasture, they seemed to insist that winter loosen i

From the Writer's Desk A month into writing The Matriarch’s Legacy , and the early hours have proven faithful once again. Those quiet, pre-dawn stretches—when the world is still deciding whether to wake—have been especially fruitful. I’m happy to report the manuscript now sits at roughly sixty percent complete. I know what comes next. The pace will likely slow as February gives way to March. That seems to be the natural order of things. The story begins to ask harder question

Recent AI Search Results, Hubby Scott, Discovered Recently, my husband Scott did a simple AI search using our names. What came back was… interesting. Some of it was what you’d expect—public information, writing credits, familiar details. But mixed in were questionable facts and outright inaccuracies. One in particular made me laugh and pause at the same time: according to the internet, my book The Philadelphia Matriarch costs $37.39. It does not. It’s available on Amazon for

Image courtesy of the Amelia Island Museum of History— from “Following the Legacy of Gus Gerbing” AmeliaMuseumOrg Stewardship, Time, and the Beauty That Endures What is planted in faith, tended with patience, and entrusted to time still finds its way to bloom. Reading, writing, gardening, traveling—these are the pursuits that speak to me most clearly. Each, in its own way, connects me back to the natural world and reminds me to slow down and pay attention. Of course, faith an

Sweet Memories, Together, Always! Some birthdays arrive quietly, carrying more meaning than candles or cake ever could. This one does that. While working deep inside The Matriarch’s Legacy , surrounded by stories of becoming, leaving, returning, and carrying what truly matters, I found myself pausing—pulled out of the past and firmly into the present. Into motherhood. Into gratitude. Into wonder at how swiftly time moves. It feels like just yesterday you were newborn, small

Queen Emma’s Palace, Honolulu. Mom at the piano, in her element. Me by her side. She bore a poet’s name— given first by Shakespeare, and she kept its promise. “Who is Silvia? what is she?” Named for a woman of verse and light, for Shakespeare’s Silvia—beloved, steadfast, worth defying fathers and crossing boundaries for— born of a mother who loved words enough to give them flesh and call them daughter. You learned early that language could live in the hands— ten fingers fin

Peace, Be Still... My inspiration comes from the natural world—along quiet trails and canopied pathways that gently lead toward the sea. I wander through mature maritime forest, crossing ancient dune ridges where massive live oaks stretch wide, their limbs draped in Spanish moss. Loblolly pines rise skyward beside sweet magnolias, while palmetto, holly, and cedar form a dense, living undergrowth. The trail grows sparser, sandier. The air shifts. Soon, the distant roar of wave

My Loyal Guards, Louise & Thelma Enjoying a Stunning Sunrise (after 4 hours of writing in the wee, dark hours)! In the quiet hours before dawn, when the world is still asleep and only the soft sounds of morning stir, I find myself most connected to story. Those hours have always belonged to me—sacred, uninterrupted, and full of possibility. This January, they will once again become my writing hours. I’m thrilled to share that I am officially beginning research and writing on