Well, hello

BritI’m Brit! I’m a mom. I like to write stuff.

Ahem. These introductions are always a little awkward. Erm. What do you want to know?

Yes. I live in America. No, I’m actually Canadian. I currently live in foothills of the Colorado Mountains. When you look up the definition of rugged, it has a picture of where I live (RUGGED ruhg-gid: manly beauty. Like, lots of dirt and jagged rocks and tough looking trees that might beat you up if you look too close). Back in Canada, I grew up in a green valley in a town of 3500 people, with a view of mountains so fine they make you a guaranteed Mountain snob the rest of your life. I’ve also lived in a Mexican city nowhere near a beach, an abandoned mining town, a Caribbean island you can’t find on a map, and a 100-year-old house on a potato field.

potato house

lelandThis is my clever hubby, Leland. He builds robots for a living (which he says sounds way cooler than it actually is, but he’s just being humble). He laughs at all my lame jokes even though he’s way funnier than I am. When we got married, I left that Caribbean island to live with him on a potato farm in (you guessed it) Idaho. Also, he condescends to wear “girlfriend pants” instead of the 8-sizes-too-big comfort variety he favoured before we got married. If that’s not true love, I don’t know what is.

We have two kids who are literally the cutest things to walk the earth (and I’m not biased at all). My first, Gid, helped me finish my journalism degree by not learning to walk until after he turned one. Blessed child. Mer also is taking her time learning to walk, though I think she’s just clever like her daddy. Why walk when momma could literally carry you every second of the day? No brainer.




tree Actually, I’m really glad you asked that, because I do feel the need to explain myself.

I had this conversation with an author and editor friend a while back.

“Why write anyways?” I asked. “How many books are out there? Blogs? Too many for anyone to read in a lifetime! Anything I say now has already been said a thousand times, and thousand times better by someone like Dickens or JK Rowling. So, why write?”

My friend looked at me, as if a bit offended, and said (something like), “Just because everything you’ll ever say has been said before, do you stop talking?”

“Hah. No. I mean, if you know me at all, you know the answer is no.”

She leans forward, “Exactly. You have conversations with people every day, not because what you said is completely original, but because humans need conversation. It’s how we connect with each other and understand how to live our life on a day to day basis. We couldn’t survive without some way to communicate with each other. Writing is just another form of communication, between a writer and a reader.”

So, writing (aka communication) is as necessary to our survival as air. I’m just a little tree, doing my tiny part to add to the world’s oxygen.



Every. Single. Day. Putting your words out there is terrifying. What if people hate what I say? Or (probably more likely) what if no one cares?

The fabulous Elizabeth Bennet says:

“We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the eclat of a proverb.”

What I say online is open for either anyone in the whole world to see, or no one at all. Is it perhaps more painful when billions could hear you speak and care, but no one ever does? So, the desire to only say something exquisitely brilliant on such an intimidating platform is understandable, no?

sproutBut, you still plant trees, even if you know they’ll be chopped down.

Isn’t there some saying about whether a falling tree makes a sound if no one is there to hear it? Maybe no one will read my words. Maybe one person will (probably my mum, to be honest). I read St. Augustine’s Confessions back in university, and I love this one part. Augustine is trying to explain why he is telling his life story (his “Confession”). He says,

“I tell it to my own kind, to those other men, however few, who may perhaps pick up this book. And I tell it so that I and all who read my words may realize the depths from which we are to cry to You [God].” (2.3.1)

So, maybe someone, somewhere will read something I write. Maybe it will impact them for good. That’s worth it. (And, you know, maybe more people read it. Augustine certainly touched a lot more people than just a “few”. You never know who and where and when you might reach someone in need.)

Then, there’s Stephen King. He said this thing:

“When you find something at which you are talented, you do it (whatever it is), until your fingers bleed or your eyes are ready to fall out of your head. Even when no one is listening, or reading, or watching, every outing is a bravura performance, because you as the creator are happy. Perhaps even ecstatic. “

bleeding hand

I guess, in the end, writing just makes me happy.

I hope my words make you happy too (:

love brit