Pre-Hamilton Thoughts

I’m not going to say I like Hamilton any more than the next person, because I know there are thousands of more devoted fans than me, but there’s something about listening and experiencing it as a writer that really gets to me. Or maybe I’m just too empathetic? I don’t know, but the lyrics, especially the questions, really stick to me. How does one write like they’re running out of time? Have I done enough [with my words]? Who will tell our stories—will anyone?

How does my writing play into this narrative that is the vast planet we live on? You know it’s kind of terrifying, writing. You put your heart and soul into characters, you believe in your stories in the midst of millions of others, enough to spend months and years on them. Then you publish them for anyone and everyone to read, you put your story on the line because you believe so immensely in it, resulting in inevitable rejection by some readers. Stories can easily be looked over, even if they are published, because of the sheer volume of them. But they’ve all been worked on and loved so well by the ones who penned them.

The vast majority of stories will not be heard by the general public, but does that mean we stop writing them? No. Because as scary as it is, we shouldn’t write with the numbers or lack thereof in mind. We write because we have faith, we write because we’re gamblers, we write because we’re not scared of the odds. We shoot our stories blindly into the dark because we know they’ll help someone somehow. And that’s pretty dang cool. So keep writing and “keep fighting in the meantime.”

(10 days until Hamilton.)⭐️



What to Know about Writing a Novel in One Month or Less

I just had my first baby and she is a hefty 223 pages. I conceived her over 24 days and she is already proving to be a thoroughly sassy child. Her name is “Status: Untilled, Moldy Heart.”

1. It’s harder than you think.

For me at least, it was really difficult to get rid of my inner editor while writing. Part of me wanted to reread bits and fix them (in which case I would minimize the screen as much as possible to write) and part of me was whispering this is terrible for a majority of the time. But in both cases, you really don’t have time to stop and consider those thoughts, even though they are negative, because if you waste time it will take you that much longer to get to sleep at night. (Especially as a college student juggling 50 other things.) I made sure I never stayed up past 2 a.m. and always went to bed by the time that would give me 8 hours of sleep, which will be scandalous to some of you but was actually an accomplishment for me, because believe it or not, last semester I stayed up until 3 a.m. multiple times. (We don’t talk about it…)

It was also hard for the sake of my Novel Writing class, because our professor wanted us to write from the seat of our pants. Besides the main plot turning points, we were not allowed to plan out anything. Many times, especially in acts 2 and 3 of the plot, I had no idea what was going to happen, which made staring at the daily blank page daunting.

*We used the program Scrivener to write our novels. Some people broke up their novel documents into scenes, but I did it by day. Turns out, almost every day I managed to write a mini story, so I ended up turning my daily documents into the chapter breaks.*

Finally, and most importantly, writing a novel in a month is incredibly difficult because you actually create a story that’s much longer than 50k words, which is the monthly goal. So what I ended up with was a very rushed version that time-jumped a lot to get to where I needed to be by the end of the month. As my professor told us, and as I now know firsthand, we’ve actually created stories that are more like 80-100k words.

2. It’s easier than you think.

Now I’m going to refute my previous points–because in every case, there is an upside. Don’t get me wrong, writing a novel in a month is incredibly difficult and you should take great pride if you do it in knowing that not only have you bested all the people who want to write a book but haven’t, but you’ve bested everyone who takes years and years to write one.

If your inner editor starts nagging at you (when it clearly shouldn’t be), just dash in something completely unexpected. Use the nagging thoughts to your advantage. Feel redundant in sentence structure? Start writing one word statements. Start writing long, winding rivers of words. Character falling flat? Create some huge drama in that character’s life. Make them react to a situation in complete opposition to how they normally would. Also, my personal favorite: are you stuck on a scene? Not sure what you want your characters to do next? Have them talk it out. Dialogue will bring their personalities alive and I guarantee they’ll think of something to do.

I am one of the biggest planners you will ever meet. I thrive on planning, I need planning in my life, I get anxious when I haven’t written things down. Maybe you’re like me or maybe a lack of planning is not that terrifying. Either way, know that the lack of plot planning is actually the best thing you could possibly do going into a one month time frame of novel writing. Trust me–I was told I couldn’t write on an already formed idea and I was SO SAD. I was frustrated, I was mad, I considered doing it anyway. BUT DON’T. DO NOT. Start something completely new. Trust me. I know exactly how you feel if that sounds horrific.

But the truth is, you have so many stories to tell. More than you believe you do. And the other truth is, if you’ve planned too much already you WILL get writer’s block. Plus, your planned story is probably WAY longer than 50k words and you’re not going to want to have to limit it or rush the story line that you’re already so attached to. You have complete freedom without a planned story because you’ve put no set-in-stone expectations on your characters or your plot. And the coolest thing is, your plot will transform and surprise you and you’ll love it way more than you initially thought you would.

Finally, your story will end up being rushed or not wholly complete because of the lack of time in one month, but that just means you’ll have endless more ideas by the time the month is over. (However, you NEED to give yourself a break before diving back in. At least a couple weeks. You want to look at it with fresh eyes.) By the time the month is over your plot is going to need some serious surgery. But you’ll also know and love your characters way more, so it’s exciting to consider delving in to better craft their story. It’s actually their story, not yours.

3. Your characters will do their own thing.

As I kind of hinted already, you will reach a point after the first week or so where your characters start acting and thinking for themselves. Think of yourself as an archaeologist picking up artifacts as you go. Pretty soon the artifacts have a much greater story to tell than the archaeologist does. That makes writing a breeze. Once the setting and external situations are established, you cannot plan for how or when the characters will steer off your neatly carved path. Just know that they will and they’ll show you some pretty cool places in uncharted waters.

4. In one way or another, you have writing patterns.

I’m a late night writer, but I also coincidentally switched every week. Weeks 1 and 3 I wrote later at night, week 2 I wrote in the early afternoon. (Week 2 is also the hardest, so I wanted to ensure I was getting enough sleep!) Similarly, you will find that you have writing patterns. Maybe you always write in the morning or maybe you can only focus well if you go to a certain coffee shop. I enjoyed changing my writing setting frequently. The cool thing about writing in such a condensed amount of time is that you find these things out about yourself as a writer much quicker, which allows you to better adjust for future projects and writing in general.

5. You pull from more personal experience than you expect to pull from.

I found myself pulling setting details or character action out of all sorts of random places. Your mind really is a palace of thoughts ,and you realize the full depth and reach of it while writing so rapidly. Since my story is realistic fiction I really enjoyed pulling from popular culture. Sometimes I’d be listening to a certain song or reminiscing on a memory, so I’d just stick those things into my story, and it usually suited the plot or characters! Subconsciously, I also included experiences or interests of mine that I never even intended to place in my story, yet looking back on it I can see the references. For example, the primary conflict originates around a talent show and I genuinely thought I was just pulling that from the air, when really I just spent a whole summer invested in America’s Got Talent so it’s no wonder that came to mind! That’s the cool thing: the story you write originates out of that particular time in your life more than anything, so you could try to write a similar story every year and it would never be quite the same, because you’re never quite the same.

6. You will grow incredibly attached to it.

I cried at the start of my last week writing. Because once all of the inner editor comments had grown stale from three weeks and once I had accepted that most of the word choice would be crap, I peeled away the technicalities to realize how much I actually adore this story. For a moment, I halted my critical eye and just looked at it as a dear piece of my heart. And it really, really is. Even if there are plenty of revisions ahead, I think it’s perfectly imperfect. It’s broken, just like me.

7. You will feel lazy and a bit aimless afterward.

…And as my professor said to me, ‘yes, because you are being lazy.’ (Although, considering I still have 50 other things I’m working on, I don’t know if I fully agree with that.) When it really comes down to it though, if you want to be a writer, you have to keep writing. Not just when you’re in the mood. And that’s a fact that makes me really appreciate this novel challenge. Because, just like life in general, the vast majority of the time we’re not in the mood to do what we hope to do. But you have to be relentless and persistent. It’s just like your basic laws of motion. To keep it coming out, you have to keep it up.

But also, you have to live. It’s okay to feel aimless and sad that you can’t write about your characters anymore, but you’ll get the chance to revise and dive back in later, and if you really care a ton, you can always write a series. I truly believe to be a writer you have to keep writing, but you also have to live. You can’t be cooped up all the time, you can’t expect to write every day of your life, you can’t be too hard on yourself. You need experiences to draw from, you need the other stories within entertainment to inspire you, you need family and friends to remind you what you care about.

Most importantly, the world desperately needs you. Not just your writing, but you with your unique thoughts and passions and talents. So as much as you love your books and your characters and your plot, take time to offer yourself to the world and see what the world has to offer you.

8. You CAN do it.

Stop speaking those lies. Stop making up those excuses. Because the truth is, you can. Anyone can.




He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. ~Psalm 23:2

As I look at 2018 and as I look at my life beyond 2018, I sense plenty of chaos. More and more decisions as I grow older, less and less of a comfort zone in place, and a ginormous temptation to be in an ever-present frenzy of fears.

I always had this naive idea that once school/homework left the picture, life would be grand. But every semester I take a step closer to graduation and realize that it’ll only become harder. Later on questions transition to where do I live? who do I live with? where am I going to work? what do I even like doing? and the list can go on and on.

I’ve always been pretty confident that I don’t know what the heck I’m doing with my life. Family members have tried endlessly to conjure up work ideas for temporary or permanent work, and I’m very grateful for their diligence in regards to my future. But at the end of the day, I can’t help but believe that me and God are gonna tag-team this one. It’s a large daunting concept isn’t it: YOUR CALLING (*cue dramatic music*), but I think people tend to go about it the wrong way, like God will magically descend and say ‘Annah, here’s what I want you to do.’ Until then you’re supposed to fret and bite your nails apparently.

I think you can do anything, as long as you’re spreading God’s light in the field you’re in. One of my favorite chapel messages at my college this past semester was given by a former graduate, who stated something to the effect of: The world doesn’t need more seminary students and Christians going into ministry. What it needs are people willing to undertake the hard fields, where God’s light is often shut down and scoffed at.

All it takes is stillness to find answers. Stillness helps you listen and redirect your focus on whose voice really matters. Stillness is intentional and not focused on yourself (because honestly, we’re all about go, go, go). Stillness gives you a chance to sort out your priorities, because at the end of the day that’s up to you. When your priorities are coated in Scripture, how can you ever go wrong?

I’ve learned many things from stillness, all very important. I’ve learned that I am replenished by acts of stillness and fighting my innate hurried nature to focus on God. I have learned that I only like writing when it’s something I’m passionate about. I’ve learned I love to write emotional and authentic thoughts on social media, because many people scrolling need to hear it and I absolutely abhor that social media’s a cesspool of pretending like everything’s great 24/7.  I’ve learned that I am in the best mindset and full of the most gratitude and peace when I am immersed in music, whether classical or modern. I have learned that I value and hold a passion for all of God’s forms of entertainment.

Given daily moments of stillness, I think you can gain a lot of insight too. We focus so much on the ‘doing’ that we usually forget about the ‘being’: when we need to listen and focus on God’s desires rather than our own. Let Psalm 23 wash over you this year, as it has started to wash over me:

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures.

He leads me beside still waters. 

He restores my soul.

He leads me in paths of righteousness

for his name’s sake.

Even though I walk through the valley of the 

shadow of death,

I will fear no evil,

for you are with me; 

your rod and your staff,

they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me 

in the presence of my enemies;

you anoint my head with oil;

my cup overflows.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me

all the days of my life,

and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord 


For now, I’ll stick to the joys I have been given: music and words. (Currently listening to Harry Potter music.)

The questions and choices in your life may grow louder and more frantic over the years, but you don’t have to follow suit. Praise the Lord!


A Trace of Joy

Yesterday in my British Literature class, our professor had us write poems modeled after some of the modernist poets we read. This poem is loosely based on “Valentine” by Carol Ann Duffy. I wrote it on the fly with no revisions and I appreciate that unapologetic way of writing. Maybe it’s flawed, maybe the word choice could be improved, but it’s bold in its imperfections.


Not a giggle or a hug.


I give you a scraped knee.

Scab oozing over in blood

It echoes contentment

Like happy toes squirming through mud.



It will leave a foul stench,

But one that whispers

Like a butterfly wing

Of rapidly beating hearts

Playing make-believe.


I want you to remember the truth.


Not neat pews at church,

But raucous, rowdy adventures.


I give you a scraped knee

To soften your heart

That has confined itself

To cubicles

And tax forms.


Take it.

Feel the rough edges on your

Weathered, weary hands.

Find joy in simplicity again.


Tap-Dancing Veins

I wish you could see what I can. The pure yellow radiance of the tree. Its feathery, silky leaves tap-dance in the wind, illuminating the bright depths of its being. Apparently the leaves are passing away, but they have never shown so brightly throughout their numbered days until now, and it’s simply heart-stopping. It just is what it is without trying. Our friend Mr. Sun is only emphasizing what we already know to be true—joy and expectancy sit among the branches. This tree knows where it’s going, without knowing where each individual leaf will fall, yet the appendages tango together happily. It dances in the face of uncertainty. The branches breathe in, breathe out, sway up, sway down. They flutter, fly, and abide. As the sun looks on, the tree sits and waits, leaves steadily twirling to the floor. Eventually it will face a period of death, where the sun may seem to disappear from the tree’s presence maybe days, maybe weeks at a time. But the tree remains tall, adamant, and immovable in the face of its inevitable demise. It knows more than the leaves do—that some day soon more buds will grow, more leaves will bloom, and the yellow still courses within its veins. 


Concert Chatter

It’s creative writing week, yay! This memoir was based off a dialogue prompt that asked us to write a couple pages of dialogue between a group of people, which also reveals bits of their character along the way. To enhance the memoir, I’ve included a picture from the evening!  Here’s to memorable sibling moments. Hopefully they don’t hate me after this, I hear that’s what happens when you write about family…


“Cassidy, you know how to hook up the Bluetooth, right?” Dilyn extended the phone cord in Cassidy’s direction from where she sat behind the steering wheel, not moving her eyes from the winding country road.

“Of course, I’m an engineer.”

“Play some Twenty One Pilots!” I insisted, as she grabbed the cord and started monkeying around with her Android.

“…And Mutemath.” Hitting the road for a concert means you listen to the bands’ music. “Do we have all the tickets?”

“Right here, Dil.” Charley held a stack of papers in his hand. Tyler Joseph’s voice began drifting steadily louder out of the speakers, singing the words to “House of Gold.”

“YES!” Dilyn and Cassidy high-fived.

I snorted unnecessarily. “Can I have mine now, Charley? Where are we sitting? How many rows from the front?” With a lunge, I grabbed a ticket from his hand and stared intently at the row and seat numbers in the top right-hand corner.

“Want to play MASH?” Cassidy leafed through a notebook. I grinned.

“Sure! Well, I have to pick Josh Dun since he’s in Twenty One Pilots… and then Niall Horan because he’s forever my one and only…”

“Eric’s still bitter he wasn’t invited to the sibling concert.” Dilyn looked at Charley. “He’s your sibling now; you should’ve bought him a ticket!”

“Seester, how about including realistic people too? I’m adding Nathan for you.”


“He could’ve still bought his own ticket and joined us.”

“Charley, that’s not the same.”

There was a pause as Cassidy sat writing the names down.


Dilyn!” Our unified voices rang out.

“Sorry, but I just realized I left parking cash at home!”

“I have some you can use,” Charley said, still giggling at the swear word.


            With a slam! of Camry doors, my siblings and I made our way through the parking lot toward the entrance to DTE Energy Theatre. It was an outdoor concert, and even though no sign of the stage could be seen from our parking spot, we heard a telltale Mutemath rumble.

Guys, they’ve already started their set, hurry!” Dilyn started running towards the entrance. “They put on such a good show; you don’t want to miss it!” I matched her pace eagerly.
“I’m going to the bathroom first.” We looked back to find Cassidy headed in the opposite direction, toward a long line of people who could only be awaiting the Porta-Potty.

“Cassidy, seriously?” Dilyn rolled her eyes.

“Cass, there are bathrooms inside!” Charley yelled, but she was already in line.

“Ugh… she’s just like Mom.”

“I still can’t believe you’ve seen Twenty One Pilots three times already and never told me! Or took me with you…” I huffed, stopping in my tracks next to my brother.

“Hey, missy, I bought your ticket so quit your crying.”

“Thanks for that, big brother,” I replied, sincerely.

Cassidy reappeared to Dilyn’s urgent “Come on”s. Once we reached our seating on the far right side, about thirty rows back, Mutemath left the stage to loud cheers.

“Dang it, we missed them! Are you kidding me?” Dilyn sat down, her shoulders slumping, while everyone in the crowd gradually returned to their seats.

“Oh, boo hoo.” Charley pulled his arm away from Dilyn, as she tried to smack him.

“I’m sorry; the line for the bathroom was just so long! I’m so sorry, Dilyn!”

“Just my luck.”

Meanwhile my eyes were fixed on the stage. “Do you think they’ll come out soon?”




Dirt-Caked Feet

I’ve been in a Creative Nonfiction Writing class for a few weeks now. This piece, as titled above, required us to write about a quintessential childhood memory with over-the-top detail. Enjoy!


“I CALL THE MIDDLE SWING!” Nathan’s teensy brown bangs fluttered in the breeze while his red athletic shorts careened down the chipped, rust-colored paint. His porch had the kind of paint kids adore peeling off until their parents notice.

Nathan’s little sister, Kate, and I darted for the swing set in his wake. Slowly, the summer sun climbed the sky, adding dancing leaf shadows to the yard. Below our bony, breathless bodies, grass soothingly greeted the dirt-caked plains of happy feet, covered in bleeding or tender scrapes and scratches, which resulted from unforgiveable sticky, sharp pine needles, hot, gravelly asphalt, and deathly, six-pegged Legos. Our toes wiggled gleefully, knowing over 24 hours had passed since dog poop squelched and coated the smooth skin. Slightly slippery with the remnants of morning dew, the grass blades also echoed of tacky green-and-yellow Slip-n’-Slides covered in water and sprinklers with water claws. Running full speed and jumping through, we hit the jets, which almost stung, but tickled too, leaving grass and leaves clinging to chicken legs with scabbed knees. However, the number of times we laughed and screamed in delight totaled more than the amount of boo-boos on our bodies.

I hit the rubber swing fast, slamming my belly onto the seat and pushing off in the direction of our gunky pond. Coated in algae and likely filled with diseased, mutated fish, the pond glimmered with the memory of my sister’s old shovel stuck at the bottom under miles of thick black, gooey muck. Then I swung backwards on the swing, in the direction of Nathan and Kate’s family room, where a freshly-painted bar sat with brown, leftover stains from concocted drinks. Every pop imaginable fused together into the see-through shot glasses, often overflowing with bubbly fizz. Alongside the bar counter sat shelves upon shelves of CD albums and vinyl. Some glinted with the names of famous musicians and others glimmered with the neon pink, blue, and yellow color combinations only deemed recognizable by children who attended raucous, rowdy Vacation Bible Schools.

Just now the sun similarly glinted through the shivering, shaking trees above our heads, as we sat normally on our swings to pump our legs farther into the sky. Writhing, moon-colored maggots used to lie where I now sat. An old, rusting, purple and white, two-person swing set used to sit where the new, wooden, three-person set now sat. While Nathan and I flew higher, synchronizing our pumping rhythm and yelling, “We’re married!” I recalled chirping laughter between Mr. and Mrs. Scott upon asking Nathan who he wanted to marry. “Annah!” rang out with every ounce of certainty spread across the two syllables. A wiggly-toothed smile had appeared upon the baby-faced boy who often peered through my front window and shouted, “Hello?”

Kate, who had pumped higher than either of us through sheer determination and lunging backward and forward with her whole body, now flexed her legs upward. Her knees disappeared as the legs extended almost unnaturally and the toes lunged to graze the tree branches. Her tiny toes spread apart to grab hold of the wilting, weather-beaten, leaves and pull them away from their woody host. Bending downward until unable to fight anymore, the attacked branch snapped back with a rushing, fluttering, whooshing sound. Each leaf stubbornly clung to Kate’s toes before drifting single-file to the ground. When I tried for the leaves, I cupped the clump of tree appendages between my feet like a toy monkey, clanging its cymbals together abruptly. Unwillingly, the leaves admitted to the capture, while Kate cackled and screeched.