paint by word — a sneak peek into Create Your Most Delicious Life

The more power in a system, the more work it can do. 

Add fuel to the gas tank, you can go go go. 

Eat healthy foods, your body will feel and be strong, powerful, able to best support you.

The mind requires fuel, too. What feeds your mind? 

Stories. 

Specifically, the ones you tell yourself over and over again. 

If you're feeding your brain tales of lack, of I can't, of victim-is-me, don't be surprised when that's all you experience. 

What you feed grows. 

I share more about how words fuel your reality and paint your life in my upcoming book, Create Most Delicious Life. 

Let's dive into a little sneak peek here . . . 

paint by word

When you think, the universe listens. 

When you speak, the universe hears.

When you ask, the universe responds. 

This is law. 

Don’t like the word universe? Sub in whatever resonates with you, for words are only words, yet the energy, your energy, behind those words does matter. 

Your words are your paint-by-numbers guide to creating all you desire in this life. See, you are more powerful than you can even begin to fathom. 

Heck, just one cell in our fabulous body has enough energy and know-how to power an entire aircraft carrier. 

“I have a need . . . a need . . . for speed.” 

If you’ve yet to see Top Gun, please do, for me. There’s a sequel coming out more than two decades after the original even as I write these words. 

But the point is not flying fast planes
but that one of your cells is capable,
has the ability to, the energy to
power the entire ship
those jets land on. 

And when I say power that aircraft carrier, I’m not talking about just steering the boat but all the systems on said vessel. 

One of your trillions of cells can power the engines, the navigation, the communication coms, the many dozens of planes that take off and land, while also supporting a crew of more than 1,000 souls and seeing to all their needs. 

Can you even fathom that for a moment? 

One cell.
Just one.
Of your—too numerous to count—delicious cells
could run that, all of that. 

What power?! 

And yet, what are your cells, all of your cells, doing in a regular, average-Joe day? 

Besides naturally and effortlessly running all the systems of your body? 

Sitting stagnant.

Worrying. Wondering. Wishing.

Debating. Do-do-doing all the
perhaps not-so-important things.

Praying. 

Leaking, leaking, leaking
all the power you have in just one cell.

The infinite ability
to run such a magnificent,
complex structure as an aircraft carrier. 

If you but channeled the power, the energy, the intention of one cell. 

If you perfected, mastered –
using your will . . . 

Even if it took a lifetime
of practicing the art . . . 

Never full obtained,
imagine what would be gained.

And yet, if you are like so many, you are unaware of just how much of your own abilities, power, essence circles the drain before you even fully start your day. 

Imagine if you stopped leaking your personal power and started to harness all the energy you are naturally granted in this amazing life. 

Saying no more to spinning negative stories . . . 

To people pleasing, caring what others think,
hating yourself, shaming your body,
focusing on another’s drama instead of your own delicious journey. 

If one of your beautiful cells can run such an intricate vessel parked in the middle of the sea where so many systems are being used simultaneously . . . 

Then what’s possible for you,
in your day-to-day life,
harnessing the power
of even half your fabulous cellular energy?

You, my friend, would be a force unstoppable.
You would be focused forward.

You would be a master storyteller of tales that support you in all systems go. 

You would focus on your delicious path. 

No distractions.
No more drama.

---

If You’re Ready For That
You’ll Want To Read My New Book

---

Post Photo Credit: Taelynn Christopher @taelynnmae

Eleven — My First Memoir & Finding My SuperPower

Back when I was eleven years old, I had no clue my life was about to change on every level. 

From another cross-country move
to moving in with the other parent
to finding my calling in life

it was quite the year of change for me. 

Much like this last year has been.  

In the blink of an eye, due to the dedicated influence of just one kind person, I started down the path of writer is me.

And, unbeknownst to me, started to pen my very first memoir. 

And this year, well, having my name as my word of the year, that right there has been a delicious discovery that has unearthed all the tender, raw, torn, divine parts of me that I’ve intentionally kept hidden till now. 

More on that to come, along with news about my first soon-to-be-released in my name book, but today’s words are a trip down memory lane. 

An excerpt from that new book, Create Your Most Delicious Life, written by me, as me. A first and yet not.

A story I recently shared a bit on in my free Facebook group, Write Your Book Already!

But today, let’s dive into this blast-from my past essay entitled eleven. 

eleven

When I was in the 5th grade, I entered my third fifth-grade classroom, after moving across the country to live with my Dad. It was unexpected, as was the entire topsy-turvy year, but that’s another story.

See my teacher, I’ll never forget him. He met my father at the classroom door to welcome the new student (me again). And unlike my last teacher that year, his smile was real and kind.    

My last teacher, number two for the year, even though she randomly shared my last name, did not have the same compassion, kindness and care as I did. In fact, at times, I’d often felt she downright hated me.

This teacher—he seemed fun even, with glasses,
a grin that turned his lip up on one side,
almost hidden
but seen by me,
behind a trim,
close-cut beard.    

As the students craned their necks, leaning to and fro in their seats to get a look at the “new kid,” I stared unflinchingly back.   

Being the new kid can go one of two ways. 

With you on the top,
Queen B.

Or you sucking wind by day’s end
like you took a few swift kicks. 

This time, I was determined to end the day on top,
as I’d had it both ways already
this year. 

And to be honest, I was tired of being someone’s punching bag, another reason I was here, now living with my father at eleven.   

So, this teacher, Mr. R. let’s call him, took me by the hand and walked me to the front of the classroom after a quick side hug with my so-not old man.    

At first, I thought, Crap, a desk in the front row. 

I preferred to observe. Hard to do from the head of the room. 

But then we stopped by his desk and my heart dropped into my stomach, creating a ripple of nauseating waves that threatened to erupt out of me if I didn’t suck that shit down.   

He turned to me and said, “Tell me your story.”  

I nearly passed out as I forgot yet again to breathe.   

First minute, first day, and he was going to make me stand in front of the 40+ eyeballs already trained on my back and share who I was while all sat in judgment of me.   

Seconds from my vision dimming to black, I remember resisting the urge to push up my too-big-for- my-face glasses and instead began to count backward from 99. 

Sometimes that worked. I’d never once fainted, yet knew there was a first time for everything.   

He repeated the words, “Tell me your story.” 

But this time he stood behind his desk chair and pulled it out with a scrape of legs against old, worn linoleum floors. A palm up offering of his hand encouraged me to focus on the paper and pencil already set neatly...

for me?   

The relief was a wave so glorious, I smiled — an uncomfortable upturn of my normally straight-line, at that time, lips.   

I quickly sat, before he could change his mind,
like adults tended to do,
and scooted closer to the desk.

When he nodded, I picked up the pencil, turned to the blank page and felt such peace and JOY at being left the hell alone. 

I got to work writing the waves of thoughts, words, sentences, paragraphs that were my life. 

Fragments and tales and all the many shoved down emotions. Feelings that had been bottling up within me for days, weeks, years… a lifetime.   

That teacher, that man, gave me a gift that day. An outlet. 

And I often dream of crossing paths with him.

To thank him with a hug,
a handshake,
a kind word for taking the time,
for knowing just what I needed
in that moment
to thrive.   

Survive.

Plus, it made me the must-have lunch companion when the time came, as everyone wanted to know why I was at the teacher’s desk in the front of the class, not doing the assignments but busy working on something that seemed super-important.   

And it was. Important. Vital. Everything to me. 

It was the first time I wrote the story of me.   

My first memoir. 

---

If  you liked this share, an excerpt from Create Your Most Delicious Life, and want to sink into more words with me . . .  Get on the waitlist for my latest book today. 

---

I’m finally writing as me,
and hot damn has it been a trip.
Get on the Waitlist & Get all the dirty deets.

---

Post Photo Credit: Юлія Дубина @yulia_dubyna

Ring My Bell - Work

Tomorrow in America, is the Great American Teach-In Day. It’s a day when adults speak to children in the classroom about what they do. 

A day we may consider the most important day of school for a child, as it’s a model of what’s possible. 

The day is tolled as being a day when children are exposed to local business owners, employees, parents of classmates who stand up and share a bit about their work. 

But to me, this day is so much more than about a potential career path. 

It’s about inspiring a child. 

It’s about opening a young mind to possibilities as yet unexplored. 

It’s an opportunity for sharing, discussion, listening and actually hearing each other. 

But more than all that, it’s a time to dive into who do you want to be in your life?

If you have one shot, not one career path, but one shot at this thing called life, how is it you want to show up each day?

Now adding that to today’s conversations would be powerful. 

We could literally change a child’s life by sharing that as an adult you don’t have to be serious, mad, stressed, upset, unhappy...

Because honestly, that’s what children are led to believe when moms and dads are running to and fro, no time to just be. 

What if today was a moment to press-pause and say,

Who do you want to be? 

How do you want to feel?

What if today children learned it was okay to do what they loved?

Imagine if they were encouraged to follow a path that made their heart beat faster and their lips smile wide. 

I’ll jump down from my passionate soap box now, but as you may recognize, I am passionate about the next generation, perhaps because I was once the Education Lady.

And I guess, internally, I still am. 

Did I mention I taught middle and high school for four and a half years in the public school system? 

Well, now you know. 

When I first started teaching, I had two responsibilities—teaching English to 8th graders and 10th graders. 

And it was a big deal. Luckily, I didn’t really know much about the state test nor how the future of our very poorly graded school hinged on the outcome of the reading, writing and math scores come the end of year.

But that’s another story for another time.  

Let me just say, I love teenagers. I love their energy. 

And teaching was not my chosen path but something I fell into on a dare and ten days later, I was handed keys to a bare classroom. 

No books at the ready. No budget to work with. No lesson plan guides. Nada. 

It was feet to the hot coals—ready, fire, then aim.

I had literally no clue what I was supposed to do with these students. As they filed in on that first day, all loud and excited or pissy and quiet for the start of a new school year, I knew I needed a moment to get my bearings.

Twenty to thirty pre- and full-blown teens herding in, all at once. That’s stampede-of-buffalo impressive and took my breath away each new period that day. 

They had expectations. Some even had pleading eyes that screamed, please don’t be a bore. 

So, that very first day, for each new period, I wrote my name on the board, as I’d seen every teacher in every movie do. 

But I didn’t stop there, as that would have meant turning around and literally meeting twenty-plus pairs of eyes and coming up with something to actually say. 

Instead, I wrote another line. The chalk slapping and flaking in snowflake bits to the patchwork, old-as-dirt, linoleum floor.

Who do you want to be this school year? 

I remember turning to look at all the faces staring blankly back at me. It was my do or die moment. Never letting on that my stomach was a knotted mess and my mouth, cotton-field dry.  

I shared they were to write one page, double-spaced, answering the topic on the board.

To say most of those sitting in the too-hard seats were horrified would be an understatement, but I projected confidence outwardly (even while internally quaking in my slip-on flats, missing my flip flops and yoga pants). 

Putting no attention on the moans, the groans, the Come on, lady, it’s only the first day of school! conversation.  

Instead, I planted myself behind my scratched, dented, written-on metal desk and proceeded to take roll while getting my heart-rate under control. 

And sinking into what the hell to do with these students next. 

And that’s how bellwork came to be. 

And reading those first pages of some 90 students that evening enabled me to get to know these kids better than anything I could have imagined. 

To say this was planned would be a lie. 

To say I was sure of what I was doing would be a joke.

To say I was scared sh*tless, now that would be the truth. 

But I stumbled on a win and grabbed it with both hands. That’s what I ask you to do, even when you feel like a fraud. 

Because guess what? 

Most people feel like a fraud each and every day.

But in that moment, on the very first day of school playing the part of teacher for the very first time, I created something that became magical. 

Bellwork. A daily assignment. And soon my students knew to come in, where they were greeted by name and with a smile. No stress on my part, rushing to prepare. Instead, time to meet and greet with focused attention. 

And those kids, they’d smile back, high-fiving me as they passed, just like you see in the corniest student-teacher-rom-com. Then magic. They’d sit down, dare I say orderly, and get right to work as the prompt was always at the ready on the board.  

And most were a-writing before the class bell even tolled. 

How beautiful was that? And honestly completely unexpected on my part as just like I said above, each day I showed up in that classroom, I still felt a bit like a fraud. 

But show up I did anyway. 

And I got to know my students inside and out.

Sometimes the topics were easy, lighthearted:

What makes you smile? or What do you like about yourself?

Other times they were more expository, detailing steps like making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich...

As the point, after all in school, was not to get to know yourself—
God forbid—

but to learn without thought
that which could be
regurgitated on a test. 

Head meet metal desk–back then,
and now,
hard.

At first, the kids whined and complained. Many hated it to begin. But day after day of the routine, the expectation, those moans settled into acceptance.  

But soon, I started to dread it. 

Daily bell work for 90 kids meant 90 pages of reading.
Every-single-day. 

Plus, weekend essays to grade, and whatever real work was assigned and let’s not forget the standardized testing. 

I was forever behind.
Constantly grading papers. 

Caught in a never-ending snare,
a trap of my own creation. 

Then another teacher gave me a simple and oh-so-brilliant tip, "Don't read them all." 

I went back to share with my students that I would read random days only for a weekly grade.

And in sharing and asking for their feedback on this new plan, a discussion unfolded. OMG, I learned teenagers actually had much to say. 

One girl , actually a writer in the making in my opinion, asked, What if I don’t want you to read a day? Can I choose what to turn in and not turn in? 

This led to a debate and imagine my surprise when all the students jumped into pros and cons, discussing possibilities and as one we came to an agreement. 

Each student was allowed to place a star at the top of their page if they didn’t want me to read that day's bellwork. Each day was still handed in for accountability and impact to their overall grade—don’t even get me started on that topic! 

Grades. Much like giving a kid an award simply for showing up, irks me. A chat for another time...

And this is where magic really began to unfold. 

From that moment on, when my students sat down to write their bellwork, they went inside themselves. 

There was no holding back, no hiding, no tampering of expression. 

They wrote for themselves.
Not for me.
Not for the grade.

I could feel the energy in the room shift. I could feel what kind of day each one was having just by watching them write it out at the start of class.

That ten minutes became the highlight of many students’ day, some later shared. 

This became their free space to create, to be themselves, to express anything bottled within. 

This bellwork allowed many of them to find their voice, own their voice, love their voice, use their voice. 

Even out loud.  

If the energy was right, we'd move onto whatever I had planned for that day. 

If not, we didn't. 

I didn't use the traditional syllabus—big surprise—good girl, rule breaker was I. 

But seriously, who wants to spend three months on grammar?!

When we were studying poetry, I brought in lyrics by Bob Dylan, Eminem, Dr. Dre. We discussed Madonna and Prince songs, comparing them to “known poets.” 

I added poetry from Edgar Allan Poe (creepy) and made Emily Dickinson (fun) but not always easy for them to follow.

I knew from my own struggles in school, and with learning, that when I was engaged I was more receptive, more able to absorb. 

So my daily intention was all about adding JOY to each students’ day. And providing a safe space, place where they were able to express themselves.

Written or verbal, that was up to them. 

Life is heavy enough, is it not? 

And I learned from those students and from my own past, being a teenager was no joke. Especially if the voice inside your head was flipping-forever negative.  

When something big happened at school or out in the "real world," the kids were granted the space to share, ask, to talk about it in my classroom. 

We had conversations and used our words to communicate, not alienate. 

The year I started, the school earned a D based on writing and math scores. 

The following year? An A. 

My students, half the 8th grade class and half the 10th grade class, learned to write, to communicate and that impacted their reading/writing scores. 

Dare I say their lives.

I’d even be so bold as to say my classroom allowed many to gain confidence in their own abilities and that confidence had a ripple effect into all their subjects—even math.  

This off-the-cuff idea of bellwork continued to give and give as kids stopped me years later, in the supermarket, post office, at a restaurant, to share things like 

"Oh my god, Miss Stevens, thank you for making me write a page a day. You have no idea. I can write anything. No fear of a blank page, because of you.”

Another would add something like, 

“I can articulate my thoughts. That was such a great lesson. Thank you so much!" 

And when one shared, 

“Because of you, I journal every single day and I swear it saved my life!” 

Yes, I did break down and cry because that is the power of words, of expressing yourself.

When done in present tense, positive you are actually drafting the story of your life. 

And that’s what my new book, Creating Your Most Delicious Life, is actually about. 

Some of the best things in your life are not scripted, much like I did not script nor plan bellwork. 

I simply allowed all to unfold. 

Magic will explode in your life when you focus on allowing—and in my opinion write a page a day. 

If you want to tap into that way of showing up in your life, you’ll want to get on the waitlist for my new book. 

And today, make it a point to do that thing that scares you anyway. Simply showing up, even when you may feel like you have no clue, that’s more than half the work, and more than half the population will ever do today.

When you do this, your children, if you have any, see this and are impacted. Your actions often speak just as loud, if not louder, than your words.

---

I’m finally writing as me,
and hot damn has it been a trip.
Get on the Waitlist & Get all the dirty deets.

---

Post Photo Credit: Arturo Rey @arturorey

Do It Scared – Bloody Editors & Feedback Fears

On Monday, I woke up and decided today was the day to publish again on Elephant Journal, an online magazine that claims hundreds of thousands of eyeballs stop by and stare at words for a while.  

I’d published two pieces nearly a year ago on being good enough and navigating the holidays alone. 

How time flies… 

So Monday something shifted in me and I thought, it’s time. It’s time to simply submit and let her fly. 

And I did that Monday, times two. You may remember that some social platforms went dark that day … a day for the history books [wink] as Facebook, Instagram and WhatsApp were down for the count not just for an hour or two but f-o-r-e-v-e-r.

And for some, it literally felt like a lifetime. 

So I wrote about it, in a tongue-in-cheek way – Calling all Therapists: Get them Coaches Ready! Facebook Went Down!, and published it live on Elephant Journal immediately. 

Tuesday morning I greeted the day to find that piece was chosen as an editor’s pick by the lovely, Elyane Youssef, and already seeing a bit of traction – readers. You can check it out here. 

But today I want to dive into the interesting phenomenon that happens so often when a writer submits his or her words for publication. 

They are loved and yet lacking. Or they are lacking and not yet loved. 

Either way, there is work to be done. 

---

“In coaching writers, artists, creatives, I see so often that feedback is taken as a personal attack when in most cases it’s offered simply to make your writing, your art, better. ”

— Jill R. Stevens

---

And this happened for me with that second piece, At 11, I Held Hands with Death, which I submitted on Monday. 

[By the way, not my original title but I like it!]

Pause for a moment and notice my intentional choice of words. 

I submitted work. 

A published author of numerous books, not known by this new-to-me Elephant Journal editor, the gracious Amy Vanheste, and she gave me feedback. 

She loved the piece yet found it lacking. 

Amy believed there was work to be done in order to publish and told me. 

So, I said above this happened for me not to me. 

In coaching writers, artists, creatives, I see so often that feedback is taken as a personal attack when in most cases it’s offered simply to make your writing, your art, better. 

Now, feedback for me, I once took without thought. 

I operated from a space, a place, of believing that everyone, anyone, knew better than me. A low-low-low self esteem. 

But now, I am a stronger-in-self bad-ass woman. A writer who knows what she desires to say, listens and absorbs feedback, and then chooses with love and JOY to say yay or nay. 

All is a choice. 

The feedback Amy shared with me was valid and I knew immediately it would make the piece stronger. 

To tie my own unique purple ribbon on a personal experience. 

Her way was all about sharing what a brush with death meant to me and not leaving the reader hanging, feeling there should be more said. Shared. 

I tend to let the reader make up his or her own mind, not feeling that my neat-little-bow-of-conclusions matter in one’s interpretation of my words. 

Yet, I saw her point and thought, perhaps my added perspective would make this piece better. 

So I wrote her a new ending immediately in the email thread she’d sent me and her response came less than 30 minutes later. 

Loved it. 

Amy shared it was a go and the piece would be published tomorrow. 

Which is today… and yes at 6:30AM it was live. You can read it here and I suggest you do before continuing on…

As this is where it gets good. 

What’s Written,
What’s Published – 
Not Always The Same

There is what I wrote and what she ended up publishing.

Two very different sets of words. 

Still mine, but minimized, tweaked, shifted, rearranged. 

And I could be mad. I could raise a stink. 

I could bemoan the fate of a creative forever misunderstood or I could say “cool” and move on with my day. 

I’ll leave it up to you to decide which way I JOYfully chose to roll. [wink]

---

But after you give the published words a read, come on back here to see the original ending I wrote, it’s just below, and you be the judge. 

---

We all need an editor and for this piece, I think this editor did my words justice and gave me an opportunity to stretch myself. 

Leave me a comment and share how you feel. 

Published ending or mine below..? 

Which one calls to you, oh reader, my dear…!?

And next time you hesitate out of fear
to send in a submission,
thinking some editor will tear your words to shreds,
do it scared. 

The next time you receive feedback on anything you do or write, take a deep breath and place your hand on your heart. 

Do I receive this? And wait for a beat. 

When you practice this you will get good at hearing the yes or no. It may be a feeling or an inner voice, simply tune in. 

The choice is always yours to make.
And then, this is key, make it and move on.

---

Original Submitted Ending 

I have always known the power of words –

both spoken and written. 

I grew up in a generation where we still chanted

"Sticks and stones may break my bones

but words can never hurt me".

And even back then,

I knew that childhood sing-along

was nothing but

a lie. 

Words rattle us,

shift us,

empower us,

disempower us. 

Words move us to tears, laughter and can leave us swimming in fears. 

Words can lift one high 

or quickly plummet one low.

I felt that one word.

Mateo. 

Remembered yet again,

a whisper through my night.

A reminder of a time 

as a tune from a favored soundtrack

played loud. 

Having this man's name,

a name I did not know the meaning of,

left ringing in my ears...

yet again

Inspired curiosity in me to know more.

Because words do matter. 

This I have forever known.

And how fitting,

that his name literally means

God's Gift,

for he taught me so very much. 

About life, death, destiny, surrender. 

Which hell, haven't we all be marinating in –

deeply,

these last few unpredictable years. 

So now I am left to reflect, as some 32 years later,

as I finally write this piece

on first

journal pages... 

How this was the year I chose to focus on my own name.

To get to know myself – 

completely. 

Jill. Youthful. Child of the Gods.

That last I did not know until just now. 

As I did a quick – thank you Google,

search.

Child of the Gods. Me.

God's Gift. Mateo.

In looking at my name

these last ten months,

I have gotten to know myself – 

all the cracks and crevices, 

nooks and crannies...

All the light and shadows

beyond the skin and bones being

that you see. 

Just as Mateo gave me so much insight

in his passing 

and in the remembering

of the special moment I held hands with destiny. 

A name. A word. 

Now gives me – 

everything. 

---

When You’re Ready
to Let the Words Bubbling Within Out to Play

This is the safest, most JOYful place to step into and begin.
Absolutely free – right now.

---

Post Photo Credit: VJP

on writing a book …

If you want to write a book,

see your name in lights,

think THAT is the dream...

I feel you, hear you, see you and ask you to read this post.

So ... you write a book.

You find an agent.

You get a publishing deal.

You arrive.

The angels sing for you.

The NYT Bestseller list is within reach.

Your books are selling...

You receive a royalty check.

Happiness is yours.

Yet, is it?

If you base your happy on

awesome reviews,

royalty checks,

selling a book,

getting a deal,

finding an agent

I hate to break it to you but I feel I must.

Your happy will be fleeting.

Those nagging doubts will return.

The thought of "Oh shit, can I even do it again?"

may haunt you as it has tripped up so many "successful" writers before you.

I'm not saying don't order up a "deal" with a major house.

I'm not saying don't see your book title on a bestseller list.

I'm not saying your story won't be sold to Hollywood or Netflix.

I'm not saying that second book has to be a deep soak in doubt.

What I am saying is this.

The key to writing is loving the work, not the outcome.

The key to your happy is never outside of you.

The key to being a published author is not to give two shits about getting published, finding an agent, penning that deal, seeing your name in lights.

See it if it motivates you, then let it float away. Done deal.

Now write.

The key is know it is,

own it as done,

feel the JOY within

As you sit down and write, Writer, write.

That is when your talent is won.

It's the art,

the drudgery of

day in day out

hit that word count.

It's the rinse and repeat

The editing

The writing

The dedication

The process

You fall in love with.

You find fulfillment in.

For the rest is just cherries atop the ice cream cone of your word life.

To rely on another to keep your dream from melting...

Hard stop – no.

For after the first yes fades...

A writer's work is to go back solo.

No more accolades.

When the cheers fade, you are left with you.

An agent saying, "Yes, you."

A publishing house saying, "OMG, you're brilliant, sign here!"

A list saying, "We want you on our book team."

Fleeting

Wins.

But you loving the Journey Of You,

The writer.

Now that's damn delicious.

And there ain't no one who can take that away from you.

Today is about saying YES to you. Own your writing life. Own the title. Grant it to you, it is not bestowed upon you by another.

Today is about owning your own brilliance, not waiting for another to sing it.

Today is about picking you by writing to your word count, committing to one story you desire to tell and devoting yourself to daily words.

Today is your day to not just be happy, as that is forever-fleeting.

Today is about finding your JOY.

💜

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Photo Credit: Jaredd Craig @jaredd_craig

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When You’re Ready
to Let the Words Bubbling Within Out to Play

This is the safest, most JOYful place to step into and begin.
Absolutely free – right now.

Damn Chapter 3

If you get my weekly emails,
read my words
you know by now
I’m a writer.

Shocker,
I know.

And a JOYful one at that.
Typically.

I’ve been writing for nearly three decades –
Professionally.

Crazy,
I also know.

I must have climbed from the womb
clutching my purple pen…

But just recently,
I wanted to chuck that and

My MacBook Pro
out my cottage window.

And that’s just not normal for me.

I was stuck on Chapter 3.
And it was telling,

As this is me writing as me.

Not behind one of eight
alter egos, pseudonyms,
or Ghosting another’s words

In secret delight.

But stepping out
me being me.

Sometimes even one’s art can feel hard.
This is what I shared with two of my clients
recently.

A behind the scenes peek
Into the ups and downs

Of creativity.

And it was the simple acknowledgement
that I was making it difficult
that finally freed me.

I set down chapter 3.
Decided to circle back around –
Later.

And instead of procrastinating,
doing nothing more than
bemoaning my stuck-fate

I dove into chapter 4
with a solid,
rock-steady beat.

It’s only hard when I say it is.

But it doesn’t have to be.

It’s a choice to stare at a blank page,

Or write something,
anything
you please.

Or in my case edit
something,
anything,
pretty please.

Where in your life are you choosing stuck?

Choosing,
that word is key.

I can’t tell you how long I stewed in my stuckness
of Chapter 3.

Of other stories throughout my lifetime.

And that’s not what matters.
At least not to me.

It’s not about the sharing of the drama,
that was me.

But the freedom
that unfolds when you let go...

And start again.

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Photo Credit: Patrick Tomasso @impatrickt

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What’s More JOY Worth To You?

For Less Than 191 Pennies A Week
Access All My JOYful Words

For the detailed soul, click here for more.

Everyone Needs An Editor

It's time to share what goes bump in my day-light
And night.

But first...

As a writer, there comes a time
when editing is the weapon of choice
not purple penning more words.

Editing is not my strong suit
As I tend to add more.

Yet, even as I type those words,
I know they are a lie.

I am a solid editor, not awesome, but solid.

Why?

Because I’ve practiced.

I’ve chopped wood, carried water – as my coach likes to say.

I’ve done it over and over
And yep, over again.

So, I am damn good at editing.

Whether you’re writing a book
or simply creating and living your most delicious life
a good edit is like a deep spring cleaning,
a Marie Kondo-ing of your inner
or outer
or digital
self.

So, why that natural inclination to put myself down
for shaking the cobwebs from my very soul?

To talk about my perceived lack...
Instead of my skills..?

I went straight to not being enough in my own eyes
because of one thing – fear.

See, the words I am about to edit have been written by me,
like so many words these last nearly thirty years…

But the difference?

These words will be released as me.

My name, front and center, on the cover.

For most, that would be a moment to celebrate, would it not?

I mean, who doesn’t want to write and publish a book.
See their name in lights…

I have people asking me all the time,

“OMG, Jill, can you help me write a book?”

And wanting to work with me
To do just that.

From famous peeps
For whom I’m their ghost(writer).

To clients who hire me to support their most delicious dream of learning how to purple pen their own words as they please.

Yet, for me, still I cringe at that thought.

Me,
center stage?
I think not.

So, it’s time to talk about it.

To bring it into the light and stop hiding-in-plain sight.

A skill I know I have perfected
Along with my word-chops
And editing-flops.

There I want to go again, downplaying all that I am.

Making you laugh
Taking the heat off what frightens me.

All those eyes
Off little old me.

I even thought about not speaking of this book.

A silent release,
In the dead of a cold, winter night.

No one need know… Right?

And then my coach, my editor,
Oh, she’ll so love being called that…

Determined to help me see that hiding-in-plain sight no longer serves me, held me accountable to stepping into my slice of sunlight.

So here I be,
At your mercy.

Face upturned into the tropical sunlight,
Sharing that today I begin a five-day marathon of editing me – 
My words.

Words that will bare my name.

Words that will grace your shelf
(perhaps)
And introduce you to a new me.

One who is

Oh-so visible, brave,
JOYfully Bold

And no longer downplaying
All that she is

In her heart
And her soul.

And instead allowing all the pages of she
To be read oh-so-deliciously.

Where do you put yourself down,
beat yourself up,
believe you are not good enough?

Food for spicy thought right there.

Comment and share below when you are ready to let that old-tired-ass way of being go.

And if you’re ready to journey with me as I release these words as me, join the waitlist and perhaps become a first-look reader of little-old-me.

enJOY your slice of sunlight, there’s enough for all.

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Photo Credit:

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One Hour Does Have The Power To
Open Doors & Transform Your Life

Ah, Writer’s Block, Not A Writer? I Betcha You Can Relate

There’s this thing called writer’s block. 

It’s that blank page, blank screen and a blinking cursor, taunting you, demanding you say something divine. Daring you to erupt greatness on the bare canvas of —

—What the f- am I even writing? 

It’s the thought that spins and takes over until all other words and coherence leave the being of you and all that remains is a puddle of —

—oh, sh*t!

And that’s when my phone rings, my email chimes, alarms go off. 

See I’m the writer who gets called in to save the proverbial word-day. I’m the one who steps in when a once-prolific writer crashes and starts a slow (or fast) burn. 

Perhaps due to the pressure of a deadline, meeting expectations on a follow-up book, or simply drawing a blank. 

When this happens, I put on my cape and transform into The Word Doctress. 

And I rise to the call with purple pen in hand like my chosen sword because I so get Writer’s Block but on a different level. 

Mine was the hiccup of Life Block. 

The what the f- am I even doing here? moments. That’s what I call Life Block.

Maybe you’ve experienced it.
Swam in its depths,
spun in it’s fast-cycle
and felt like you’ve all but disappeared into the quicksand of endless thoughts,
Could-have, would-have, should-haves
From the pressure the unknown exudes. 

It’s that thing that has you questioning in the dead of night... and the stark light of day...

Why am I here?
What is my purpose? 
Is there a reason for all this? 

Just like the writer asks...

What does my book even mean?
Why am I even writing it?
Who’s gonna read it?
What if it’s not as good as..?

As The Word Doctress, I step in and literally start waving my magic, purple ink like fairy dust, cut through the crap that is the blocked-writer’s-mind, and get to the root of their sh*t. 

And no, I don’t dress up in a cute-ass-white-lab-coat with lace garter belt and silk unmentionables underneath, but if it floats your boat to think about…who am I to stop your imagination. 

Because honestly, that’s all writing is... 
That’s all life is…
Imagination.

It’s taking words and creating a feeling.
It’s imagining something and then translating it onto the page for another to absorb -- or ignore. 

And being perfectly down with either-or. 

That’s how I see life. 

Some people will love what you do and some won’t.

When I step in to help out a fellow Word Wizard, the thing we end up working on is not their plot, their character and dialogue or their non-fiction topic. 

Nope, it’s much more important, vulnerable and basic. 

We talk life. 
Why they’re in their head. 
What’s got them scared and shaking in their proverbial boots?

Because frankly, what I’ve found is that Writer’s Block is really another version of Life Block.

So my role in that moment is not to save the day with my own words, but allow them to save themselves. 

I’m all but spitting out my cup-o-joe as I sit here overlooking the sea, just now realizing that I’ve been a Writing Coach to the Writers. 

Funny how we don’t see what’s so clearly in front of us.
Much like what happens for a writer at a sudden loss for words. 

The fact is I have been a coach to some very amazing writers who’ve stumbled on their word-path and simply needed a helping hand. 

We all need that at some point, do we not? 

I sure did — with my life block. 

So I get it. I feel into it. And I am able to shed light where needed, hold up a delicate mirror where helpful, and offer just the right key in the best moment to fit that sticky-lock that’s shut down one’s creative flow. 

Plus, I sprinkle a dash of JOY back into their writer-life because frankly, everyone needs more JOY.

Because, real writers, we write to write. Period. Full stop. 

We don’t write to be read. 
We don’t write for the numbers. 
We don’t even write for the impact our words may or may not have. 

No, we write because we can’t f-ing help it. 
Like for real. 

Me. Deserted island. Only three things. Endless supply of paper, ink and a waterproof room to house my words. Sorry, chocolate. 

Ooops, wonder if I can I bring the Fabulous Frenchman with his three can’t live without items as a bonus?

When a writer writes they get lost in the words, the characters and the story they are telling. And it matters not if it’s fiction or non. 

When a writer is in flow, time stands still and flies by all in the same moment. 
That’s being in the zone.

A place where there is no writer’s block nor life block. 

Because the words simply are. 

One simply allows. 

And from that place there is this delicious peace. 

This untapped joy.  

This delight is what’s possible. 

And when a writer is blocked. 

Well, they are no longer writing from that place that caused them to write in the first place. They have moved from their soul, their heart, their essence and being the conduit...into their head. 

To outcomes.
To profit.
To numbers.
To comparison.
To worry.
To judgment.
To fear.
To doubt.

And that writer, that person, no longer trusts the only thing that matters. 

Themselves. 

See when you’re in your head, you can’t imagine fully.

When you’re in your head, you can’t tap into that inner guidance we all have as a birthright. 

And writing, like life, is a gift. 

Writing is a gift… if you’re a writer, you can probably relate.

And life, this life, your life … if you’re not a writer but can relate, is very much a gift. 

It’s profound, precious and should be treasured, loved and cared for, but so often we take it for granted, brushing off the wins like crumbs off our lap from that fifth cookie stuffed in one’s mouth without full awareness. 

Been there done that. What about you? 

So, I’m picking up my mug-o-green-tea, curling up in my comfy spot because it’s time for you to now tell me all about you. 

Who are you? 

The writer stuck in Writer’s Block hell 

Maybe the writer who’s itching to start filling that blank screen but simply doesn’t know how, a block all it’s own!

Or a delicate soul so hearing my words - Life Block - resonate within your core. 

It’s time to raise your hand high and with a wave or delicately with the pose of a queen, and speak the language of you. 

What if your life.. was delicious.?

Gosh, makes me smile wide, what about you..? 

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Photo Credit: Velizar Ivanov @lycan

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One Hour Does Have The Power To
Open Doors & Transform Your Life

When The Words Flow... A Dash Of JOY

I created something new. Yep, seriously prolific here. In between books, letters to written for a few fab clients this week and a My Words Your Day® Intensive Experience, I still find the juice to create.

It’s literally in my blood. And I’d like to share it with you.

Like most words, this idea and what followed simply flowed. So, instead of questioning, overthinking, analyzing “OMG, another idea!” I gave myself the moment to be free.

I sat back, cracked my knuckles (not really) and let the words rip!

And boy did they ever…

Which is perhaps why I so love to write.

I don’t judge my words.
I don’t worry about my words.
I don’t question if my words are good enough.
I don’t really care what happens with my words after I’m done…
I realize they are a gift.

A gift I hand off to the reader, my editor, my agent, a client and how they are received next, well, that’s none of my business.

Hmm, detachment is a beautiful thing when you get it.

And thankfully, with words, I’ve been blessed to realize I am but the conduit.

So I allow.

And this, poem and a special something-something, is one of the things that came to me just a few short days ago and now has taken on a life of its own. More on that life-of-it’s-own to come!

It’s a poem, short and sweet with a delicate punch which is how I tend to coach my clients.

I say it like it is, no matter what the forum.

As you read A Poem — A Dash Of JOY, I encourage you to consider that thing you do that’s simply natural, easy, and aligned.

For me it’s words.
For me it’s teaching and coaching too.
But that came after doing and doing and more doing.

Competence breeds confidence.
Consistency breeds mastery.

So look to those things or that one thing you can do without question.

For me, it’s writing.
The words, those are a gift.

I can’t even fully claim them as mine for they simply flow through me.

And that’s why I’ve always been able to detach from the outcome. The thinking and worrying over how they will affect you and effect you, the reader.

So lean in now.

Picture that one thing you do that’s simply natural, easy, and aligned.

If you know it and can all but taste it — good!
Lean in and do more of it…

Don’t have it yet..? No worries. It’s there for you.
Allow it to come and it will when you let go of wanting to know now.

Seriously…
When we allow, all works.
When aligned, life is sweet.

Lean into what’s easy. I am and all is blooming. It’s actually pretty magical.

So that poem I mentioned is below is a sharing of what came from allowing this idea to be…

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A Poem —
A Dash Of JOY

A Dash of this

A Dash of that

A Splash of

Hmmm,

Delicious Delight

A Dash Of Joy

When you

Rise Or Reside

Give it

A Toss

Lean in

Just right.

Remember,

Shaken Not Stirred

Guaranteed a

Fabulous

Good-Night.

A Dash Of Joy

A laugh or two

Give it a go.

It might just be good for you.

My name is Jill

Or should I say JOY

For it bubbles from within

And spills out through my purple pen.

Hear me word-roar…

This is where we meet

Clandestine

Entwined

The Dash In Between

So perfectly designed.

And dare I say…

divine.

Storyteller am I

So start at the one

Unless you desire

Mind-warping fun.

Matters not to me

Paint outside my lines.

I am but the sharer of the tale

You the receiver of all I unveil.

Welcome to

A Dash Of Joy