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.

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

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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.

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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

Frigging Dishes — A tasty sneak peek into Create Your Most Delicious Life

Let’s dive right into an essay within my new soon-to-be released book. My first book written as me...

So kinda a big deal because while I’ve been writing forever, I’ve not yet published as little old me– till now. I talk about that, writing and the deliciousness that can be life in the upcoming book. 

But for now...

As I get ready to finally add a kitchen in my cottage writer’s retreat...I want to take you back.

Back nearly five years to a temporary kitchen and the essay loving entitled

Frigging Dishes 

In my early years, I grew up in an environment where arguing was communicating. Now I see just how ineffective, inefficient, and back-assward that is. 

But back then I was simply modeling what I knew with my own Frenchman. 

We were on an island, much like how we met but no longer full of that honeymoon-like, island-hopping awesomeness. 

Instead, we were in life, a life we had created together and one I resisted at each and every turn.

Let me take you to that moment in time, my hands in water, banging dishes as I washed them with force. 

Frigging dishes.

Steaming internally.
Flushed externally.
Mumbling outwardly.
Screaming silently inward. 

So much happens when my hands are in water. 

Water is a conduit for much as everything is energy and water transfers that energy. 

For me, typically water gives me ideas and characters to write, stories to tell, and awareness around something that’s being processed. 

Well, I was wrist-deep
in a shit-ton of awareness
and I was choosing to be unhappy about it all.

Catch that—to be unhappy in a moment is nothing more than a choice. 

The dish soap that came with the place was vivid blue. 

Something I’d never buy and typically would not use,
but we had just arrived and this was our very first night together. 

And first fight. Again. 

His voice soft. Unsure. Struggling to understand.
My voice loud. Harsh. Feeling angry and unheard. 

This damn soap,
so strong,
overpowering me,
much like my over-the-top emotions. 

I remember this putrid chemical (to me) odor surrounding us like a thick, too-fragrant cloud. 

My body, senses, intolerant to most chemicals.
Much like I was being that evening. 

So I’m arguing with the husband and the smell of the detergent permeates the entire conversation. 

We go through the highs and lows—the disconnect—forever misunderstanding. 

Sighs (on my part),
Head shakes (on his).

Tears (on my end),
Pleading looks (on his).

Lack of connection.
Incapable of understanding.
All the emotional overload
Bubble-Wrapped in sudsy chemicals.

Dishes, half-washed, forgotten. 

The argument, eventually, brushed away,
never forgotten.

But worked through
like so much
these last few years. 

Acceptance.
Allowing.
My new middle names–
competing, of course, with more JOY. 

Pass the detachment, pretty please.

And then years later,
from this new state of being,
where JOY is my default setting,
I find myself squirting a stream of blue on a sponge,
the only option at hand.

And immediately, shockingly, I’m transported through time.

Hands once again sinking in doing the—shout it out, yo—
Frigging dishes! 

The smell, which lived within my memory banks
on a cellular level,
took me right back to
that night,
that fight. 

All of a sudden I was angry.
Fuming mad.

Steam arising from the hot water
and my scalding temper.

The glass in my hand in serious jeopardy of a good old tossing. 

I didn’t, but man, upon occasion, I so want to . . . 

To break the tension erupting within me.
To hear the shattering of glass,
of something, anything
but me.

If you please. 

Because even though that
misunderstanding, disagreement, argument
was now years in my rearview mirror,
it was a good thing The Frenchman wasn’t present in that new moment
as he could have been in the crosshairs of my

—welcome back—

short-tempered,
emotional
overloaded
fuse.

Brought to the surface
by sensory memory.

Crazy, no? 

---

Want more Delicious Life book excerpts
and to be the first in the know?

Get your ass on the waitlist now.

There’s no time to delay. This book-puppy is in final edits... and ready for a forever home soon–on your bookshelf or happily in your e-reader!

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And if you’ve ever wanted to write your own book,
you now have two options

Book a 1-on-1 Clarity Call with me today

Join my free group on Facebook: Write Your Book Already! with Jill

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

Photo Credit: Brooke Lark @brookelark

Create Most Delicious Life - An Excerpt: the delicious reward

the delicious reward

Did you know that when a hen lays an egg, she clucks? It’s true! 

She’ll strut around,
ruffling her feathers,
flapping her wings,
clucking to the heavens,
celebrating the amazing thing she just did.

And the rest of the flock will follow suit, clucking and celebrating her accomplishment. 

Imagine if you started to celebrate your accomplishments too. Daily.

Hens know what humans have forgotten—there’s enough sunshine for everyone. One hen’s accomplishment does not diminish another’s. 

They never think it’s selfish to toot their own horn.

In fact, the louder the better. 

Yet when a human sings her praises, what does that make her?

Arrogant

Selfish

Stuck up

Egotistical

Hearing words like, 

Don’t brag. It’s not polite.

Be a lady.

Tone it down.

No one likes a show-off.

Ego much?!

Well, aren’t we full of ourselves?

Look at all the messed-up stories we have.

Stories that we pass down from generation to generation. 

And these stories continue on
because we allow them to grow
and take root within us. 

When you stop caring what another person thinks . . . 

When you do what you do because it feels right to you in this moment . . . 

You will be free.
You will feel JOY.

You will be living your most delicious life,
one you have created . . . 
and that right there is divine. 

And you will stop the cycle of passing those stories down.
Down to your children,
grandchildren, a friend,
a stranger on the street.

This is the ripple of you knowing you, loving you, living your most delicious life—unapologetically.

Not everyone will dance it out,
loud and proud,
in front of a large crowd
on the tabletop of their life.

And that’s more than alright.

This is your life to live your way.

Simply stop looking to others before you choose how to be.
Be you. This is your opportunity.

My way of celebrating has always been to do so solo . . . 
a giggle caught by my own hand.

Hidden away to warm my heart on a day
when I perhaps wanted to give up.

Yet where is the ability to receive in that?
Lacking  . . . perhaps. 

And something I’ve personally been working on. 

Even in writing these pages as me,
in my voice . . . 
with my story-shares.

Personal.
Perhaps profound.

Open, willing to receive.
From you, my delightful reader.

Not because I need to hear what you have to say.

Not because it feeds my soul to hear you celebrate these pages, these words.

Just as it will not tear me down to hear nothing,
because to me crickets are one of the most beautiful of sounds.

Yet when we liken them to what we hear when no one shows,
we diss mother nature,
we dismiss our own self-worth.

And that for me is a no-go.

I know, in my soul, this book, these pages will impact one. Thus, I have won. 

Yet I am not attached to that outcome. 

Before it’s even released,
before I even finish writing these words.

In fact, my rooted intention as I write is that these words be like a rushing tide of awakening for hundreds, thousands, millions . . . 

The impact felt for decades to come. 

A sweeping across a land,
a soft breeze touching upturned faces. 

Opening the hearts of all who are exposed,
a ripple effect more profound
than that of The Butterfly Effect. 

Yet again, I am not attached to this outcome.
My work is to write, to release, to allow the book room to freely breath. 

The reader the space to enJOY
or pass on by. 

The one who’s ready will sink in and love these pages
or toss them aside,
and either way is fine by me. 

For I am not attached to an external, outside-of-me outcome. 

Hear that and tap into your own knowing. 

My value, my worth does not come from the recognition of my work.

My value, my worth is present
because I take the time daily to own it, celebrate it,
skinny-dip in it with delicious intention. 

My celebration, my ruckus raised, my clucking
is in writing each and every word.

---

If you liked this excerpt from my up and coming book

Create Your Most Delicious Life
Life’s A Bitch (especially now) Make It A JOY.

Get your fine self on my waitlist for more deets and treats.

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Photo Credit: @danieltuttle

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Staying Stuck or Small Stepping Toward a Dream

Some days, weeks are a study in creativity, in flow.

In all the pieces falling together.

And other weeks, just no. Ever experienced this ebb and flow?

A feeling of being on, then not.

I don’t think this is simply a thang creatives feel.

What if this is life?

A change of seasons, a shifting of the gears.

A rotation of the guards.

If one is forever productive, where is the moment for rest?

The beat to celebrate?

I wrote about learning to truly celebrate listening to hens. And it’s actually an essay in my new book. One of 88, oh how I love numbers.

I wrote about learning to truly celebrate listening to hens. And it’s actually an essay in my new book. One of 88, oh how I love numbers.

[ If you’re not yet on the waitlist, what’s the dealio? Get on now! ]

Want to read that excerpt from my book?
If you're a JOY! Subscriber, you can right now. Or become one.

Either option is a seriously delicious read as the animals they teach me so much.

Like feeling overwhelmed or out of sorts… how to simply shrug it off, let it go. When I sit with a little rescue baby all of that nonsense fades away.

Especially when this happens.

[click on image from my IG account]

play video

Yet, how many mothers tend to have a child on one hip and bemoan the lack of time to dive into their side hustle, their JOY, their dreams.

How many tend to spin in but the job, I can’t possibly write that book now.

Yet, if not now, when?

What is it, in our nature that doesn’t want to sink into the now..? But instead, so deeply believe the happy lies just over there.

Whenever someone steps into overwhelm, I wish I could hand deliver a baby goat like the one who 2x4ed me.

(Her name's Snow White, a name that came so easily)

Because when a baby goat headbutts you, it’s no joke.

And it seriously puts “pay attention to the now, to me” in bold, bright perspective.

But for some a tap from this little princess wouldn’t be enough to shake loose that hold of stubborn overwhelm – is it that ingrained in you it’s become your go-to?

Well, I bet a headbutt from Moo Baah, my big ass, intimidating goat, might change your mind.

Ask yourself today, what’s more important…

Staying stuck or taking one small step at a time toward your dream?

If you don’t even know what you want, I feel your pain.

Swimming in that pond once brought up feelings of shame for me.
I wrote about it here and here and here.

Plus, a three part series on Living Your Most Delicious Life.

Check it out and after you do, if writing is part of your single step plan, consider joining me in my free Facebook Group – Write Your Book Already!

---

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: JRS

What’s In a Name? A Naming Challenge

So this year has been an eye opening experience. 

And not even due to the pandemic as I simply refuse to give it any more credit for the good and bad of daily life. 

Instead, this year has been a deep-dive into getting to know me. 

Getting up close and personal, uncomfortably so, with who I am and who I desire to be. Of imprinting into my DNA like an inkless stamp that never expires – I am enough. Just as I am. 

This year has been about stepping out from behind my self-imposed shadows and being seen.

And it’s been a doozy. 

See each year I choose a word and that word becomes my focus for how I desire to grow,
change,
open,
become more aware,

be. 

It’s a powerful tradition that I’ve done now for decades and I’m not even sure where I first heard, found, stumbled upon or outright thought up the idea. 

[ I’m all about giving credit where credit is due. High up on my food-chain of values. ]

Well, soon I’ll share more about the massive impact my word for 2021 has had on me, but it may have to wait until it’s a was… 

[ Watch for that word-nugget to come once we ring in the new. ]

But I will share this. 

My word for 2021
was my name.

Jill. 

Just Jill. 

And that’s been so incredibly impactful for me because I’ve literally had to look at all of me. 

See I’ve been a hider-in-plain sight for most of my life.
Ghosting my way though.

Often giggling behind my fisted hand, a secret only I knew.
Yet, also solely in my wins. Easily able to discredit them. 

Often calling it being introverted,
too sensitive,
needing space…

I kept myself back,
distant,
alone
more than connected.

Connection, in more than small doses was hard.
As was receiving love,
which I just wrote words on
which you can also read. 

Which is actually the point of this here must-read. 

What’s in a name?

I’ve this delightful new addition to my farmette.

A little cottage, on a hill, overlooking the sea where I seem to become an enchanted version of Snow White…

All the little creatures coming to me. 

And my latest is a pup, not a goat. I’ve rescued 9 of those to date and am still bottle feeding 5 when not writing words and enJOYing my new nameless treasure. 

We, humans, are so often given a name before we even emerge with a soft or victorious cry. 

We are labeled before we leave the sterile walls by a word or series of words – a name.

One that has meaning.
One we give meaning. 

So one week in, as I sit here pondering names for my new English Bulldog pup, now 16 weeks young, I can’t help but think… What’s in a name? 

Let me toss it out to you as this is me now willing to receive.
A former hider-in-plain sight, stepping out and being seen as me.

Just Jill. 

Names have come to me for all 9 goats. My flock, not herd.

I know, right?
I’m confused as well.
Flock, say what?

Sometimes those names come quick as the rising red-gold sun breaking through the tropical dawn. 

Like Moo Baah my very first baby goat,
who looks like a cow
but sounds like a – 
say it with me now – 
baah!

Sometimes a drip, dip – molasses smooth inching at a wee crawl toward the held-at-ready silver spoon. 

And that seems to be the case with this new right-now snoring under-my-chair one.

A cuddly, sharped tooth bear of a beast who deserves the very best “label” I can provide. 

Because a name does matter, does it not? 

In some cases it sets us apart. Unique.
In others, it raises an eyebrow. Hard to pronounce. 

What’s in a name?

I’m curious to know, as for me, names often circle back around, giving depth and unexpected color. Like the uncommon name uttered when I was eleven that changed my life. A name that has suddenly resurfaced in another and fills me with a shiver. 

I feel the delicious weight of responsibility for each name I bestow on those four legged fur-babies and hoofed beasts I rescue.

Hell, even the gecko who stalks my desk and bookshelf while I write.

What’s in a name?

Such a fun question to ponder and if you have a thought – do tell. 

Leave me a comment, as right now my sole focus is name-debating about this new pup. If you want to play, give it a go in a comment below… 

And if you want to learn more about naming characters, pups or telling a story, join my in my Free Facebook Group

Dare I say it’s delicious!

---

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.

---

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.

💜

---

Photo Credit: Jaredd Craig @jaredd_craig

---

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.

When Resistance Leads To Big Wins

A bit of a Confession Time Moment.

Ripped from the pages of my very own diary. 

[Side note, when I lost this original word-share last night during a full-moon tech meltdown, I could have blown away, a shattered stone, turned to a spin of angry dust, but instead I settled, rooted. 

I went deep within my core, and kept my peace. 

Had a moment of damn it, of course, for I am after all human. 

Thought, Rewrite it now? Or let it go. 

I decided sleep was my answer and took my full moon witchy rest. So here I am back to reshare what disappeared last night into the ethers… And if you read to the very end, I’ll clue you in on exactly why I believe I lost those original delicious words.]

---

Warning: I drop F-Bombs here.

---

Less than two days ago, I “launched” a free FB group and met with so much fucking inner-resistance I all but turned to stone.

I put launched in quotes as all I did was put the group live…

I hadn't even invited a soul inside, yet, and already the steady march of bombarding thoughts hit again and again in crashing wave after dizzying wave of – let’s call a spade a spade…

I am not enough-ness. 

Those thoughts tumbled and rolled, tensing my shoulders, sinking my belly and making me want to pull my covers up and hibernate into sleep. 

I am an in-out girl.
I don’t wanna be responsible for this.
Oh my God, I don’t have the time for this.
Hell, what am I even doing?
I like working with people closely, not big groups.
I don’t even like being on social media!

Just no. This is silly.
Just no. I don’t wanna share. 

That chatter was a Beastie Boys,
You Gotta Fight For Your Right To Paarty! moment,
going on inside my head.

But instead of a bunch of rowdy boys,
singing and jumping around with their hats on backwards,
having a blast...

My song was series after spinning series of
limiting beliefs,
cray-cray thoughts

A bunch of screeching monkeys
having a mind-blowing-bash inside my head.

And so I dove in deep, despite the discomfort.
I refused to retreat…

Instead, I posted these words on my profile page. 

If someone writes a bestseller ...
Everyone knows about it.

If someone ghostwrites a bestseller ...
No one knows about it.
 

So far, 17 books I've ghostwritten have made the NYT Bestseller List.

Who wants to be number 18? Type ME in the comments and I'll invite you to my free Facebook group.

OMG, I even said out loud, I do not want to post this. 

This felt like bragging and made me want to throw up a bit in my mouth. 

And that’s why I said Fuck It, ENOUGH!
And posted the damn thing anyway. 

Talk about empowering. 

Not the action of posting these words to my FB profile page…
But to push through that No and do the uncomfortable thing anyway.

To witness the resistance.
To observe the chatter within.
To feel the discomfort, the itchy skin.

To be oh-so aware of my natural, unchecked desire to run far, far away.
To hide. 

To pull the plug
To toss in the towel

Before I’ve even begun.

A repeat pattern,
threaded through my strands of DNA,
like pearls creating their own iridescent light. 

A habit, ritual woven through
lifetimes, timelines

Not right
Not wrong
Simply a part of how I be.

Until now. 

For yesterday, today, I chose a new way. 

With that one send,
one press of a button,
one little itty meaningless post on my FB wall…

I cinched that flow of one step in and two steps out,
and tied it in a sweet, knotted bow.

No more depleting flow. 

Today I grab the mic of my own life,
step into my warm slice of sunlight and give a battle cry. 

Welcome to my house!
Where I am free to be me. 

Thus you are free to be you. 

Me shining bright does not steal from you, you or you. 

And that right there is why I am pushing through. 

Why this group,
whether a long-term thing or a POP UP experience,
is just where I need to be. 

This is my Full Frontal Living moment.
Again

Damn. They just keep on a-coming. 

The lessons I need.
The lessons I may not want.

And man, does it suck.
If I say it does.

To be out there as me.
To be no longer hiding
in the doing zone
of second-fiddle
to another’s belted out lead. 

Why even though this group might be a “bad” idea,
a time suck,
a “waste” – 

Although how can it be
if even one person is served,
then by my own motto,

I have won! 

Damn, all I need do
is be the me
who just gets out of
my own old ass
(way of being)
way.

Are you hearing this?
Are you ready to do the same..?

The message received with an open heart – 
through all the resistance
is simple. 

I am no better than another.
I am not less than another.
I am.

The end.

No more monkey chatter,
No more drunk on depleting self talk parties 

In my head.

Same goes for you.

You are you. Perfectly imperfect and so worthy of no longer pushing against the pull door of your own life. 

If my words, my work, even my group
shares that message,
while helping others find their voice…

Write their words.
Tell their stories.

Just wow. 

How selfish would I be
to not allow that free-rein
to come out and play, JOYfully. 

If my actions allow someone to 

Grab the mic
Publish their words
Own their spotlight
Find a dash more JOY
Sink into fucking deliciousness

Hot damn. 
All this struggle, well-deserved, well-received 

So I’m hitting POST here and now – again. 

---

[Remember my side note comment at the start? The loss of my original words? 

Well, you made it this far in your read, so let me tell you the secret I woke up to and already knew last night when those words – poof – disappear into full moon-soaked, tropical night air.  

And no, I don’t blame the moon, although – powerful force! Snap! 

But let’s not digress... and use up my daily word count. Ha! As if I have a limit… Now that’s fucking funny. 

Okay, the reason I lost my words,
the lesson for me,
was so not about keeping my cool,
about not tossing my MacBook Pro,
cursing the tech Gods nor turning to stone and staying

Screw this, I knew I wasn’t meant to start a damn FB group anyway. I’m out. I quit. Peace, bitches!

Nope, the reason those words vanished was simple. 

Expectation. 

I planned to share those words in a few groups, on my Page, profile and go to sleep with a cat-ate-the-canary smile. Because I knew I’d wake up with a flood of people wanting into my kingdom. Wanting to tour my FB group and learn, engage with little old me. 

I placed my order, with delight. Nothing wrong with that… 

And then I started to count my requests in my head… before they even arrived.

So instead, I was forced – nix that, chose –  to go count sheep and get my zzzs. To leave my expectations at the foot of my bed and be grateful for the words written and sprinkled aimlessly out into the night. 

Never to land nor impact nor add to me me me. 

Those words written had somehow become about ME and not those I was writing to inspire, share, serve. 

A big-honking pill to swallow… but it didn’t hurt going down. 

It didn’t hurt to be so self-aware
that I can quickly call bullshit on my own fine self. 

I’m a work in progress... obviously. 

And I’m JOYfully delighted by the fact that I didn’t blame me, shame me, step into poor me, the fucking world is always out to get me – negativity.  

I once rolled that way…
A slippery slope of shit, happiness is forever out of sight. 

But now my happiness, my JOY, is so much more important to me. 

So I ground there and allow myself to simply observe, without a care. Without judgement. 

Without digging bloody trenches in my own be-freckled skin.

And how utterly delicious it is to simply choose JOY,
to choose loving me – 
happily.]

---

If you wanna know what all the fuss is about
Come And See,
Join the Private FB Group Today

---

A Flying ‘Shiny Object’ - Staying on Course

I'm in a swarm of words, editing them and flies... they are a'flying. We have these things called fair weather flies. You can smell them a mile or two away. And I did last night.

When they come, its – all hands on deck, turn off the bloody lights – which yes, I did scream internally that is, thankfully, for the neighbors, I’m sure, as it was just me here, in paradise, last night.

It’s a moment of, done, the end, pull the covers up and go to sleep.

These creatures come in a black swarm-cloud at sundown-ish. And when I call them a swarm, I’m serious as hell.

They are attracted to the light and for all accounts and purposes they come to the light to fly about and die.

They aren’t big. They don’t buzz like a fly individually but together, wings a flutter, they sing their own song. And multiply and multiply and land on any service they see.

Even me. Skin-crawl shiver. Ick.

Hence, bed, covers, lights out. Night-night.

Even if the lights are off, like mine were last night, if windows are open, which mine were as it’s hotter than the hottest of hots here, they come on in.

An uninvited guest to take up space on countertops, piled on the floor, leaving you to waken to a mess.

So after feeding the five baby goats, I swept.
And swept.
And swept.

Some still wiggling and writhing in their early morning graveyard pile.
Some gone. Eaten by the lizards during a most delicious night.

And as I now sit at my desk, a fan blowing on one side of me. Citronella moving freely all around me – Did I mention there are monster mosquitoes right now too? Sometimes flying together, two-by-two.

Mid-flight mating, or what?
(Nature is so insane!)

Anyhoo, I sit at my desk to edit the day away and notice I missed a few bodies on my sweep this morning.

And just the thought of grabbing my broom
has an idea tumbling round and round
inside me.

Has this ever happened to you?

You’ve got things to do,
but damn something shiny and new pops up.

And you’re off to the races…

I call foul, game over
before you even stepped up
to the plate of you.

This right here is the pandemic that kept me stuck (in the past) forever and ever, amen.

If you feel me, give me a hell yeah, sunshine.

Leave me a comment after this read if you can relate. I want to hear from you, just how this way of showing up has impacted you in creating your most delicious life.

Because seriously.

This right there, is the root cause of all that has ailed me...
and perhaps you too.

From lack of worth,
lack of self confidence,
not feeling good enough,
not loving me…
completely.

Thankfully that shit is in the past, but seriously,
how can one love themselves
when they jump faster than a rabbit
from thang to thang..?

Never following through,
never following up,
never being true.

To their word.
To themselves.

Ah, bloody hell – this thing called integrity.

So even though simply the thought
of a fresh sweeping up
a mount of new
fair weather fly dead bodies
brought forth a flood of ideas…

It was on me to act or not.

And one such idea, so delicious I had to jot down three lines, so I’d remember makes me smile and want to dive in with utter delight.

This one in particular I’ll call F*cking Salad,
also an essay in my upcoming book…
one of four I’m currently writing, because prolific is me.

And now, thanks to this need
to sweep up the dead bodies
littered around me,
may also become it’s own
living, word-breathing reality.

I will not go down the F*cking Salad rabbit hole right now though.
I will not stop my flow.

I have committed to editing,
to staying on task,
to releasing this (first - gasp) book as me
and I will not allow myself to stop me…

Can you say that same?

Focus. Such a delicious word.

Don it today and see how radically it reshapes your life.

💜

And if you feel daring…
Share in a comment how you plan to stay focused on what’s most important and will build forward movement for you.

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Wanna read an excerpt from my new book? 
Become a JOY-Subscriber today and access Word Magic…
an essay that might be in or might be on the cutting room floor
with those leftover fair weather fly bodies.

To be swept up again at noon.

(shiver)

Yep, it is a bit gross. But it’s part of life.
Just like cleaning up the mess and starting fresh –
staying focused, no judgement.

---

Read Excerpts From My New Book

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

For the detailed soul, click here for more.

Photo Credit: Mathew Schwartz @cadop

Excerpt: Creating A New Story

If you have awareness of a story, you can now change it.

Do you even want to?
That is the only question.

As it may feel uncomfortable to shed that thing you’ve been attached to

for a day,
a year,
a decade,
gasp,
more.

And we tend to bury our heads in the known-sands when in discomfort, even when it’s the very thing irritating our delicate, thin skin.

At least, that was big-time me, me, me.

And this is where the work is.
It’s what I’ve chosen to write about in a new book.
And the working title (at this time) starts with a verb

Create

To create something new action is required.

The old proverb of when you pray, move your feet, comes to mind. I love that as so many think

If I just pray…
If I just meditate…
If I just ‘om’…
If I just think about it...

No! This is your life, and life is meant to be lived.
Another delicious verb.

You must, and yes, I say must as it’s #truth, show up and do your part.

You must move the needle of what you say you want.
Delicious life? Cool.

Get moving and create it.

It’s no longer enough just to sit and think about it
Humming or not.

You can live in the comfortable-discomfort
of a now-known story –
no judgement here

Or you can do the work and change your story –
with ease, JOY, delight.

Or with a flat attitude of
Another damn story, good God, I swear!

Your most delicious life is created your way…
And it begins with

Do you make it easy? or

Do you make it oh-so-hard?

Take a beat and dive into this idea today...

💜

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Photo Credit:

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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.

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.

---

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.

Cutting Back - The Tree And Me

Yes, I murdered the tree.

At least, at first look, that’s what you might see and thus the story you may just spin. Even as you, perhaps, curse me.

It was, after all, a beautiful 100+ year old sea grape tree.

A tree whose leaves spanned from golds and oranges
to lime green, evergreen
and would often sprout up purple.

Yes, purple. My delicious color.

Imagine that... more than 100 feet of blooming, iridescent purple!

Now that’s magical for me.

And yet, as I type, there are no more leaves.

Just solitary stalks
shooting upward
into the sky
for all to see
on their morning drive-by.

And they most certainly do see and ask me
why
why
why?

Internally whispering, Tree Murderer!
with a side of stink-eye.

But here’s what I know that perhaps you do not…

Sometimes we must prune to allow for regrowth.
Sometimes we must cut way back what’s no longer needed.
Sometimes we must butcher that b*tch so what’s dis-eased can go.

And for my lone sea-side tree, that’s what took place.

No leaf left standing.

And it hurt me deeply to do…
Both the stewing in should I?
and the deed, the undoing.

Yet, what I know is that I have allowed space for possibility to now grow.
Within me and for this tree.

Because to do nothing would have meant a slow, painful, diseased death.

To do nothing would have meant more indecisive hemming and hawing for me.

A most horrible place to be.

And what now exists is a rebirthing of something fresh, something new.

For that tree,
For me,

Perhaps for you, too.

Where in your life do you need to trim back a bit?

Or cut it all down to the ground?

Like the branches that were hacked back and fell,

My own words are littering the proverbial floor around my sole-s.

While my edits for this new book are not words that can kill,
Lack of clarity in life, in a good read, sure will.

So as I sit, overlooking the glass-coated, summer sea,
And my bare-bark tree…

There have been moments of

Should I,
Should I not
cut this or that back?

It’s okay to doubt,
Natural to question.

But to spin in that web,
now that’s sure-fire depressing.

What you do next is all that truly matters.

Look at what you may need to edit in your life today,
When you do, you allow room for new growth

And magic to unfold.

Moo Baah internally saying – Maaah! What did you do?!

What, in your life, are you neglecting that needs pruning, editing?

Share below in a comment for it’s time to get those shears out with ease and delight,

Even a slight murderous gleam in your eye.

But just know,
a tear or two may fall as you
trim what needs cutting back.

But in the end,
Delicious freedom
For expansion, possibility will open within.

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

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

Being the Punchline: A Tale of an Ant or Two

A friend of mine threw me right under the proverbial bus when she posed a question, a riddle of sorts, as she poured more wine around the table of 8, plus me. 

“If you’re Jill and your adorable white Jeep Wrangler is infested with ants, what do you do?”

Round and round the conversation went with no one guessing my true punchline. And me, well, I just turned beet red and sipped my sparkling water.

Yes, a former designated-everything was me.

From care-giver
To people-pleasing
To safety-first, not sure about fun.

Responsible-for-all
That was so me.

You’ll have to wait for that punchline for just a bit as I share with you what brought this decade old tale to my mind today. 

Why I share it with you now… 

Something that just makes me shrug, yes, a bit sheepishly. 

But hey, live and learn. You’ll understand that old me soon but first the current me. 

In the early-dark hours,
Lost in my writer’s web
I raised my mug of half-full green tea toward my lips,
bag forever set to seep within. 

I know tea-guru!
Shame shame on me but that’s also not the point of this share.

Instead, what matters was the dude just inches from his Moby-Dick moment with me.

In the soft MacBook Pro light
I happened to see
a medium-sized black ant
Struggling to swim
To find tea-bag ground
Or drown. 

Now, the old me would have squashed him perhaps
or at least had the heebeegeebees the rest of the day. 

Looking frantically around,
scratching a mind-f*ck itch,
waiting for more multi-legged creatures to descend. 

This me simply offered a hello,
moving the liquid a tilt out of his way
helping him on the tea bag
In that most subtle way.

When he’d climbed on board that green-tea train,
I took a break and stepped outside
Into a light, misty pre-dawn rain.

With a slow hand and a grin,
I placed both ant and bag
gently in my garden bed
Near my cherry tomatoes
And sprouting kale. 

I watched briefly as the ant crawled onto a bright green leaf and moved on with his day. 

Not attached to his near drowning,
not upset by his change of scene,
not considering, bemoaning, worried over –
At least in my human mind,
the displacement from his family. 

I had to laugh softly at my writer’s imagination
Something I enJOY with my baby goats all the time. 

 
This is how animated classics
like Finding Nemo
are born. 

And a children’s book even, one I am working on. 

Giving human qualities to a fish, an ant, a goat, you name it.
That is what we human beings do…

Toss in a heck of a lot of overthinking, suffering and questioning – 
Why me?
And Voilà!
A dramatic storyline, 

Can’t you see? 

My life used to be so full of drama,
over-analyzing every little thing
and wondering why I was constantly being punished just for being me. 

Oh hello, victim mentality. 

But the real tragedy in this story, is not the little green tea dude.
He lived to see the sun rise on this day…

No, the tragedy I write today is darker,
And involved a party of ants, 

Not just one.

Plus, me and my cute white Jeep Wrangler.
The very Jeep my girlfriend so cleverly made into a punchline. 

Or was it I,
The actually brunt of that joke?

Hmm… read on to find out more. 

Years back now, I parked on a Coral Gables street.

Metered parking along a rather busy two-lane downtown road where a sensible driver knows to access the parking from one side of the street due to the angle of the spots. 

Well, I was supposed to go to a light,
Take a left
Then a right.
And another,

And another
To do a square-dance around we go.

Only to pray there’d actually be space upon the conclusion of my do-si-do. 

But that day, well, I was running late,
Saw a space free up
And pulled a left into a right-angled spot
Because why not?! 

That was how I lived – 
dangerously…

Wielding my purple pen
And taking a spot some-what inappropriately. 

Like in writing, some rules are simply meant to bend. 

I know a dangerous game I play but on this day it served me after my hour long drive in my fun little ride. 

Until I jumped out,
slammed the door closed
And had to press pause on my haste
as I sure as sh*t saw a flash of movement within.

But what?

I reopened the Wrangler's door
I admit – carefully.

And stared shocked, horrified,
as the cloth seat that had cradled my ass just seconds ago,
lined with a marching row of big-ass black ants along one visible side.

Oh hell, to the no. 

My body did a revolting shiver-move in the sticky Florida heat. 

Heebeegeebees doesn’t even begin to cover the creepy-crawls coating my skin thicker than SPF50 lotion on a hot, humid day. 

I’d been perched on top of a line of ants that looked disgustingly-impressive to me.

But not just ants a-marching,
As I squinted,
Hell no, not leaning in – 
to see what I truly did not wish to witness. 

Worker ants were busy as can be
carrying white things that – 
Oh, I kid you not – 
Where their Queen’s  – eww
eggs. 

I slammed the door closed with force and thought
gross, gross, gross

Stomping and storming and
shivering my way to my appointment.

I had not another choice.
Not in that moment,
Not in my line of sight.

All I could see were ants-marching

Not a pretty sight. 

In daylight

In my now emblazoned memory. 

I wasn’t a bug girl.
Camping? Ah please!
So not for me.

I’d been fishing just once
And swore I could hear the worm
Screaming bloody murder
So no, that was just not me. 

I preferred creature comforts

Not creatures crawling

If you please.

And as I entered my first stop, a hair salon,
where typically I relaxed,
chatted with Dee
and flipping enJOYed myself

All I could do was brush my skin,

Itch my knee
And think,
No one to rescue me!


Today, my appointment inched by
As my overthinking mind
Processed the indisputable fact

I had to get back on that bloody seat.

And that was a feat
I had to wrap my head around –

tightly.

Not to mention my rebelling body.

All I could contemplate,
as my longtime hairdresser styled me,
was how the hell I’d get rid of the all those ants
And how many were there that I couldn’t even see?! 

My next appointment,

A doctor who did not tolerate tardiness – 
I know, how completely apropo
Dictated I had to figure this sh*t out  

And mighty fast. 

So halfway through my blow out,
the answer came.

Carwash. 

Suck those bastards out. 

I had no shame. 

I’m not proud of my lack of ant-respect,
But that was then
And this is a different me you see

And well, this tale has only just begun to unravel
And reveal
What happened next...

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Become a JOY-Subscriber
to discover the fate of all those ants
and the punchline my friend shared at my expense.

For the detailed soul, click here for more.

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Photo Credit: Vlad Tchompalov @tchompalov

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Discover Your Most Delicious Life Now, Here’s How (Part 2)

Last week, I posted on social and wrote about getting ready to get ready.

Yesterday, I posted on this topic and how it can hold one back from creating a most delicious life and today I want to pull the thread a bit harder and call attention to the three things that might be sticking points in your life…

If you’re anything like I was just two short years ago…
If you’re anything like the amazing creatives I work with on a daily basis. 

You’ll wanna dive in fully.

Missed the first words in this series? Go get your 5 minute read on here. It’s worth starting this word-share at the beginning. 

Discover Your Most Delicious Life,
Here’s How – Part 2

It’s time to dive into what I first spoke of last week… a pandemic more vicious than the one we are currently surrounded by. 


The claws of this dis-ease come from within… from how we see life, think about ourselves, feel about our situation.


Let’s chat on those three things for a hot second. To sum them up in headlines, they are:


Waiting for Permission, Fear of Judgement and Believing Failure is Bad


Let’s dish on that permission one first. Because it might just be holding you back like it once did me and so many others I know. 


Travel back a moment. Way back and imagine yourself…

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Sorry To Interrupt, Fabulous…

As It Was Just Warming Into Delicious…

I want to keep this short and sweet as I know you were about to get your read on with my words. And I appreciate that, your time and your interest, which is why I have to press pause for a second. 

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If, In 2019, You Told Me…

I’d suddenly be writing, as me, after hiding my skills behind ghost-projects, collaborations and numerous pseudonyms, I would have snort-laughed (in your face) and walked away. 

Not because I’m that rude, but simply because to write, as me, has been so far out of my reality of what is possible that it would never have even computed.

See, I’ve spent a good 30 years perfecting the art of hiding in plain sight and I share this because maybe you can relate. 

Maybe you too have not stepped fully into your own slice of sunlight, taken complete control of penning your own life-design, perhaps done what others have expected and you’ve landed here seeking something. 

Answers… Clarity… More JOY…
Or simply to be entertained by some uplifting words.

Whatever brought you here, thank you for taking the time.

I want you to read my words. All of them... and that’s a new feeling for me.
And dare I say uncomfortable. 

Yet, when we are uncomfortable, we grow…
When we find JOY, we expand…
When we laugh, we absorb… 

Which leads me to why I’m interrupting your read just when you were sinking into your flow.

Hey there, I’m Jill

And Words Are My SuperPower

I didn’t learn to read words till I was nine… And once I did, and found something delicious to sink into, it was on…

When I discovered my first purple pen… And that I could write words, create stories and share anything I desired…

Well, it was so on that I wrote my first 100-page story in 6th grade, making the teacher wait until I finished the very last line of that very-last-page.

Her words, when she handed the pile of pages back to me a week later… “Never stop.”

Some people say I’m woo woo. Other people say my words changed their life. Read on and decide for yourself.

But hey, don’t take me too seriously…

The Only Question Is
Are You Ready
To Receive More JOY In Your Life?

If The Answer Is Yes,
Join The JOY-Family Right Now. 

And when you do, please leave me a comment below so I can say hello!

Joining Takes Less Than 90 Seconds

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