Write Now


I wrote a post on Wednesday or Tuesday.

I don’t remember because all the days are just running together.

Basically it was an angsty letter, mostly targeted to people or person who know me in real life.

Because of that, I deleted it, and yeah. It’s history. But if you read it, thank you for reading it, and I want to address one thing I mentioned in the post.

My writing.

I don’t usually talk about my writing on here, because I hate being that person who’s like, “So, I’m writing this book and maybe someday you’ll read it, maybe someday you won’t.”

that person is aka younger Amie.

But I thought that it might help my inspiration and excitement to just talk about this topic, and go through what my brain is thinking. So, I started this year with the idea that this might be the year I actually roll up my sleeves and get into the publishing world.

I had a phone calls with different people, and everyone seemed to agree. I had a good story, it seemed as if my writing was pretty good. I mean, sure, I had a lot of rewrites, but that’s okay.

Around February/March, people started piling more critique on my writing. I was telling too much, my characters aren’t sympathetic, my character was too perfect, the dialogue was unrealistic . . .

And I think it was just too much food for my inner critic.

In any world, you need to learn to take critique and shift through it, understand it, acknowledge it, and move on. But instead of doing that, I’ve just kinda let it take over my mind. Every time I sat down to write, I dwelt on it.

Oops, that paragraph told too much. That character is so stupid, no one will relate to him. Man, she’s way too perfect, gotta fix that. That was the cheesiest piece of dialogue. 

And so I would write one paragraph, delete it. Write another paragraph, delete it. Write a third, and give up. So each of my projects have been doubted, hated, disliked, and I’ve started to wonder if I should even write.

Obviously I’m just a disgrace to the name of writing.

That’s not true. No one is a disgrace to the name of the art they pursue. Because every artist begins as a beginner, and the more hours you put into it, the better you will become. So please. Never be discouraged about your art. There’ll always be people better than you, and people worse than you. Your job is to try and get as accomplished as you can.

And that, my dear, will be a life long pursuit.


So what am I writing? I’m glad you asked.

I’m rewriting a novel I’ve been working on since July or August of 2019. It’s a Contemporary Beauty and the Beast retelling, set in sunny California. This book has become my baby. I have so many snippets of before, after, and just silly things that I’ve written about these characters.

Literally everything. I have snippets about them eating chocolate pudding, to a novella I “accidentally” wrote about them having children. XD

My alphas have been the most amazing people in the world when it comes to this project. I was so excited to write it, and now I’m trying to find that excitement again. If you’re interested, you can take a peak at the Pinterest board right here.

I’m writing a short poetry pamphlet at the moment. It’ll hopefully have 15 poems in it, and it’s name will be the strikingly unique name of Fifteen. Because I’m so original. 😂

I’m also writing a stress-relieving project that has no planning whatever, and I’m only doing it to get back into the habit of writing what I think, and to practice the craft. It’s nameless, but it’s about motocross and a musician. I personally think it’s adorable, but that’s just me. XD The main character, Courtney, is just so funny. And the color theme of it is green.

don’t ask me why. but knowing the color theme helps me get into the mood. XD

And lastly I’m outlining/plotting a dystopian novel that has been rethought out a million times because I keep getting more and more critique on it, and I’m trying to make it the best version of itself that I can, which is making me extremely confused about the message of the book, the characters, and the story altogether.



But I’m still really excited about that, and TWO other things!

*throws confetti*

First of all, one of my favorite authors, Sarah Grace Grzy, launched her second book today! I’ve already read it and oh my heart, GO BUY IT IMMEDIATELY. You will never regret it.

(I’m going to be coming out with a review on it soon, so hang tight. 😉 )

Besides, the cover is so beautiful, and Sarah is a master writer, so stop trying to decide if you should or shouldn’t. You should. You really should.

Secondly, I was honored to be a guest on a podcast! I was able to talk about what helps me during my struggles, and how it’s okay to not be okay. (basically everything I say on this blog. XD) As I’ve already said, I was really struggling this past week, and just hearing myself say things I know helped me so much, so I would encourage you all to go listen to that podcast HERE and follow the Precious and Redeemed podcast!

Do you guys like posts like these? Do you want more writing updates/advice/I don’t know what, just something on the theme of writing?

Have an awesome Saturday, and enjoy this May weather.



Happy Thanksgiving


Gather around to hear the story

Not of the first Thanksgiving 

But of those who walked the perilous 

Pilgrim’s journey. 

Mighty men, strong women

All just like me and you

Who faced the odds with determination 

And their Heavenly Father knew. 

It wasn’t that they chose the path

Of trouble and of pain

But ordered by God to raise their children 

In honor of His glorious Name

They fought for freedom

Not with blood and sword

But with their lives all the same

For their children and their Lord. 

The story of the first Thanksgiving

Should your blood and zeal quicken 

And your faith thicken

As you hear of hardships long ago. 

Of crosses born, of graves dug

Of generosity and of unfailing love

As we eat our turkey and munch on our pie

Please remember the reason why. 

The reason to write an ode to Thanksgiving.

Happy Thanksgiving, y’all


Ode to Holy Holey Socks

One by One you fell

On the battlefield called life.

One by one you scaled

The ladder to sockly afterlife.

And now I must say you’re holy,

And holey, and overly dirty,

But your piety others encouraged

To take up the fight

To warm my chilly feet,

All through the dark night.

Your work might be finished,

But you’ll always be

very holy, holey socks

To me.

Socks that I wore

Throughout good and bad

Socks that stayed close

Even when I felt sad

Even when I pushed everyone away,

I kept my socks near me

And wouldn’t send them astray.

For socks certainly save the day.

They make life better,

And they help keep your feet sweet and clean

So then your special other

Doesn’t smell your feet

and make a scene.

Socks mean much to me

It would be hard to repay

Every single one of my socks

for every single day.

And so I decided to write this poem

To show everyone

That socks are important to them.

Wear your socks

Until they’re thin

And then remember

Everything you did in them


That Christmas Eve


The cold rain seemed to never leave.

Why was it always there, reminding him of better years?

Days gone by to never come back,

Days that brought frightening fears.

And indescribable cheer.

The wind was cold, and howled loud and fierce,

and yet the fire seemed to bring with it happy tears.

 Life wasn’t quite as blue,

if you had a dog and eggnog, too.

The old man stood, and reached up high,

bringing a book to his side.

He dusted the cover full of care,

and sat down with a heavy sigh into his chair.

 The chair welcomed him back with a cheerful creak,

reminding the man of that one Christmas Eve.

Long back, in memory’s path,

a certain night was cold and drear.

Christmas was said to be full of cheer,

and yet that house had nothing near

a tree, or a leaf, or holly high.

Instead, it was full of pitiful cries.

No one knew of the Christ Child king,

or else they would have bowed the knee.

 No one knew of the happiness,

that does indeed come with obedience.

No one knew what it was like

to know that for you a child was born,

and that for them a king came.

He was nothing impressive,

no not at all.

He was put in some hall near a cattle stall.

 His mother was young, tired, and weak,

his earthly father was poor with roughened hands and feet.

But to them that are meek,

the Lord gives the earth, heavens, and creeks.

The young child Jesus lay in peacful sleep

While the world stood in turmoil steep,

As it wondered what kind of king the Messiah would be.

The old man smiled as the answer he knew,

He knew the disappointment and shame

He knew what it took for him the savior became.

Son of God, Emmanuel,

come to show God’s plan to us.

Prince of peace, King of Kings,

welcomed by men among the sheep

What time of year is fit enough

To celebrate his trip to earth?

What gift to give a baby boy

Who’s birth angels proclaimed with joy?

The old man slowly mused

How sorry a gift we would chose!

The Christmas Child would never want

Anything besides a willing heart.

Full fledged love, and dutifullness

In a man that pledged full obedience.

The old man wondered with thoughtfullness,

Of all the Christmas festives, the cheer, the feasts!

What all did they really have to do

With the One that came to hang on a tree?

The old man sighed, wishing he could tell

Like the shepherds of old the beautiful tale

Of one that lay ever so sweet

In the manger, fast asleep

To men lost in a sinful world

Where peace is only found in the news the angels had to tell.