“I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.”These words, sung softly from a mother to her child in Robert Munsch’s timeless Love You Forever, have lulled countless families into moments of quiet wonder. They’ve been whispered over cradles, read under covers during stormy nights, and passed down like heirlooms, turning ordinary pages into vessels of unbreakable connection. But what many don’t know is the depth of heartache behind this beloved story. Munsch, a father who lost two children at birth and, with his wife Ann, never had the family they dreamed of, until they happily adopted three children. He poured his grief into these lines—a lullaby not just for living children, but for the ones who slipped away too soon. It’s a testament to love’s resilience, transforming profound loss into something that heals and holds us all.
On a personal note, I gave my mother and mother-in-law a copy of this book one year for Mother’s Day. (Of course, they looked at me quizzically until I encouraged them to read it aloud. Once done, they both had tears in their eyes, with the knowledge of my intent.)
This book isn’t just a story; it’s a bridge across generations, a reminder that love doesn’t measure in milestones or years but in the quiet, persistent choice to keep showing up. The illustrations, with their soft blues and gentle curves, mirror the ebb and flow of life—joyful in the toddler tantrums, tender in the grown child’s weary return home. Munsch’s other works, like the fierce independence of The Paper Bag Princessor the playful rebellion inMortimer, echo this same spirit: life’s messiness is worth embracing, not escaping. Over 80 million copies sold, translated into more than 20 languages, his stories have sparked imaginations worldwide, proving that even from pain, beauty blooms.
Robert Munsch
Yet, reading about Munsch’s recent openness about his own struggles hit me like a wave. Diagnosed with dementia in 2021, followed by Parkinson’s, the now 80-year-old author shared in a September 14, 2025,New York Timesinterview that he applied for and was approved for Medical Assistance in Dying (MAID) shortly after his diagnosis. He worries about becoming a “lump” for his wife to care for, about losing the stories that define him. His daughter Julie clarified soon after, emphasizing he’s “not dying anytime soon” and is doing well for now, but the weight of his choice lingers. I understand that fear intimately. My own mother battled prefrontal dementia, her once-vibrant mind unraveling into frustration and isolation. The woman who raised me with laughter and wisdom became someone we had to guide, her days a fog of forgotten names, unspoken fears, and huge episodes filled with rage. It was heartbreaking, a slow erosion that tested our family’s love to its limits. And in the quiet aftermath, I’ve wrestled with the same shadows: my brother’s suicide amid his chronic illness, my uncle’s, my mother’s years of suicidal ideation, and even my own attempt during a season of unrelenting despair.
These experiences have etched deep lines in my soul, but they’ve also illuminated truths I hold dear. In the pre-existence, as I believe we did before coming to earth, we chose this mortal journey—not to avoid its thorns, but to walk through them. Heavenly Father allows illnesses like dementia, the gnawing ache of Parkinson’s, the invisible grip of depression, not out of cruelty, but as part of a grand design we can’t fully see. Why? To teach us empathy in our weakness,resilience in our frailty, and compassion for others’ unseen battles. Elder M. Russell Ballard, in his compassionate address “Suicide: Some Things We Know, and Some We Do Not,” reminds us of this divine mercy. He speaks of a faithful man, confined by illness, who ended his life in muddled despair—yet emphasizes that God judges not by the act alone, but by the heart’s intent, the mind’s clarity, and life’s full tapestry. “Judgment is the Lord’s,” Ballard teaches, quoting Elder Bruce R. McConkie: those under great stress, mentally clouded or chemically imbalanced, “are no longer accountable for their acts.” The Lord sees our genetic makeup, our emotional storms, the traditions and teachings that shape us. As Alma promises, if our works and desires are good, we will be “restored unto that which is good” (Alma 41:3).
My Mother
Munsch’s life echoes this. From the ashes of losing his babies, he created Love You Forever—a gift that has comforted millions, including me as I navigated my family’s losses. His stories remind us that even when the body fails or the mind fades, the spirit’s legacy endures. Choosing to end life early cuts short that sacred unfolding, robbing us of the growth, the unexpected joys, the quiet revelations that come only through persistence. I’ve felt the temptation to let go, the whisper that escape is easier than endurance. But staying—messy, hard, holy staying—has shown me God’s hand in the details: a sibling’s unexpected hug, a scripture that pierces the dark, a stranger’s kindness that mirrors divine love. As the Prophet Joseph Smith taught, our Heavenly Father judges “according to the deeds done in the body… and His inscrutable designs in relation to the human family” (Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, p. 218). Suffering doesn’t diminish our worth; it refines it, preparing us for eternal progression “line upon line.”
To anyone reading this in the grip of despair—whether from illness, grief, or the slow creep of forgetfulness—hear this: You are not a burden. You are a beloved child of God, your life a thread in His eternal weave. Your story, like Munsch’s, holds beauty yet untold. Hold on, not out of obligation, but out of the fierce love that says, “I’ll like you for always.” Reach out to those who can help carry the weight. Let their hands, and God’s, remind you that you’re not alone. In the spirit world, as President Joseph F. Smith saw in vision, even those who’ve stumbled can repent, pay the penalty, and receive “a reward according to their works” (D&C 138:58–59). Hope isn’t a fragile wish; it’s a promise.
As I reflect on Munsch’s courage in sharing his story, I pray it sparks not resignation, but resolve—for him, for my family’s memories, for all of us. Let’s choose life, one breath at a time, and keep singing our songs of forever.
If you or someone you love is struggling, please reach out—these lifelines are here to help:
• National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (US): Call or text 988 (24/7 support).
• Crisis Services Canada: Call 1-833-456-4566 or text 45645 (24/7).
The Challenge: Draft a story of between 2400-2500 words long. Use the 4 prompts from the Storyteller cards the kids choose for me to use.
The Collector
The air was heavy with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and exhaust fumes as I stood on the edge of State Route 121, the relentless roar of traffic a grim symphony behind me. The little girl sat cross-legged on the grassy verge, her pink raincoat smeared with mud, her dark curls tangled and damp. She couldn’t have been more than five, her wide brown eyes staring up at me with a mix of curiosity and fear. The truck that had ended her life was long gone, its driver unaware of the tragedy left in his wake. The police would arrive soon, their lights flashing, their voices sharp with urgency, but for now, it was just her and me.
I knelt beside her, my cloak brushing the wet grass, the damp seeping into the fabric like a memory of the world’s grief. “Hello, sweetheart,” I said softly, my voice steady despite the ache in my chest, a hollow pang that never dulled no matter how many souls I guided. “I’m here to collect you.”
She tilted her head, clutching a soggy stuffed rabbit to her chest, its once-white fur now gray with mud. “Collect me? Like… like a toy?”
I smiled, though it was a smile tempered by centuries of witnessing moments like this—fragile, fleeting, and heavy with unspoken questions. “Not quite. I’m here to take you somewhere safe. Somewhere you belong.”
Her brow furrowed, and she glanced at the motorway, where cars blurred past in streaks of silver and red, their headlights cutting through the drizzle like fleeting hopes. “Where’s my mummy?” she asked, her voice trembling, small and sharp as a splinter.
The question pierced me, a knife I’d felt countless times. I find great satisfaction in my work—I do it well—but satisfaction is not ease. No one is ever ready for me, whether in the chaos of Gaza, the rubble of Ukraine, a sterile hospice bed, or crumpled in the wreckage of a car crash. They all expect a man, some hooded figure with a scythe, as if death were a grim patriarch. Heaven knows why; men cannot be trusted with such delicate tasks. Death requires precision, care, a gentleness born of understanding loss in all its forms. That’s why it’s me, always has been.
I extended a hand, my fingers pale but warm, a contrast to the cold she must have felt on that rain-slicked verge. “Your mummy’s not here right now, sweetheart. But I promise, where we’re going, you’ll be safe. You’ll be home.”
She hesitated, her small hand hovering over mine, her eyes searching my face for something—truth, perhaps, or safety. “Home? Like my house?”
“Not your house,” I said gently, my voice soft as the mist around us, “but a place where you’ll feel just as loved. Come with me, and I’ll show you.”
She took my hand, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so small, and we began to walk. The world faded—the screech of tires, the distant wail of sirens—until it was just us, moving through a soft, golden light that felt like the memory of a summer afternoon, warm and endless. This was my gift, my craft: to ease the passage, to make the transition gentle. I’ve done it for kings and beggars, soldiers and poets, children like this one, whose lives were cut too short. Each soul is a story, and I am its final chapter.
Her name was Amy, I learned as we walked. She chattered about her rabbit, Mr. Flops, and how she’d been chasing a butterfly near Millersylvania State Park in Olympia, Washington. “I didn’t mean to,” she said, her voice small, tinged with guilt. “I just wanted to see where it went. It was so pretty, with wings like rainbows.”
“I know,” I said, squeezing her hand, feeling the fragile pulse of her fading presence. “Sometimes we follow beautiful things, and they lead us places we didn’t expect.”
Her story was one of countless I’d collected over centuries. In Gaza, I held a young man who’d shielded his sister from a bomb, his last breath her name, his eyes bright with love even as they dimmed. In Ukraine, an old woman clung to her rosary, murmuring prayers as her village burned, her faith a flicker against the dark. In hospices, I’ve sat with those who welcomed me, their bodies weary but their spirits light, ready for rest. In car crashes, I’ve knelt in twisted metal, offering comfort to those lost in the sudden dark, their questions echoing Amy’s. Each carries the same weight—a life ending, a story closing.
As we walked, Amy’s steps slowed, her eyes tracing the golden light, now shimmering like a meadow under dawn, flecked with colors that danced like the butterfly she’d chased. “Is this heaven?” she asked, her voice soft with wonder, her fear ebbing like a tide.
I chuckled, a rare sound that warmed even me, though it carried the weight of countless farewells. “People call it many things—heaven, paradise, the beyond. I call it home. It’s where you’re meant to be.”
“Will there be butterflies?” she asked, clutching Mr. Flops tighter, her small fingers digging into the damp fur.
“Oh, plenty,” I said, picturing endless fields where souls like hers could run free, where butterflies wove patterns in the air. “And rabbits, too. Mr. Flops will love it.”
Her grin was a spark, bright and fleeting, and I felt a pang of satisfaction, sharp and bittersweet. This was my purpose—not glory, but moments like this, easing a frightened child’s heart. Every soul deserves a gentle guide, a voice to say they’re not alone. I’ve seen too many leave this world in fear, their hands clutching at life, their eyes wide with questions no one answers. But with Amy, I could offer peace, a small victory against the chaos of endings.
We reached a threshold, a shimmering door of light, warm and pulsing like a heartbeat. Beyond it, I sensed others—souls waiting to welcome her, their presence a soft hum of love. I knelt, meeting her eyes, seeing the flicker of fear still lingering. “This is where you go, Amy. You’ll be okay. I promise.”
She hugged Mr. Flops, then, to my surprise, threw her arms around me, her small body warm against my cloak. “Thank you, nice lady,” she whispered, her voice trembling with trust.
I held her, my heart—such as it is—swelling with an ache I could never name. “You’re welcome, love. Go on now.”
She stepped through, her pink raincoat a bright spot against the light, and was gone. The threshold closed, and I stood alone, the glow fading to the gray reality of the world. I brushed grass from my cloak, the damp clinging to my fingers, and prepared for the next call. There was always another.
Centuries ago, I didn’t grasp the weight of this role. Chosen by something ancient, not a deity or council but a force older than time, I’d been a healer in life, tending wounds in a village long forgotten. My hands had bound broken bones, soothed fevers, and wiped tears from faces that trusted me. When my own time came, I faced a choice: rest or serve. I chose to serve, to become the Collector, guiding souls home. I didn’t know it would span battlefields, hospital wards, quiet deaths, and violent ones. The task is endless, a tapestry of stories woven from every corner of existence, each thread a life I carry.
The world changes, but my work endures. In the 14th century, I walked plague-ravaged towns, fear clinging to my skin like damp ash. In the 20th century, trenches and bomb shelters stained my cloak with mud and blood. Now, in 2025, I move through cities, war zones, and highways, unnoticed by the living but felt by those I come for. They expect a grim reaper, a skeletal figure from medieval woodcuts, but they get me—a woman with gray eyes and a voice heavy with ages. My appearance surprises them, but my touch, I hope, does not.
I don’t judge the souls I collect. That’s not my role. I don’t decide who lives or dies, who’s worthy or unworthy. I guide, offering comfort where I can. Some fight, their desperation a raw wound that breaks my heart. Others surrender, their relief a quiet gift. Children like Amy are hardest, their brief lives raw with questions, their innocence a weight I carry long after they’re gone. Yet their trust is a fragile treasure, a reminder of why I persist.
After Amy, a call pulled me to a Seattle hospice. The air shifted, and I stood in a room with pale blue walls and wilting roses, their petals curling like tired hands. Arthur, a retired librarian, lay in bed, his breathing shallow, his hands folded over a quilt stitched with faded stars. His eyes, cloudy but unafraid, met mine. “You’re not what I expected,” he rasped, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“I get that a lot,” I said, sitting beside him, my cloak pooling like shadows. “Ready to go?”
“I’ve had a good run,” he said, his voice a whisper of paper pages. “Is there a library where I’m going?”
I laughed softly, the sound carrying a warmth I rarely felt. “If you want one, there will be. Come on, Arthur.”
His hand was cool in mine, and we walked through golden light scented with old paper and ink, a library of memories unfolding around us. I left him at a threshold of endless shelves, his smile lingering as he stepped through, and I returned to the world, the weight of his story settling into my collection.
The calls never stop—soldiers, teenagers, mothers—each a story, a weight I carry. I don’t tire like humans, but I feel their joys, sorrows, and unfinished dreams. I keep them, a collection no one else sees. Sometimes, I linger, watching the living laugh, fight, love, grieve. I see them chase butterflies or build fleeting lives. I don’t envy them, but I remember being one—feeling the sun, fearing the unknown. That memory keeps me gentle.
Another call came as night fell over Seattle, in a quiet suburb. Clara, a middle-aged teacher, lay in bed, her heart failing in sleep. I stood by her, my cloak blending with shadows. She stirred, her eyes meeting mine, surprise flickering. “You’re a woman,” she said, her voice faint but warm.
“Always have been,” I replied, offering my hand. “Ready to go home?”
She hesitated, her gaze lingering on a photo by her bed—a family, smiling in sunlight. “Will they be okay without me?” she asked, her voice breaking, tears welling in her eyes.
I knelt, my hand steady, my voice soft as a lullaby. “They’ll carry you in their hearts, always. And where you’re going, you’ll watch over them.”
Her fingers found mine, trembling but trusting. We walked through golden light tinged with lavender, her favorite flower, she told me. Clara spoke of her students, her children, her regrets—small things, like unread books or unsaid words. I listened, letting her unburden, my role as much confidante as guide. At her threshold, the light was soft, like a classroom at dusk, filled with the hum of young voices she’d shaped. “This feels right,” she said, a tear falling as she smiled. I squeezed her hand, and she stepped through, her silhouette fading into warmth.
The calls continued, each one a new weight, a new story. In a hospital in Tacoma, I met Javier, a young man barely twenty, his body broken from a motorcycle crash. His eyes were wild with fear, his hands clutching at the air as if he could hold onto life. “I’m not ready,” he gasped, his voice raw. “I have plans—college, my mom, a girl…”
I sat beside him, my cloak brushing the sterile floor, and took his hand. “I know, Javier,” I said, my voice steady but heavy with his pain. “Tell me about her. Tell me about your plans.”
He spoke, haltingly at first, then with a rush—his dreams of becoming an engineer, the girl who laughed at his bad jokes, his mother’s tamales on Sundays. His words were a lifeline, and I held them, weaving them into the light around us, now shimmering with the warmth of a kitchen, the scent of spices. His fear softened, not gone but quieter, as he realized he could carry those dreams forward, in some way, beyond the threshold. “Will she know I loved her?” he asked, his voice breaking.
“She’ll feel it,” I said, my eyes meeting his. “Love doesn’t end here.” He nodded, his grip loosening, and we walked to his threshold, where the light pulsed like a heartbeat. He stepped through, his silhouette strong against the glow, and I turned back, carrying his story with me.
Next, I was called to a war-torn city far from Seattle, where a mother named Amina knelt in the ruins of her home, her arms wrapped around her infant son, both taken by a missile’s blast. Her eyes were fierce, not with fear but with defiance, as if she could will herself back to life for her child. “He’s too young,” she whispered, her voice a raw wound. “He didn’t even have a chance.”
I knelt beside her, my cloak dusting the ash-covered ground, and reached for her hand, then her son’s tiny fingers. “You gave him love, Amina,” I said, my voice trembling with the weight of her grief. “That’s a life, no matter how short. You’ll carry him with you.”
She looked at me, her eyes softening, and nodded. We walked through a light that shimmered like a desert sunrise, warm and vast, her son cradled in her arms. She sang to him, a lullaby in a language I didn’t know but felt in my bones, its melody weaving through the light. At their threshold, the air was soft, like a mother’s embrace, and she stepped through, her song lingering as they faded.
Back in the world, I lingered by a quiet lake, the water reflecting a moon I no longer needed to see. I thought of Amy’s butterfly, Javier’s dreams, Amina’s lullaby. Each soul left a mark, a fragment of their light woven into my cloak, invisible but heavy. I remembered my own life—centuries ago, a healer in a village where the wind carried the scent of herbs and hope. I’d loved fiercely, lost deeply, and chosen this path not for duty but for love, for the chance to ease others’ pain as I once eased fevers. That choice bound me to this work, eternal and unending.
Another call came, this time to a nursing home in Portland. An elderly woman, Rose, sat in a wheelchair by a window, her hands clutching a faded photograph of a young couple dancing. Her breath was slow, her heart faltering. She saw me and smiled, unafraid. “I knew you’d come,” she said, her voice soft as a sigh. “I’ve been waiting.”
I sat beside her, my cloak brushing the linoleum floor. “Tell me about them,” I said, nodding at the photo.
She laughed, a sound like wind chimes. “That’s me and my Charlie, 1952. We danced every Saturday. He’s waiting, isn’t he?”
“He is,” I said, my voice catching, though I didn’t know if Charlie waited—only that the light would bring her peace. We walked through a golden glow that hummed with music, a big band tune from her youth. At her threshold, she turned to me, her eyes bright. “Thank you for listening,” she said, and stepped through, her silhouette swaying as if dancing.
The world called me back, its endless stories unfolding. I don’t tire, not as humans do, but I feel the weight of each soul, their joys and sorrows etched into me. I carry them, a collector of lives, guiding them home with a gentleness born of my own forgotten heart. My work is endless, but I do it well, for every story deserves its ending, and every soul deserves to be seen.
Mastering Storytelling Techniques: Tips from a Children’s Author
Hello, fellow storytellers and book lovers! Welcome back to Narrative Nook, where we dive into the art of crafting tales that captivate hearts and minds. As a children’s author with theDiscovering Mistyseries under my belt (available on Amazon) and my upcoming picture bookGeorge and the Brave Eagle(set to release soon—stay tuned!), I’ve spent years honing my storytelling craft. Today, I’m excited to share some practical tips on key storytelling methods: character development, plot structure, and theme exploration. I’ll break them down with examples from my own work and timeless classics, so you can apply these techniques to your writing. Whether you’re penning your first story or refining your next manuscript, these insights can elevate your narratives.
Character Development: Breathing Life into Your Heroes and Villains
Character development is the heartbeat of any story—it’s what makes readers care, laugh, cry, or cheer. The key is to create multi-dimensional characters who evolve over time, revealing layers through actions, dialogue, and backstory. Start by giving your characters clear motivations, flaws, and arcs. Avoid flat archetypes; instead, show growth through challenges.
Tip 1: Use “Show, Don’t Tell” for Depth
Rather than stating “Misty is curious,” demonstrate it through her actions. This builds empathy and immersion.
From myDiscovering Mistyseries, Misty, a young explorer, starts as a timid girl afraid of the unknown. In the first book, she hesitates to enter a mysterious forest, but by facing small obstacles—like solving a riddle from a talking animal— she gains confidence. This arc mirrors Harry Potter’s journey in J.K. Rowling’s series, where Harry’s initial insecurity as an orphan evolves into brave leadership through trials at Hogwarts. To make this stick in your writing, jot down a “character bible” with traits, backstories, and pivotal moments before drafting.
Tip 2: Incorporate Internal Conflict
Give characters inner struggles that clash with external events. This adds realism and tension.
InGeorge and the Brave Eagle, George is a boy who dreams of adventure but fears heights. His internal battle—wanting to soar with the eagle but doubting himself—drives the story. Think of Elizabeth Bennet in Jane Austen’sPride and Prejudice, whose prejudice against Mr. Darcy creates delicious internal (and external) conflict, leading to profound growth. Pro tip: Use journal entries or monologues in your drafts to explore a character’s thoughts, then weave them subtly into the narrative.
Plot Structure: Building a Solid Framework for Your Tale
A strong plot structure keeps readers hooked from start to finish. I like to think of it as a rollercoaster: setup the climb, deliver thrilling drops, and end with a satisfying resolution. Classic structures like Freytag’s Pyramid (exposition, rising action, climax, falling action, denouement) provide a reliable blueprint, but feel free to twist it for surprise.
Tip 1: Balance Pacing with Stakes
Ramp up tension gradually, raising the stakes to maintain momentum. Too slow, and readers disengage; too fast, and it feels rushed.
In the Discovering Mistybooks, the plot builds from Misty’s everyday life (exposition) to discovering a hidden world (rising action), culminating in a showdown with a mythical guardian (climax). This echoes the structure in C.S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, where the Pevensie children’s ordinary world gives way to Narnia’s escalating battles, peaking at the Stone Table confrontation. To apply this, outline your plot points on index cards and rearrange them to ensure escalating conflict—aim for each scene to advance the story or reveal character.
Tip 2: Incorporate Twists and Subplots
Weave in subplots that support the main arc, and add unexpected twists to keep things fresh.
ForGeorge and the Brave Eagle, a subplot involves George’s friendship with a wise old birdwatcher, which provides clues for the main quest and leads to a twist about the eagle’s true identity. A famous example is the revelation in Charlotte Brontë’sJane Eyreabout Mr. Rochester’s secret wife—a twist that reshapes the plot while deepening themes of love and morality. Tip: Plant subtle foreshadowing early to make twists feel earned, not contrived. Read your draft aloud to spot pacing issues.
Theme Exploration: Weaving Deeper Meaning into Your Narrative
Themes are the soul of your story—the underlying messages that linger with readers. Explore them through symbols, motifs, and character choices, but avoid preaching; let themes emerge organically.
Tip 1: Choose Universal Themes with Personal Twists
Pick relatable ideas like courage, friendship, or self-discovery, then infuse them with your unique voice.
MyDiscovering Mistyseries explores themes of curiosity and environmental stewardship—Misty’s adventures highlight how exploring nature fosters respect for it. Similarly, in George and the Brave Eagle, the theme of overcoming fear is central, symbolized by the eagle’s flight. Draw from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince, where themes of love and loss are explored through whimsical encounters, leaving readers pondering human connections. To develop this, brainstorm themes during outlining, then track how they appear in key scenes.
Tip 2: Use Symbolism and Repetition
Repeat motifs to reinforce themes without overt explanation.
InGeorge and the Brave Eagle, feathers symbolize growth, appearing first as a found token and later as a badge of bravery. This technique shines in F. Scott Fitzgerald’sThe Great Gatsby, where the green light represents unattainable dreams, recurring to underscore themes of aspiration and disillusionment. Pro tip: After drafting, highlight thematic elements in different colors to ensure balance—too subtle, and they fade; too heavy, and they overwhelm.
Storytelling is both an art and a craft, and these techniques have been game-changers for me as I bring stories like Discovering MistyandGeorge and the Brave Eagleto life. Experiment with them in your own work, and remember: the best stories come from passion and persistence. What’s your favorite storytelling technique? Drop a comment below—I’d love to hear from you and maybe feature your tips in a future post!
If you’re inspired, check out the Discovering Mistyseries on Amazon for more adventure-filled tales, and keep an eye out for George and the Brave Eagle. Happy writing!
From my manuscript, The Covenant Fire, a Christian/LDS YA Apocalyptic Novel with loads of exciting adventure. To be published soon!
Chapter 1, paragraph 4.
The ground heaved, a beast awakening. Hymnbooks crashed, a child’s scream pierced the air. Sarah’s training snapped in—she gripped the pew, eyes locking on exits. “Stay calm!” she barked, voice slicing through gasps. A young man nearby, Ethan Caldwell, 28, dropped his leather journal, ink smearing as the quake roared. Beams splintered, stained glass exploded in a rain of crimson shards. The Tabernacle groaned, its 164-year-old frame buckling.
Salt Lake LDS Temple
“Down!” Sarah yelled, sprinting down the aisle. A light fixture swung, nearly clipping her. She scooped up a wailing boy, dodging falling plaster, her shoulder slamming a pew. Pain seared, but she shielded him, scanning for safety. “To the exit!” she shouted, clutching the kid tight.
Ethan pushed through the chaos, waving people toward a side door. Their eyes met briefly—his hazel gaze intense, almost knowing. She handed the boy to his sobbing mother, panting. “Good move,” he said, voice steady. “Military?”
“Ex-Army,” she snapped, as the ground lurched again. They ducked under a pew, the air thick with dust. Outside, the Salt Lake Temple’s spire swayed, the Angel Moroni teetering, skyscrapers collapsing in glittering bursts. A gas main erupted, fire licking the horizon, screams blending with sirens.
(Fully written, but not yet published. To Be Continued)
Harrison stayed late at the office that night, hunched over his work. Rather than buzzing his wife for a ride, he opted to hoof it home—a quick ten-minute jaunt he often enjoyed.
The night was pitch-black, no moon in sight, with only a handful of flickering streetlights to point the way. Barely five steps in, he caught the sound of oddly soft footsteps trailing him. Spinning around with a mix of grit and curiosity, Harrison was ready to face whoever—or whatever—was behind him, friend or fiend.
Nothing. Nobody. Yet the eerie footfalls kept coming, closer now, tap-tapping in the dark. Then Harrison’s eyes flicked upward, and his heart lurched. A massive, hulking shadow loomed, slinking down from the starless sky, heading straight for him.
Thoughtful Thursday #1: Five Endings Later: How I’m Learning to Let Go of Perfectionism
Picture this: it’s 2 a.m., my desk is littered with empty cups, and I’m staring at the fifth version of my novel’s ending. Each draft felt closer to ‘perfect,’ but never quite there. I’d change a character’s final line, then scrap the whole scene, convinced it wasn’t good enough.Hours turned into days, and I was stuck—paralyzed by the need for every word to be flawless. If this sounds like your writing life, you’re not alone. Perfectionism is the silent enemy of every writer, whispering that our work isn’t ready. But here’s what I learned after those five endings: chasing perfection can keep you from ever finishing.
The turning point came when I shared my latest draft with a trusted beta reader. I braced for criticism, but instead, she said, “This works—why are you still tweaking it?” Her words hit hard. I’d been so obsessed with crafting the “perfect” ending—a poignant, unforgettable close to my coming-of-age story—that I’d lost sight of the bigger picture. The ending didn’t need to be flawless; it needed to feel true to the story. That feedback snapped me out of my perfectionism spiral. I chose the fourth draft, polished it one last time, and considered it “done”. It wasn’t perfect, but it was done, and that felt like a victory.
Looking back, I realized perfectionism wasn’t just about the ending—it was a pattern. I’d agonize over every chapter, every sentence, afraid my work wouldn’t measure up. But rewriting that ending five times taught me a crucial lesson: progress trumps perfection. Writing is messy, repetitive, and deeply personal. Waiting for every word to sparkle risks stalling your momentum and silencing your voice. As Anne Lamott wisely said, “Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor.” Letting go of that need for flawlessness freed me to trust my instincts and actually finish my novel.
Frustration!
So, how can you break free from the perfectionism trap? Here are a few strategies that is helping me:
• Embrace the “crummy first draft”: Write without editing, even if it’s rough. Get the words out, then refine later. I set a timer for 20-minute sprints to keep myself from overthinking. (Learned that from the Pomodoro method; helps to alleviate fibro symptoms, as well.)
• Set a revision limit: Cap yourself at three rounds of edits per scene. After that, move on. This forced me to prioritize what mattered most.
• Get feedback early: Share your work with a critique partner or writing group. A fresh perspective can stop you from endlessly tweaking. (I surely miss mine in California; shoutout to Timespinners!)
• Celebrate “done”: Finishing a draft, even an imperfect one, is worth celebrating. Treat yourself to something small—a soda, a walk, or just a moment of pride.
Overcoming perfectionism didn’t just help me finish my novel; it made writing feel lighter, more joyful. I’m still learning to quiet that inner critic – and sometimes, it’s a real battle – but each step forward reminds me that imperfection is part of the creative process. Your story doesn’t need to be perfect—it needs to be told.
What about you? How has perfectionism shown up in your writing, and what’s one trick you’ve used to push past it? Drop your thoughts in the comments—I’d love to hear your story and keep this conversation going!
Wildcard Wednesday: The Story That Failed and the Voice I Found
Welcome to Wildcard Wednesday! Today, I’m stepping outside my usual storytelling to share a personal tale—not a polished fiction likeA Dance of TimeorThe Collector, but a raw, messy moment from my writing life that changed everything. Every writer has a skeleton in their drawer, a story that crashed and burned, leaving lessons in its ashes. For me, it was a fantasy epic I wrote a decade ago, a sprawling mess that taught me to trust my unique voice. Here’s the story of that failure, the heartbreak it brought, and the tips it inspired to help you find your own authentic voice.
Ten years ago, I decided I had to write a fantasy novel. It was the era of dragons and chosen ones, and I thought, “This is what sells!” So, I crafted a 200-page beast filled with prophecies, sword fights, and a brooding hero named Kael. I spent months hunched over my laptop, fueled by Dr. Pepper and ambition, picturing my name on bestseller lists. But as I read the draft, my heart sank. Kael felt flat, the plot predictable, the world like a cardboard set. It just wasn’t me. My stories thrive on quiet, emotional moments—like Laura’s fluttering heart in A Dance of Timeor the Collector’s gentle hand guiding Amy. This fantasy? It was someone else’s dream, a costume I’d forced myself to wear.
The failure hit hard. I’d poured my soul into those pages, only to realize they lacked mine. I shoved the manuscript into a drawer, vowing never to look at it again. But one evening, feeling brave (or reckless), I pulled it out. Reading it was like meeting a younger, unsure version of myself, one chasing trends instead of truth. That night, I started writing something new—a short story about a woman choosing an emerald dress, her heart trembling with hope. That becameA Dance of Time, and it felt like coming home. I tweaked it to fit in yesterday’s The failure of Kael’s saga taught me that my voice—rooted in intimate, emotional connections—mattered more than any genre fad.
Here are three tips I learned to help you find and trust your own voice, drawn from that humbling experience:
1. Write What Moves You
Your voice shines when you write from passion, not obligation. After abandoning my fantasy, I realized I love stories of human connection, like the Collector’s compassionfor a child or Laura’s courage on a first date. Ask yourself: What stories make your heart race? For me, it’s moments of vulnerability, often inspired by my love for picture books, where a single sentence can carry a world of feeling. Try this: Write a 100-word scene about something you love—a place, a memory, a dream. Let your emotions lead, and see what voice emerges.
2. Revise with Your Heart
Your first draft might feel like my failed epic—clunky, off-key. That’s okay. Revising is where you carve out your voice. When I reworked The Collector, I focused on the emotional truth of each soul’s transition, cutting anything that felt forced. Read your draft and highlight lines that feel authentic, that make you feel. Rewrite the rest to match that tone. A fun fact: I salvaged a single line from my fantasy flop—“a light like a summer afternoon”—and it became the Collector’s golden glow. Find your draft’s hidden gems; they’re your voice’s foundation.
3. Read Aloud to Find Your Rhythm
Reading aloud, a habit rooted in my love for picture books, reveals your voice’s cadence. When I read A Dance of Timealoud, Laura’s hesitant hope came alive in the pauses, the rhythm of her thoughts. My failed fantasy sounded stilted, like I was mimicking someone else. Try this: Read a page of your work in a quiet room, maybe in a character’s voice, as I do with picture books. Does it flow? Does it feel like you? Tweak until it sings. Bonus: I recommend The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore by William Joyce for its lyrical read-aloud magic.
That failed manuscript was my darkest writing moment, but it led to my brightest revelation: my voice is enough. It’s in the quiet ache of Laura’s memories, the tender weight of the Collector’s role. It’s in the stories I tell when I’m not trying to be anyone else. If you’re wrestling with a draft that feels wrong, know this: your failures are teachers. They’ll guide you to the stories only you can tell.
What’s a writing failure that shaped your voice? Share in the comments—I’d love to hear your story and maybe feature it in a future Wildcard Wednesday post. Keep writing, keep trusting your heart, and let’s tell stories that matter.
The Challenge: Draft a story of between 2400-2500 words long. Use the 4 prompt from the Storyteller cards the kids choose for me to use. Find 2-3 pictures to go with your story.
A Dance of Time
Laura stood before her wardrobe, the sliding doors flung wide, revealing a kaleidoscope of fabrics and colors amassed over decades. Her fingers brushed against the textures—silk, cotton, wool—each garment a relic of a moment in her life. A navy blazer from her days as a schoolteacher, crisp and authoritative, worn when she commanded classrooms of restless teenagers. A floral skirt from a long-ago summer in Provence, vibrant but faded at the hem, scented with memories of lavender fields and warm baguettes. Tonight, though, was no ordinary evening. Tonight demanded something special, something that struck the delicate balance between elegance and ease, between who she was and who she hoped to appear to be. At seventy, Laura was no stranger to the weight of first impressions, but the flutter in her chest felt as fresh as it had at seventeen, a nervous thrill that made her breath catch.
She pulled out a black dress, floor-length and dramatic, and held it against herself, peering into the full-length mirror propped against the bedroom wall. The fabric draped heavily, swallowing her frame. Too long? she wondered, tilting her head. It felt frumpy, like something a dowager might wear to a funeral, not a first date. She hung it back, shaking her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips. Next, a red cocktail dress caught her eye, bold and daring, with a hem that grazed mid-thigh. She chuckled softly, imagining herself striding into the restaurant in it, heads turning. Too short? Tarty. The word made her smirk—she hadn’t used it in years, but it fit. That dress was for a younger Laura, one who danced until dawn and laughed off spilled wine on a stranger’s porch. Not tonight’s Laura, who craved confidence without conspicuousness, a quiet strength to carry her into the unknown.
After a dozen more rejections—too bright, too dull, too tight, too loose—she unearthed a dress tucked at the back of the wardrobe, forgotten like a pressed flower in a book. It was a soft emerald green, knee-length, with a subtle A-line silhouette that flattered without clinging. She slipped it on, smoothing the fabric over her hips, the soft cotton whispering against her skin. In the mirror, the dress wasn’t new, but it still looked good, its simplicity timeless. The neckline dipped just enough to hint at elegance, and the color brought out the flecks of green in her hazel eyes, bright against the silver of her curls. She turned, catching the way the fabric moved, fluid yet grounded, like a dance partner who knew her steps. Yes, she thought, a quiet certainty settling in her chest. This will do.
Laura moved to the vanity, a sturdy oak piece that had belonged to her mother, its surface etched with memories of childhood mornings watching her mother apply perfume. The mirror was speckled with age, but it served its purpose, reflecting a face she’d come to know well. She opened her makeup bag, a small canvas pouch holding only the essentials. Minimal makeup, she decided—enough to show effort, but not to hide the real her. She wasn’t twenty anymore, chasing trends or masking insecurities with layers of foundation. At seventy, Laura had earned her lines, each one a testament to laughter, tears, and the quiet resilience of a life well-lived. She dabbed on light foundation to even her skin tone, added a touch of blush to her cheeks, and swept soft coral lipstick across her lips, its warmth a nod to the girl she’d once been. A hint of mascara opened her eyes, and she paused, considering eyeshadow but dismissing it. Let him see me, she thought, her heart a mix of defiance and vulnerability. The real me.
She glanced at the clock—6:45 p.m. The reservation at La Bella Vita was for 7:00, a ten-minute drive. Laura smiled, a strategist at heart. She’d leave at 6:50, arriving a few carefully contrived minutes late—not enough to be rude, but just enough to make an entrance, to give herself a moment to breathe before stepping into the unknown. First dates were a worry at any age, but at seventy, they carried a different weight. There was no time for pretense, yet the vulnerability of opening her heart again felt like standing on a cliff’s edge, the wind tugging at her resolve. She remembered her first date with Tim, her late husband, at a diner in 1975, how her hands had trembled as she stirred sugar into her coffee, how his laugh had eased her nerves. Tonight felt like that, but heavier, layered with the wisdom and wounds of decades.
The drive to La Bella Vita, a cozy Italian restaurant nestled in the heart of town, was a blur of autumn leaves and golden streetlights. Laura’s hands gripped the steering wheel too tightly, her mind replaying the conversations that led to this moment. She’d met Jim through Margaret, a mutual friend whose eyes twinkled as she insisted they’d get along. “He’s a gentleman,” Margaret had said. “Silver hair, sharp wit, and a heart bigger than he lets on.” Laura had been skeptical—dating at her age felt like a young person’s game—but Jim’s emails surprised her. Thoughtful, funny, with a touch of old-world charm, they’d exchanged stories of travel, books, and small joys. He’d written of a rainy afternoon in Rome, sipping espresso under an awning; she’d shared her memory of painting watercolors by a lake in Maine. When he suggested dinner, she’d hesitated only a moment before saying yes, her heart whispering, Why not?
She pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot at 7:04, her pulse quickening as she checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. A quick fluff of her gray curls, a deep breath to steady the flutter in her chest, and she stepped out into the crisp September evening. The air smelled of woodsmoke and promise, and the restaurant’s warm glow spilled onto the sidewalk, inviting her in like an old friend.
Inside, La Bella Vita was a haven of soft lighting, clinking glasses, and the rich aroma of garlic and rosemary. Laura scanned the room, her heart thudding. Then she saw him—Jim, rising from a table near the window, his silver hair catching the candlelight like a halo. He wore a navy blazer over a white shirt, open at the collar, and his smile was warm, unguarded, as if he’d been waiting for this moment as eagerly as she had. Relief washed over her, softening the knot in her stomach. He crossed the room, his stride steady but unhurried, a man comfortable in his own skin, his blue eyes crinkling with warmth.
“Laura,” he said, his voice a pleasant baritone, smooth as aged whiskey. “You look wonderful.”
She felt a flush creep up her neck, grateful for the dim lighting. “Thank you, Jim. You’re not so bad yourself.”
He chuckled, pulling out her chair with a grace that spoke of habit, not showmanship. As she sat, Laura took in the details—the crisp white tablecloth, the single rose in a slender vase, the menu promising dishes she couldn’t pronounce but longed to try. Jim settled across from her, his eyes meeting hers with a quiet curiosity. “I was starting to think you’d stood me up,” he teased, though his tone was gentle, inviting her to play along.
“Never,” she replied, matching his lightness. “Just fashionably late.”
They ordered wine—a Pinot Grigio for her, its crispness a perfect counterpoint to her nerves; a Merlot for him, deep and grounding. The conversation flowed as easily as it had in their emails, a current carrying them from one story to another. Jim spoke of his years as a history professor, his love for obscure Roman poets, and his recent obsession with gardening, his hands animated as he described coaxing roses from stubborn soil. Laura shared stories of her teaching days, the chaos of chalk dust and eager students, her passion for watercolor painting, and the time she’d locked herself out of her hotel room in Florence, laughing through her embarrassment as a kind concierge rescued her. Their laughter mingled with the murmur of other diners, and Laura felt something loosen inside her, a tension she hadn’t realized she’d carried, like a breath held too long.
Yet beneath the laughter, a quiet undercurrent of doubt lingered. Laura had been married to Tim for thirty-five years, a kind man who’d filled her days with steady love until cancer stole him eight years ago. She’d grieved, rebuilt, and found contentment in her solitude—her garden blooming with peonies, her bookshelves heavy with novels, her weekly coffee with friends. But contentment wasn’t connection, and the prospect of opening her heart again was both thrilling and terrifying. What did she want from this? A companion? A spark? Or simply a pleasant evening to break the routine? She studied Jim, searching for clues in his easy smile, the way he listened with his whole body, leaning in as if her words were a gift.
Jim, too, carried his own history. Over appetizers—bruschetta with ripe tomatoes and basil, the flavors bursting like summer—he spoke of his late wife, Eve, who’d passed five years earlier. “She was the planner,” he said, his voice soft but steady, his eyes tracing the edge of the table. “Every vacation, every dinner party, she had it mapped out. I’m still learning to navigate without her itinerary.” Laura nodded, recognizing the ache of absence, the quiet courage it took to sit here, across from a stranger, hoping for something new. She thought of Tim’s hands, calloused from woodworking, and how they’d felt holding hers during their last days together. The memory was a pang, but not a wound—not anymore.
As the main course arrived—ravioli for her, pillowy and rich with ricotta; ossobuco for him, its marrow melting into the sauce—Laura found herself studying Jim’s hands. They were strong, weathered, with a faint tremor that betrayed his age, yet they moved with purpose, cutting his meat with care. She wondered what those hands had built, what they’d held, what they might still create. He caught her gaze and smiled, unselfconscious. “You’re staring,” he said lightly. “Do I have sauce on my chin?”
She laughed, the sound freeing her from her thoughts. “No, just… thinking. You have kind hands.”
His eyebrows lifted, and for a moment, he looked almost boyish, a spark of delight in his eyes. “Kind hands? That’s a new one. I’ll take it.”
The evening unfolded like a well-worn novel, familiar yet surprising, each chapter revealing more. They shared a tiramisu, passing the plate back and forth, and Laura felt a spark of delight at the intimacy of it, a small rebellion against her usual reserve. They talked of dreams abandoned—hers to live in Paris, sketching by the Seine; his to sail the Mediterranean, chasing horizons. They spoke of dreams they still harbored—Jim wanted to visit Machu Picchu, to stand among ancient stones; Laura wanted to paint a mural on her garden wall, a riot of colors to greet each dawn. “Maybe we’ll inspire each other,” he said, his voice low, and the words hung between them, a quiet invitation to possibility.
As the waiter cleared their plates, Laura glanced at her watch—9:30 p.m. The restaurant had emptied, leaving only a few lingering couples and the soft hum of jazz from the speakers, a saxophone weaving through the air like a memory. She felt a pang of reluctance to end the evening, but also a need to retreat, to cradle this warmth in private, to process the possibility it held. Jim seemed to sense it, too, his eyes softening as he met hers. “Shall we?” he asked, gesturing toward the door.
Outside, the air was cooler, the stars bright against a velvet sky. Jim walked her to her car, his hand brushing hers briefly, a touch so light it might have been accidental, yet it sent a shiver through her. “I had a wonderful time, Laura,” he said, his voice earnest, his eyes holding hers. “I’d like to see you again, if you’re willing.”
Her heart skipped, a young girl’s thrill in an older woman’s body, tempered by the wisdom of years. “I’d like that,” she said, meeting his gaze, her voice steady despite the flutter within. “Very much.”
They stood a moment, the silence comfortable, charged with unspoken possibility. Then Jim leaned in, his lips brushing her cheek in a gesture both chaste and intimate, warm against the cool night air. “Goodnight, Laura.”
“Goodnight, Jim.”
As she drove home, the emerald dress soft against her skin, Laura felt a lightness she hadn’t known in years. The road stretched before her, familiar yet new, like the evening itself. She thought of Tim, his steady presence a cornerstone of her life, and how she’d once believed love was a chapter closed. Yet here was Jim, with his kind hands and quiet humor, opening a new page. She remembered a moment in Provence, dancing under fairy lights with Tim, the world narrowing to just them. Tonight felt like a different dance, slower, more deliberate, but no less alive.
At home, Laura slipped off the dress, hanging it carefully, its green folds catching the moonlight through her window. She sat at her vanity, her reflection softened by the dim glow of a lamp. The lines on her face were still there, but they seemed different now, less like scars and more like stories—each one a step in the dance of her life. She thought of Jim’s smile, the way his eyes crinkled, the promise of a second date. At seventy, first dates were still a worry, but they were also a gift—a chance to step into the unknown, to weave a new thread into the tapestry of her life.
She opened her journal, a leather-bound book filled with sketches and musings, and began to write. Not about the dinner, not yet, but about the feeling—the flutter of possibility, the ache of memory, the courage to say yes. She wrote of the emerald dress, how it had felt like armor and freedom all at once. She wrote of Tim, of Eve, of the lives they’d built and lost, and how the heart, even at seventy, could still stretch toward something new. The words flowed, her pen moving like a dancer across the page, capturing the night’s magic.
Laura closed the journal, her heart full. The road ahead was uncertain, but for now, the memory of Jim’s kiss on her cheek, the warmth of his voice, and the promise of another evening were enough. She turned off the lamp, the room falling into a soft darkness, and smiled. Life, she thought, was a dance of time, and she was still moving to its rhythm.
Every writer has a moment when the world tilts, and the stories inside them demand to be told. For me, that moment came on a quiet evening, surrounded by the soft hum of Louisiana’s bayou country, where the air carries whispers of Acadian ancestors and the past feels alive. As S.M. Ulbrich, I’ve always been drawn to history—not just the dates and events, but the heartbeat of people who lived it, their struggles woven with threads of magic and mystery. This is the story of how I became a writer, a path carved by heritage, imagination, and a stubborn love for storytelling.
Growing up, I was captivated by tales of my Acadian roots, stories of resilience like those of Joseph Broussard, my direct ancestor on my paternal grandmother’s side, whose courage against all odds felt like a call to action. I’d pore over genealogy records, like the Drouin Collection, tracing names and imagining the lives behind them. Those names weren’t just ink on a page—they were people who faced exile, built new homes, and carried their culture across oceans. Their strength inspired me, and I wanted to honor them in my writing. But it wasn’t enough to retell history; I wanted to infuse it with the mystical, to let runes glow on the page and hint at deeper truths.
My first leap into authorship came with Discovering Misty: The Mermaid of the Emerald Coast, a children’s series born from a real-life character actor in Florida who enchanted kids with her tales. Writing for young readers felt like sharing a secret: that stories can spark joy, teach empathy, and build bridges between generations. I’d sit at my desk, petting my cat for calm, music humming in the background, and let Misty’s world unfold. Those books, now on Amazon, are my love letter to the kids who dream big and the families who read together. But they’re also a piece of me—a reminder of the girl who saw magic in the everyday.
Writing isn’t always smooth. There were manuscripts like George and the Brave Eagle and Washington’s Fantastical Crossing, still waiting for illustrations and funding, that tested my patience. There were moments of doubt, like when I rushed to meet deadlines before my husband returned home, or very late at night, as I was doing nurse duty for my foster kids, scribbling words for The Fading Light in a race against time. Yet, every struggle taught me something. The chaos of Hurricane Sandy’s aftermath in my Zion Series reminded me that stories, like life, thrive in the tension between hope and hardship.
What keeps me going is the connection—to my heritage, to readers, to the spark of a new idea. When I got an email from a reader community eager to discuss Misty on Goodreads, I felt the weight of my words landing in someone else’s heart. When I designed a vibrant Canva image for my Amazon author page or crafted a post for my blog, Family Circle 14, or this one, I saw my voice reaching further. Even now, as I weave runes into my historical fiction or dream up blog posts about creativity, I’m reminded that writing is my way of making sense of the world.
This memoir isn’t just about me—it’s about the stories we all carry. Whether it’s a tale of Acadian resilience, a mermaid’s adventure, or a rune glowing in the dark, I write to uncover the magic in the past and share it with you. So, here I am, still typing, still dreaming, still weaving my tapestry of stories.
What’s the story you’re carrying today?
Shirley
P.S. I’m excited to share that today I found 3 more manuscripts I’d written years ago, that I thought I’d never see again — 2 are part of the Misty series!
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