Bildungsroman is a literary genre of stories about a character growing psychologically and morally from their youth into adulthood. Generally, they experience a profound emotional loss, set out on a journey, encounter conflict, and grow into a mature person by the end of the story. Literally translated, a bildungsroman is “a novel of education” or “a novel of formation.” Judy Blume’s MasterClass teaches more about.
Below is my Creation Listing for 2025. As you can see, I haven’t been using this tool very long, but I’m certainly enjoying it. The entries in the piece shows some of my books and yet-to-be published books of this year.
You can see Misty, the mermaid of the Emerald Coast, from my 2 children’s books of the same name. She’s chatting with 6-year-old George Washington and his buddy, the brave eagle.
Under that section, you’ll find the book cover for my Washington’s Fantastical Crossing, where he’s being watched by merfolk – I really hadn’t planned to write so many stories about merfolk!
The one at the bottom middle is part of my America’s Great Perfect Storm. The leopard and night-watchers are suggestive of Obama’s dream — more on that later.
The bottom left is from my YA speculative fiction, “The Covenant Fire”, a story about a team asked to locate and activate an ancient artifact, while avoiding the evil cabal chasing them to recover the artifact to use for their purposes. This artifact is meant to bring about the 2nd Resurrection and gather the Lost Ten Tribes.
“Pages Alight” is my forthcoming podcast on YouTube! Coming very soon.
Shadows at the Sundae Counter: Two Paths in a Divided Diner
In the sleepy town of Evergreen Springs, where the Dairy Queen stood as a neon beacon of summer nostalgia, Jake pulled into the parking lot on a sweltering afternoon. His red MAGA hat, faded from years of rallies and barbecues, sat firmly on his head—a symbol of his unwavering support for Trump, whose policies had revived his small manufacturing job after the factory nearly shuttered. He craved a simple Blizzard, but what unfolded would test the fragile threads of civility in a polarized world.
Scene 1: The Bitter Scoop (Negative Outcome)
Jake stepped inside, the bell jingling like a warning. The counter clerk, a young woman named Sarah with piercings and a rainbow pin on her apron, glanced up and froze. Her eyes locked on the hat, her face twisting in disdain. “Sir, you’ll need to take that off or leave,” she said sharply, her voice laced with the frustration of someone who’d scrolled through too many heated social media threads. “We don’t want that kind of energy here—it’s divisive.”
Jake’s cheeks flushed, his hands clenching at his sides. “Divisive? This is America—freedom of speech, right? I’m just here for ice cream, not a debate.” His tone escalated, drawing stares from other customers. Sarah crossed her arms, her manager peeking out from the back. “It’s store policy now. That hat represents hate to a lot of us. Remove it or go.”
The standoff boiled over. Jake slammed a fist on the counter, muttering about “snowflakes” and “cancel culture,” while Sarah called him a “bigot” under her breath. Phones came out, recording the chaos; a family at a nearby table hurried their kids out. Jake stormed away empty-handed, posting a furious rant online that went viral, labeling the DQ a “liberal hive.” Sarah faced backlash too—harassing calls flooded the store, forcing it to close early. The incident fractured the town: boycotts on one side, counter-protests on the other. Friendships frayed, and Evergreen Springs grew colder, a sundae shop turned symbol of irreparable divide. In the end, no one won—just a bitter aftertaste of resentment lingering long after the ice cream melted.
Scene 2: The Sweet Resolution (Positive Outcome)
Jake stepped inside, the bell jingling like an invitation. Sarah glanced up, her eyes narrowing at the hat, but she paused, remembering a recent Braver Angels workshop her community group had hosted on bridging divides. “Sir, that hat… it might make some folks uncomfortable here. Mind taking it off while you order?” she asked, her tone firm but not accusatory.
Jake blinked, surprised by the politeness. He touched the brim, recalling his own vow to respect others after a family rift over politics. “Uncomfortable? I get it—it’s just my way of showing support for what helped my job. But sure, no problem.” He tucked the hat under his arm, and Sarah’s shoulders relaxed. As she scooped his Blizzard, curiosity sparked. “What helped your job?” she asked genuinely.
Jake shared briefly: Trump’s trade deals had saved his factory from outsourcing. Sarah nodded, scooping extra Oreos. “I see that side now. For me, it’s about inclusivity—my pin’s for my LGBTQ friends.” They chatted lightly, discovering shared worries about the town’s economy. A customer overheard and joined in, turning the counter into an impromptu circle of stories. Jake left with his treat and a new perspective; Sarah felt heard, not attacked. Word spread—Evergreen Springs’ DQ became known for “Blizzards and Bridges,” hosting monthly neutral talks. Divisions didn’t vanish, but respect bloomed, proving that a small act of grace could sweeten even the sourest encounters. In the end, the town grew stronger, one scoop of empathy at a time.
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!
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