An author’s blog titled “Wildcard Wednesday” likely features a variety of topics that change from week to week. It could include anything from personal anecdotes, writing tips, book reviews, interviews with other authors, or explorations of different genres. The “wildcard” aspect suggests a mix of content, allowing the author to express creativity and connect with readers on diverse subjects.
I’m Shirley Ulbrich, writing under the pen names Pages Alight (for my more whimsical and visual storytelling projects) and S.M. Ulbrich (for my fantasy, sci-fi, and dystopian tales). Today I’m thrilled to share that we’re hard at work on a brand-new story book—a project that’s been dancing around in my imagination for quite some time. I can’t wait to tell you more as it takes shape!
In the meantime, my little collection of small notebooks (there are currently three available) continues to bring joy to folks who love to jot down thoughts, sketches, or daily reflections. They’re simple, charming, and perfect for tucking into a bag or keeping by your bedside.
And the big news I’ve been waiting for… my luxury adult coloring book is finally in review! After a couple of rejections (those picky full-bleed page requirements kept tripping us up), it looks like we might see it go live as soon as today or tomorrow. Fingers crossed—I’ll shout it from the rooftops the moment it’s approved and available!
To celebrate the creative energy flowing right now, here are a couple of illustrations I created that didn’t make it into the final story book or coloring pages. I thought you might enjoy them as a little sneak peek into my artistic process:
Sleepy Tales Emma and the Whispering Unicorn
What do you think? Do any of these spark a story idea for you? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments!
If you’d like to stay in the loop on the new story book, the coloring book launch, or any of my other creations (under any of my names), feel free to subscribe to the newsletter or follow along on social media. Your support means the world to this indie author and visual storyteller.
Thank you for being part of this creative journey with me. Here’s to more stories, more colors, and more pages alight!
Being an author isn’t just about putting words on a page—it’s about chasing the spark that turns ideas into stories that touch hearts. As the creator of Discovering Misty: The Mermaid of the Emerald Coast and George and the Brave Eagle, and a blogger who recently hit 1,048 visitors, I’ve learned that writers live in a world where imagination and purpose collide. If you’re wondering whether you’ve got that writer’s spark, here are some signs, tied to my own journey of crafting children’s books, growing my blog, and advocating for hope.
What Happens Next?
You’re Always Asking, “What Happens Next?”
You might be a writer if you can’t help but wonder what’s around the next corner of a story. Whether I’m walking along the Emerald Coast, where Discovering Misty was born, or brainstorming for George and the Brave Eagle, I’m constantly asking, “What happens next?” A seashell could inspire a mermaid’s quest, or a soaring bird could spark a tale of courage. If you’re always chasing the next plot twist, you’re a writer at heart.
You Rewrite the World to Make Sense of It
You might be a writer if you process life’s highs and lows by turning them into stories. When life feels heavy, I pour my thoughts into blog posts about resilience or craft scenes where Misty faces challenges with grit. Writing is my way of making sense of the world, and if you find yourself doing the same—whether through poetry, fiction, or a journal—you’re likely a writer, too.
People Watcher
You’re a People-Watcher with a Purpose
You might be a writer if you process life’s highs and lows by turning them into stories. When life feels heavy, I pour my thoughts into blog posts about resilience or craft scenes where Misty faces challenges with grit. Writing is my way of making sense of the world, and if you find yourself doing the same—whether through poetry, fiction, or a journal—you’re likely a writer, too.
You might be a writer if you study strangers in a coffee shop, imagining their backstories. I’ve built characters for Discovering Misty: Friends Forever by watching kids play at the beach or families share stories. Writers don’t just observe—they weave those moments into narratives that resonate. My blog often reflects these snapshots, connecting everyday life to bigger themes like hope and community.
You Fall in Love with Your Tools
You might be a writer if you have a favorite pen, a lucky notebook, or a laptop you treat like a trusted friend. My desk, cluttered with notes for my GoFundMe campaign for George and the Brave Eagle, is my creative sanctuary. If you get a thrill from the click of a keyboard or the smell of fresh paper, you’re part of the writer’s club.
You’re Haunted by Stories That Demand to Be Told
You might be a writer if an idea grabs you and won’t let go until it’s on the page. The story of George, soaring with bravery, or Misty, discovering her strength, kept me up at night until I brought them to life. If you’ve ever felt a story tugging at you, insisting it needs to exist, you know the writer’s calling.
You Find Joy in Reader Connections
You might be a writer if a single reader’s comment lights up your day. When someone leaves a review for Discovering Misty on Amazon or shares how my blog inspired them, it’s like fuel for my soul. Hitting 1,048 blog visitors felt like a milestone worth celebrating, and every interaction reminds me why I write: to connect, inspire, and spread joy.
You Write for Something Bigger
You might be a writer if your stories carry a deeper purpose. For me, it’s about more than children’s books—it’s about weaving hope and resilience into every page, a mission that ties to my advocacy for suicide prevention. Whether I’m sharing a blog post about family reading or a story about a brave eagle, I write to remind readers, young and old, that they’re not alone. If your words aim to lift others up, you’re a writer with heart.
You Keep Going, No Matter What
You might be a writer if you push through rejection, doubt, or the grind of promotion—like pitching Discovering Misty to bookstores or rallying support for George and the Brave Eagle. Writers don’t quit because the spark of creation is too strong. Even on tough days, I find myself back at my desk, writing a new blog post or polishing a chapter, because stories are how I make a difference.
If these signs feel like home, you might be a writer. Embrace the spark, chase the stories, and let your words light up the world. For me, it’s about bringing Misty and George to life, growing my blog, and sharing hope—one story at a time.
Once upon a time in a bustling town called Harmonyville, there lived two lifelong friends named Alex and Jordan. They had grown up together, sharing adventures from childhood playgrounds to late-night talks about dreams and life. Alex was a staunch supporter of Mayor Evergreen, believing her policies had brought prosperity and unity to the town—new parks, better schools, and jobs for everyone. Jordan, on the other hand, backed Councilor Blaze, convinced his bold ideas were what the town needed to shake off old habits and forge a brighter future.
For years, their differences never mattered. They’d laugh over barbeques, debating ideas with passion but always ending with a handshake and plans for the next barbecue. But as an election heated up, something changed. Whispers in the town square turned into shouts on social media. Neighbors drew lines, and soon, Alex and Jordan found themselves on opposite sides of a growing divide.
One evening, at their favorite diner, the conversation turned sour. Jordan slammed a fist on the table. “Evergreen is a fool, a puppet for the elite! She’s ruining everything with her soft policies!” Alex’s face reddened. “How can you say that? She’s done more for this town than anyone. Blaze is just a loudmouth stirring up trouble!”
The words escalated. Jordan called Evergreen “spineless” and “corrupt,” while Alex held back, remembering a promise to never speak ill of leaders who served the public. But the hurt lingered. They stormed out, vowing silently to avoid each other. Weeks passed without a call or text. The town felt smaller, colder.
Then, a storm hit Harmonyville—a fierce one that flooded streets and toppled trees. In the chaos, Alex’s home was damaged, and Jordan’s car was stuck in the mud. Without thinking, Alex grabbed tools and headed to Jordan’s place, pulling the car free with ropes and sheer determination. Hours later, exhausted and soaked, they sat on Jordan’s porch.
“Why’d you come?” Jordan asked, voice quiet.
“Because you’re my friend,” Alex replied. “Politics don’t change that. I respect what you believe, even if I don’t agree. Calling names doesn’t fix floods or build bridges—it just washes away what’s good between us.”
Jordan stared at the rain. “I’ve been a real jerk. Blaze isn’t perfect, and neither is Evergreen. But hating on yours… that was bullying, plain and simple. We all deserve respect for our views. Without it, we’re just yelling into the storm.”
From that day, they rebuilt—not just their homes, but their bond. They agreed to disagree, sharing ideas without venom, listening instead of labeling. The town noticed; slowly, the divide mended. Neighbors started talking again, realizing that respect wasn’t about winning arguments but about honoring the humanity in each other.
In the end, Harmonyville thrived not because one side triumphed, but because its people learned that true strength lies in unity amid diversity. And Alex and Jordan? They remained friends for another forty years, proving that opposites could coexist, as long as respect paved the way.
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.
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