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Blast from the Past: You Might Be a Writer If… (And You Might Be Reading The Collector)

Blast from the Past: You Might Be a Writer If… (And You Might Be Reading The Collector)

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 09/30/2026

Every now and then, it’s fun to look back at the posts that first connected us as writers, readers, dreamers, and storytellers. As our blog continues to grow beyond that exciting milestone of 500 visitors, I found myself revisiting an old favorite: “You Might Be a Writer If…”

When I first wrote that post, I reflected on the habits, quirks, and passions that seem to unite writers everywhere. Looking back, I realize those same qualities have followed me through every project, from Discovering Misty: The Mermaid of the Emerald Coast to George and the Brave Eagle, and now into my newest work, The Collector.

So, let’s take another look.

You See Stories Everywhere

Writers don’t simply observe the world. They imagine what lies beneath the surface.

A quiet beach can become a magical kingdom. An eagle soaring overhead can become a symbol of courage and determination. And sometimes a simple object, forgotten by most people, can become the centerpiece of an entirely new adventure.

That spirit of curiosity helped inspire The Collector. What begins as an ordinary discovery can quickly lead to extraordinary questions, reminding us that stories are often hiding in plain sight.

You Never Stop Asking “What If?”

What if mermaids lived along the Emerald Coast?

What if a brave eagle taught valuable lessons about courage?

And now, what if someone discovered something so unusual that it changed the way they viewed the world around them?

Writers thrive on “what if.” It is the question that opens every doorway to imagination and invites readers to step through alongside us.

You Fall in Love with Characters

One of the greatest joys of writing is creating characters who begin to feel like family.

Misty’s determination, George’s bravery, and the personalities taking shape within The Collector all started as ideas. Over time, they grew into companions who taught me lessons of their own.

Writers know this feeling. Characters stop becoming words on a page and start becoming voices in your heart.

You Daydream Without Apology

If you’ve ever stared out a window and lost yourself in a story, welcome to the club.

Writers spend a lot of time in two worlds at once. There’s the everyday world where dishes need washing and errands need running. Then there’s the story world where adventures unfold, mysteries deepen, and possibilities seem endless.

Many of the ideas behind The Collector arrived during those quiet moments when imagination took the lead.

You Keep Going, Even When It Isn’t Easy

Writing is rewarding, but it’s rarely simple.

There are moments of doubt, rejected drafts, editing headaches, and days when inspiration seems to hide. Yet writers continue because storytelling is more than a hobby. It’s a calling.

Every book I’ve written has required persistence, patience, and faith. The Collector was no different. Each challenge became another opportunity to refine the story and make it stronger.

You Hope Your Words Matter

Perhaps the biggest sign that you’re a writer is this: you want your words to make a difference.

Whether through the friendship and adventure found in Discovering Misty, the courage demonstrated in George and the Brave Eagle, or the themes explored in The Collector, my hope has always been to create stories that encourage, inspire, and spark imagination.

Stories have the power to bring people together. They help us see through someone else’s eyes, discover new perspectives, and find hope when we need it most.

Looking Back and Moving Forward

Revisiting You Might Be a Writer If… reminds me how much this journey has grown and how grateful I am for every reader who has come along for the ride.

The signs of being a writer haven’t changed. We still collect ideas, chase inspiration, daydream endlessly, and obsess over the right words. But each new story adds another chapter to the journey.

As we celebrate the past and look toward the future, I’m excited to share The Collector with readers and continue creating stories that spark wonder, curiosity, and hope.

So let me ask you:

Do you see stories everywhere?

Do you daydream about characters and adventures?

Do you carry a notebook just in case inspiration strikes?

If so, you just might be a writer.

And if you’re not a writer, perhaps you’re exactly who writers create stories for.

Thank you for being part of this journey. Here’s to the next adventure, and to the magic waiting to be discovered in The Collector.

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A New Novel Is Quietly Taking Shape

A New Novel Is Quietly Taking Shape

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 09/27/2026

I’ve spent the past several months living inside a building that doesn’t exist.

At least not the way I’m writing it.

It’s an apartment building in Cincinnati, populated by bricklayers, widows, schoolteachers, bakers, artists, maintenance workers, immigrants, flood survivors, and countless ordinary people whose names never appeared in history books.

And yet, the more time I spend with them, the more convinced I become that their stories matter.

Perhaps even more than the famous ones.

The novel I’m currently working on is called The Collector.

At its heart, it asks a simple question:

What survives after we’re gone?

A photograph?

A letter?

A favorite recipe?

A journal?

A building that remembers the people who once lived inside it?

As I’ve written, I’ve been surprised by how often the story returns to the same idea:

Most people believe their lives are ordinary.

But ordinary does not mean unimportant.

In fact, the people history forgets may be the very people worth remembering most.

I’m not ready to share many details yet.

The mysteries are still unfolding.

But I can tell you this:

The story begins with a young immigrant bricklayer in the 1850s and stretches across generations of lives connected by a single Cincinnati apartment building.

And somewhere within those walls lives a question that refuses to go away:

Who remembers the people no one else remembers?

More soon.

For now, I’m heading back into the past.

The characters are waiting.

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A Heartfelt Thank You

A Heartfelt Thank You

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 09/19/2026

Some posts come easily. Others sit quietly in your heart for a long time, waiting for the right moment and the right words.

This is one of those posts.

Today, I simply want to say something that feels both simple and profoundly important:

Thank you.

When I started this page and blog back in August, I had no grand expectations. I wasn’t chasing numbers or recognition. I simply had a notebook full of thoughts, stories, reflections, and a desire to place them somewhere beyond my own mind.

What I didn’t expect was this.

I never imagined my words would travel as far as they have, or that so many people would take the time to stop, read, reflect, and stay. I certainly never expected my thoughts to resonate with others in the way they have.

Yet somehow, here we are.

Every time you read a post, leave a comment, react, share a thought, or send a private message, something remarkable happens. You remind me that words still matter. That reflection still has a place in our fast-moving world. That kindness, honesty, and thoughtful conversation are things people still value.

Your comments don’t simply remain beneath a post.

They stay with me.

They accompany me throughout the day. They make me pause and smile. Sometimes they arrive at exactly the right moment, offering encouragement when it’s most needed. On difficult days, your words have lifted my spirits. On ordinary days, they have added unexpected warmth and joy.

You may not realize it, but every reaction, every message, and every “this meant something to me” has made a difference. Truly.

By reading and engaging with this blog, you are doing something incredibly generous. You are helping a dream continue to grow. You are giving space to a voice that once spoke quietly, uncertain whether anyone would listen.

Because of you, that voice feels heard.

Because of you, it feels encouraged to keep going.

Over time, this blog has become more than a personal collection of thoughts. It has become a shared space. A place where ideas, memories, questions, and reflections meet. A place where, for a few moments, we can slow down together and connect through words.

For that, I am deeply grateful.

Thank you for your time.

Thank you for your trust.

Screenshot

Thank you for your openness, encouragement, and support.

Thank you for being part of this journey since August and for transforming simple posts into meaningful conversations.

Most of all, thank you for reminding me why writing matters.

As I continue this journey, I promise to keep writing with the same honesty, care, and heart that inspired me to begin. Your support has shown me that authentic words can still connect people, and that is something I will never take for granted.

From the bottom of my heart,

Thank you.

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Tribute: “Be Like Dolly”

Tribute: “Be Like Dolly”

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 08/25/2026

Good evening, friends.

Today, we celebrate the life and legacy of a remarkable woman whose voice filled concert halls, whose songs touched hearts, and whose generosity changed lives.

Many people knew Dolly Parton as a country music legend. Millions knew her as an entertainer, songwriter, actress, and performer. But those who admired her most often saw something even greater. They saw a person who never forgot where she came from.

Born into poverty in the mountains of Tennessee as one of twelve children, Dolly understood hardship from an early age. She knew what it meant to have little and dream big. Through talent, determination, faith, and relentless hard work, she built a life that inspired people all over the world.

Yet success never seemed to change her heart.

She remembered the families struggling to get by. She remembered children who needed opportunities. She remembered the importance of reading, learning, and believing in yourself. Through the Imagination Library, millions of books found their way into the hands of children who might otherwise never have owned one.

That may be one of her greatest songs, although it was never sung. It was written in kindness, one book at a time.

Dolly also taught us that strength doesn’t have to be loud. It can be humble. It can be generous. It can wear a smile and still move mountains.

Faith was an important part of her life. Hope was part of her message. Love was part of her example.

In a world often divided by anger and criticism, Dolly Parton reminded us to laugh, to dream, to help one another, and to remain grateful for our blessings.

Her music will endure. Her words will endure. But perhaps her greatest legacy is the example she leaves behind.

An example that says:

Never forget your roots.

Never stop believing.

Never stop giving.

And never underestimate the power of kindness.

May we honor her not only by remembering her songs, but by living the values she shared with the world.

Thank you, Dolly.

And may we all strive to “Be Like Dolly.”

—

Blog Post: Be Like Dolly

Be Like Dolly: More Than a Country Music Legend

Some people become famous.

A few become beloved.

Almost none become both while remaining humble, generous, and authentic.

That is why Dolly Parton’s story continues to inspire millions of people around the world.

What makes Dolly remarkable is not simply the music. It is not the awards, the hit songs, the sold-out shows, or the decades of success. The truly inspiring part of Dolly’s story is where she began and what she chose to do with her success.

Growing up in rural Tennessee as one of twelve children, Dolly experienced poverty firsthand. She understood struggle, sacrifice, and the importance of family. Those early experiences shaped the values that would remain with her throughout life.

Rather than allowing success to separate her from ordinary people, Dolly used her platform to help them.

The Imagination Library became one of the most successful literacy programs in modern history, providing free books to children and encouraging a lifelong love of reading. The program reflected something fundamental about Dolly’s character: a belief that every child deserves opportunity.

Dolly also demonstrated that kindness and strength are not opposites. She never seemed ashamed of her background, her faith, or her unique personality. In an era when public figures often reinvent themselves, Dolly remained unapologetically Dolly.

Perhaps that is why so many people from different backgrounds admired her. She represented something increasingly rare: authenticity.

Her life reminds us that success means little if it cannot be used to help others. Wealth matters less than generosity. Fame matters less than character.

The lesson is simple.

You do not have to be a celebrity to change someone’s life.

You do not have to write hit songs to inspire hope.

You do not have to be wealthy to be generous.

You simply have to care.

When future generations look back on Dolly Parton’s legacy, they will remember the music. But they will also remember the books, the kindness, the faith, the laughter, and the countless lives touched by her generosity.

That is why her story matters.

And that is why the best tribute may be the simplest one:

Be Like Dolly.

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✨ Our 50‑Year Anniversary Story

✨ Our 50‑Year Anniversary Story

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 08/21/2026

For our 50th anniversary, I wanted to gather the story of our life — the temples, the moves, the miracles, the losses, the laughter, and the quiet ways we kept choosing each other through every season. This isn’t just a timeline; it’s the map of a marriage built across states, decades, and faith. It’s a love story shaped by resilience, devotion, and the kind of companionship that grows deeper with every storm weathered and every sunrise shared.


If you’d like to read the full story, it’s below — a celebration of fifty years of us.

(A letter for my husband — August 21, 2026)

My love,

Fifty years. Half a century of us — of choosing each other, holding each other, building and rebuilding a life across states, temples, heartbreaks, miracles, and every kind of weather a marriage can walk through. When I look back, I don’t just see the years. I see you.

I see the young man I met at Signetics in Orem — the one every woman flirted with, the one who somehow became my friend in the middle of my own storms. I had Corey and Tracy, you had Alex and Ben, and both of us were trying to survive marriages that were already breaking. We didn’t plan a life together. We simply kept showing up for each other until life itself nudged us into the same direction.

And then came that Christmas of 1975 — the layoff, the eviction, the panic. You found me a place in Salt Lake City, found work nearby, and without knowing it, you set the first stone of our shared foundation. We didn’t fall in love in a moment. We built love out of survival, loyalty, and the way you refused to let me face anything alone.

🌿 The Early Years — Loss, Courage, and Holding On

We moved on January 1, 1976, carrying more hope than belongings. Then came the devastation no parent should ever face — losing Tracy. Losing everything we owned. Losing the Cougar. And yet, even in that grief, we stayed side by side.

Mama’s house. The funeral. Corey kidnapped the night of the viewing. Our first apartment. Our first purchase together — that king‑sized waterbed, our first big purchase on time, and even now, with a mattress we still sleep on. Even then, we were learning how to be a team.

Southern California beaches gave us rest. Quiet days, lazy waves, long talks, always with music to soothe us. You missed your boys. I missed Corey and Tracy. We were two people grieving separately, but healing together.

Then came the loss of our baby boy at five months. Another heartbreak. Another moment where we could have fallen apart — but didn’t.

💍 The Day We Chose Forever

My divorce finalized in August. We married on August 21, 1976, in Las Vegas at the tiny white “Chapel of Eternal Love.” We dressed in a gas station bathroom — me in a long white polyester dress with a white embroidered collar. We couldn’t afford a room, so we celebrated at Denny’s in the middle of the night. Then we drove home, closer to each other than two people have ever been.

That night wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t grand. But it was ours, and it was perfect. We made it OUR chapel of eternal love. From that day, I never felt otherwise, that our love is eternal.

Family time camping.

🏡 Becoming a Family

Corey came home after nine months missing. Alex and Ben came home a few days later. Oh, we were so very happy! We celebrated Halloween and Thanksgiving together. Fantasia was our first movie as a family. You brought me flowers every day for years. We were complete — or as complete as life allowed.

Varian. Church every Sunday. Sarah’s birth. No bucket seats — always cheek to cheek.

Washington. Boeing. Rachael’s birth. Acreage, camping, canning, goats, pigs, rabbits, homeschooling. A whole world built from scratch. We were so much in love, so thankful for each other. Even 20 years later, we couldn’t wait to hold each other tight every night.

Hawaii Temple

✨ Sacred Places, Sacred Promises

Our sealing in the Hawaii Temple — ten days in paradise, one on Maui. Sushi for the first time. Pearl Harbor. BYU–Hawaii. The Polynesian Cultural Center. Driving all over Oahu with joy in our bones. Stargazing into the brilliantly clear night sky, thanking our Father for our many blessings.

Mt. Haleakalā — the highest volcanic mountain in the islands. The young doctor and his pregnant wife who joined us. My altitude sickness. Your shoulder injury. The doctor treating you on the beach the next day. Even in the strangest moments, we were blessed.

🌱 The Middle Years — Work, Service, and Hard Lessons

School. Degrees. Fostering. Political life. Exhaustion. Parenting styles clashing. Kids running in opposite directions. Painful years. Both girls pregnant. The kind of heartbreak that ages a person.

Then, Penryn Park — caretakers. Isolation. Peace. Healing. Unity. The earth itself seemed to hold us together.

🌾 The Later Years — Dreams, Realizations, and Grace

Hawkins, East Texas — the dream fulfilled, then sickness, like a dark shadow, creeping in, once again. The slow painful realization that some dreams arrive later than we hoped. But even then, we stayed side by side.

Now we plan the conclusion gently. We take things slower. We prepare for one last move — to be near family. To settle all things. To finish our story the same way we began it: together.

💛 What I Celebrate Today

I celebrate your strength.
I celebrate your devotion.
I celebrate the way you have carried burdens no one else sees.
I celebrate the way you have loved me through sickness, exhaustion, and every season of life.
I celebrate the way you have shown up — again and again — even when life was unfair.

I celebrate us.

Fifty years of temples.
Fifty years of moves.
Fifty years of children, losses, miracles, and memories.
Fifty years of choosing each other.

My love, we have lived a life that could fill volumes. And through every chapter — the beautiful ones, the painful ones, the ones we barely survived — you have been my partner, my protector, my companion, my home.

Happy 50th Anniversary.

I love you more now than I did on the night we stood in that tiny white chapel.


And I will love you still in every chapter that remains.

✨ Gentle Closing Blessing for the Anniversary Letter

May the years ahead be lighter than the ones behind us.
May peace settle into the corners of our days,
and may kindness be the language we speak to one another.

May we walk slowly, hand in hand,
grateful for the chapters we’ve lived
and tender with the ones still unfolding.

May God hold us close,
heal what has been heavy,
and bless the rest of our journey
with gentleness, warmth, and quiet joy.

And may love — the steady, enduring kind —
continue to be the thread that ties us together
in every step we take from here.

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🌌 Savannah’s Ancestral Song

🌌 Savannah’s Ancestral Song

Published by S.M. Ulbrich on 08/21/2026

Savannah’s birthday arrives wrapped in music, memory, and light.


This year, her celebration carries something deeper — a legacy long hidden, a lullaby rediscovered, and a truth ready to rise like a lantern in the dark. Savannah’s journey begins with a stolen speakeasy song, a diary tucked away for decades, and an ancestor whose voice refused to fade.

As candles flicker and wishes lift, Savannah steps into the story she was born to finish — a story of generational healing, clean romance, and the music that lives forever. Her birthday marks not just another year, but the moment her ancestor’s dream finally finds its way home.

Prologue: The Boarding House Years

Long ago, in a modest boarding house filled with dreamers, two young women shared a room. One would be remembered as a famous star; the other, Savannah’s ancestor, was a gifted songwriter with a voice that could hush the world into reverence. They were inseparable—confidantes of trauma, keepers of each other’s dreams. Together, they chased the same horizon: to be a star.

Their Secret Love.

The Song of Secret Love

Savannah’s ancestor poured her heart into a song, written for a secret romance with a married man. The melody was tender enough to be a lullaby, yet powerful enough to stir the deepest longing.

🎵 “How Long Must Love Be Hidden” 🎵

Verse 1
How long must love be hidden,
Behind the shadows of the night?
I whisper dreams in silence,
But my heart still burns with light.

Pre‑Chorus
Every secret has a rhythm,
Every longing finds its tune.
Though the world may never hear it,
I will sing this song for you.

Chorus
I believe to my soul,
This love was meant to be.
Though the world may never know,
Your song still lives in me.

Verse 2
I cradle hope like children,
And hum it soft and low.
A lullaby for angels,
Of a love the world won’t know.

Bridge
That’s enough to keep me breathing,
Though the night is cold and long.
Your memory is my comfort,
Your heartbeat is my song.

Final Chorus (soaring)
I believe to my soul,
This love was meant to be.
Though the world may never know,
Your song still lives in me.
Forever lives in me.

🎭 Scene: The Speakeasy Song

The speakeasy was alive with secrets. Lanterns flickered above small tables, candles burned low, and smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling fans. The air was thick with whiskey, tobacco, and perfume — a blend of longing and danger. Patrons leaned close over their drinks, whispering confessions, while couples stole kisses in shadowed corners.

The pianist struck slow, jazzy chords, the bass walking steady beneath. A trumpet sighed, weaving in and out of the melody, hypnotic and sultry. The crowd swayed gently, caught in the rhythm.

Savannah’s ancestor stepped onto the small wooden stage, the spotlight softening her features, making her seem both fragile and radiant. She clutched the microphone, closed her eyes, and let the first verse slip out like a prayer.

The room hushed. Glasses stilled mid‑air. Her voice was tender, aching, yet strong enough to hush the clinking of ice. The pre‑chorus rose, building anticipation, and then the chorus soared, gospel‑like, echoing Ray Charles’ confessional honesty and the aching vulnerability of Charles Bradley.

The melody wrapped the crowd in warmth and longing, like a lullaby for their own forbidden loves. Some swayed, some wiped tears. It was more than music — it was truth.

At a corner table, her roommate sat frozen, glass untouched. She knew instantly: this song was a masterpiece. Fame could be built on it. And in that moment, envy stirred, ambition whispered.

The bridge carried aching strength, and the final chorus soared higher, filling the smoky room with light. Applause thundered, echoing against the walls. Savannah’s ancestor smiled faintly, stepping down from the stage, unaware that her closest friend had already decided to steal the song — and with it, her dream.

The Hidden Diary

Decades later, fate intervened. A thrift store customer stumbled upon a diary tucked inside the drawer of a vintage dresser. Its pages revealed the truth: the song was not the star’s creation, but Savannah’s ancestor’s. The diary spoke of their friendship, their shared dreams, and the tragedy that silenced one voice while elevating another.

One entry read:

“She says she will sing my song. She says the world will believe it is hers. I am afraid, but I cannot stop her. My voice is fading, but my song will live.”

Revelation and Inheritance

The family finally learned the truth. Legal battles brought justice, and royalties flowed to Savannah’s family. For Savannah, this inheritance was more than wealth—it was a legacy. She returned to school, pursued her music, and found herself lifted into success. Fame came not from imitation, but from authenticity.

Dreams and Visitations

Savannah had always dreamed of a lullaby, a melody she thought was her own imagination. In truth, it was her ancestor’s song, sung to her infant before tragedy struck. These dreams were visitations, reminders of a bond formed in the pre‑existence. Her ancestor’s spirit had been with her all along, guiding her toward destiny.

Clean Romance and Healing Love

Savannah’s rise was not only musical — it was romantic. She met him not in the spotlight, but in a quiet rehearsal hall where she was practicing her ancestor’s lullaby. He noticed her spirit before her fame, drawn to her authenticity.

Unlike her ancestor’s secret, shadowed love, Savannah’s romance was open, honest, and healing. Where her ancestor’s heart was silenced by betrayal, Savannah’s was nurtured by trust. Together, they dreamed not of fame, but of creating a life filled with music, family, and service.

Their love became a mirror of the song itself — tender, enduring, and meant to be. Just as the chorus repeats “Your song still lives in me,” Savannah realized her love was proof that legacy can be reborn in joy. Through romance, she healed the generational wound of betrayal. Her ancestor’s forfeited dream found balance in Savannah’s fulfilled one, and the love she carried was free of secrecy, built on light instead of shadows.

Savannah’s debut, sings

🌌 Epilogue: The Spirit of the Song

The theater glowed like a sanctuary. Velvet curtains framed the stage, and lanterns lined the aisles, their soft light flickering like guiding stars. Above, feather‑shaped patterns shimmered in the spotlight beams, drifting across the ceiling as if angels themselves were watching.

Savannah stepped forward, her gown flowing like watercolor, pastel hues catching the glow. A single butterfly motif adorned her microphone stand — delicate, luminous, a symbol of transformation.

She began softly, her ancestor’s lullaby rising like incense. Each note was a feather in flight, carrying memory upward. The melody wrapped the audience in warmth, glowing like candlelight against their faces.

Savannah sang the lullaby — the song her ancestor had written in secret, the song stolen and buried, the song rediscovered through dreams and diaries.

As the chorus soared, lanterns brightened, casting golden halos across the crowd. Some wept openly, others clasped hands, and a few closed their eyes as if in prayer. The song was no longer just hers; it was a legacy reborn, a keepsake passed through generations.

Her voice carried not just melody, but memory. Each note was a bridge between past and present, between forfeited dreams and fulfilled ones.

Savannah felt her ancestor beside her, the presence shimmering in the motifs around her — feathers for faith, lanterns for guidance, butterflies for renewal. The final chorus lifted higher, radiant:

“I believe to my soul,
This love was meant to be.
Though the world may never know,
Your song still lives in me.
Forever lives in me.”

The last note lingered like a glowing candle in silence. Then applause erupted, thunderous, rising like a tide. Flowers fell at her feet, lanterns flickered brighter, and butterflies seemed to dance in the air.

Savannah bowed her head, whispering:

“Your song still lives in me.”

The applause was thunderous, but Savannah’s heart was quiet, at peace. She realized that her success was not only her own — it was the continuation of a dream once silenced. Her ancestor’s spirit had been with her all along, gifting her the lullaby, guiding her toward love, and reminding her that legacy is not lost, only waiting to be sung again.

She left the stage knowing she was whole — an artist, a woman, and a granddaughter carrying forward the music of generations, wrapped in symbols of faith, love, and light.

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