A Thanksgiving Love Note: Love’s Blessing


Happy Thanksgiving!

with passion,



Like. Love. Lust. is a story told through prose, sonnets, narratives, and long-form stanzas, speak to the beauty in discovering each emotion, and battle with the complexities of their natural course, also known as human nature.



Letting Creativity Flow

Okay passion-fy family, my words have been flowing and my motivation to push my writing and creative desires further are getting stronger and stronger by the second. And let me give a quick shout out to my personal board of directors for giving me life and tell me to quit it with the excuses. So here’s a quick download of my next steps:

Third Book is 97% Completed

I promise y’all, I thought I was finished until I uncovered another chapter in my brain dump of this novella/novel (It’s teetering closer to a novel now) but now I’m wrapping this sucker up. I plan to have this completed by mid-September so I can get it over to an editor (or two) and start pitching it by the end of September. I’m not playing folks. I can’t play anymore because I have at least four more stories dying to get out and I can barely stay focus on this one. But it’s coming I know. A two-year hiatus in publishing isn’t too bad…wait, I was published recently by Z Publishing. If you missed that news, catch up with the previous post.

YouTube Restart and Podcast Launch

I’ve been asked by several writers if I’m going to start back up on the vlogs, and the answer was yes until life happened (baby, moving, motherhood, wifin’, career change, and the list goes on). But I’m for real this time and I’m even going to partner with another fellow YouTuber to start a new channel. Videos are in progress so make sure that you’re following my channel to stay updated on the latest uploads. While you’re there, check out some of the oldies too.

Pushing the Ps: Pitching, pushing, producing

I’ve hit the producing part in the first two sections. But the other two are a bit more complicated for me. For pitching, I’m actively searching for a passionate literary agent. And I don’t someone necessarily into the topics I write about (even though that would be ideal) but someone who is as passionate about their job and role in my career as I am about writing. I’m looking for my Puff Daddy. I want my next piece to get picked up and I know that having someone like that on my team could be a career changer.

Now in regards to pushing, I’ve got to get the word out about my current and previous projects. As a writer, I’m an introvert. I like to do things behind the scene and if someone notices the final project, if not, that’s cool too…but that’s THE WRONG thought process if I want to live off of my books one day. So, to combat my introvertedness (it’s a word, I promise), I’m pushing myself to not only promote my books and passion pieces more on social media and other channels but also send out copies to people who I would love to read my book — no matter how unlikely it is that they get it. Faith always has the final answer.

Stay tuned…

With passion,



A love

My love for words runs strong and deep but every now and then I trip over them, hunting for the perfect tone or flow or trying to ensure the context and usage is flawless.

My love for words makes me over think them, causing me to get confused about the message I’m sending or doubt if the message that I’m sending is confusing in itself.

My love of words is a beautiful pain to absorb. One that teaches me new lessons every day but can bite when I don’t properly send them with love and honesty.

I pray that one day my love for words heals and encourages, even through their untraditional and at times chaotic form because I know that is why I was placed on this earth…

To use my love of words to orchestrate a movement that my voice and mouth may not be able to achieve. Words that could speak louder and wider than my voice could ever reach.

[Short Story] Beauty Hurts

The mirror shattered and shards of glass ripped through my face. I smiled. The tears that fled down my cheeks from the day’s ridicules and verbal lashing turned into laughable irony. Soon scars will appear and the world of bully’s focused on my completion and attraction would have no more material for their daily battles with my self-esteem.

I wiped the blood from my face. It dripped slowly over my hands, letting the pain soak into my skin. Then like sand castles, I let the faucet water wash it all away.

Bang. Bang.

“Are you okay Kia?” Mom was worried. Both about the loud sound and me. She saw the cloud cover me as I paced through the hallway, just moments before I allowed the mirror to change my life.

“Yeah mom. No worries. I’ll clean it up.” Truthfully, I was the one who needed to clean up. Not because of the blood stained sink or the gruesome cuts on my face. I needed to clean out my mind from the hatred I endured. The misguided assumptions about who I was doing and where. All because of what I looked out.

“Beautiful’ is what my parents and family called me. But how could I be beautiful if those same eyes, nose, lips, voice, walk, and style is what those girls hated about me at school.

But not anymore, I would shut my mouth more; run to each class with my old raggedy clothes, oh and my face–my new ugly face.

“What are you cleaning up sweetie?”

I turned and slowly opened the door. It was as if the scars took away my pain and fear. I was ready to show the world the new me, starting with Mom.

Mom stood at the opened door with tears building in her eyes. But in one exhale, they were gone.

“Oh sweetie. Why would you do something like that to yourself?” Her tone was calm and it scared me. Why wasn’t she in shook at my blood stained face.

She grabbed the nearby towel, wet it and wiped my cheek. It’s burned but I took it.

“I don’t want to be beautiful any more. Being ‘beautiful’ hurts. The girls hate me for it so if my face is gruesome, they would leave me alone, right?

“My beautifully, ignorant child. You’ve played right into their game.” She wiped the other cheek but I was too focused on her next words to feel any more pain.

“This is what they want,” she continued. “Beauty scares people because it’s rare. Believe me when I say what makes you beautiful is much more than just your face—it’s your heart.” She put her hand on my chest.

“It’s your spirit. It’s etched in your genes and all you need to do is believe that no matter what you could ever do to you self, that beauty will go nowhere.”

She turned me to the remaining pieces of the mirror and those gashes were now just small red scratches on my face. My wounds were healing fast, faster than I’ve ever seen and I didn’t understand how.

“My child. You have the gift of beauty. Use that beautiful heart to reach out to those girls because apparently, they must have forgotten how beautiful they were. Go use your gift and help them find their ‘beauty’. It will be hard, but it’s your purpose.”

She turned to exit the room as I stared dumbfounded at my healed face.

She began to close the door back, but before it locked she whispered through the crack, “Oh, and you’re a witch. You will always heal quickly.”

NOTE: I hold the rights to my all my stories so don’t share without giving me my credit!

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