The Portrait on the Wall

I tried my hand at flash fiction again this week, with the final word count being 1,025. I wasn’t intending for this piece to come out as flash, but it was a good exercise to keep the story concise and avoid unnecessary details, while also telling a story that could stand on its own. Like my previous attempt, this post is also a decent first draft in need of polishing, but I was really inspired by one detail and a real-life story I heard recently, so I ran with the idea.

Read on and let me know what you think – did I nail this flash fiction story? How did it make you feel?

Image of woman sitting on an armchair, with her hands on her lap, with a dog in front of her.
Photo by Camellia on Unsplash (This was not meant to come out this eery, but I had a hard time finding a photo of the ACTUAL detail I focused on for this post).

The portrait of the man in the living room hung on the wall on its own.

Imogen’s chair was in direct view of the portrait, so she spent her days looking at the serious expression on her late husband Ricky’s face.

Imogen was tired. She didn’t do anything with her time to warrant being so tired, but at ninety-seven, even breathing required effort. Things kept getting handed to her while she sat on her rocking chair: an over-ripe banana she didn’t want to eat, a small TV with pictures of people she didn’t know, babies she didn’t recognize.

There were always people in her house, and she wondered how that had happened when she had only had two daughters. Imogen thought Alice and Rosie only had two kids each, Alice a boy and a girl, and Rosie two girls. Imogen had helped raise all of them while living in the house that she and Ricky built after he came back from the war. Even after he died almost 50 years before, she would not leave the house. Imogen would instead help with the grandkids so her two daughters wouldn’t fight over who had more rights to the house.

Ricky also stayed in the house with her after he died. Imogen would see him walking around the kitchen as she fixed the kids’ meals, or standing in the doorway looking at her as she dusted his portrait. Imogen would catch him smiling at her as she fussed over a doily or arranged and rearranged the flowers for the kitchen. On the days she’d catch him with that smile on, she woke up in the middle of the night to his singing voice at her bedside. She was never afraid when she saw him or heard him nearby – Ricky was keeping his wedding day promise of always looking after her.

“Your dad came by today,” she’d say to Alice. “He thinks your little ones are precious and wants the boy to be a soldier, like him.”

“Mom, Daddy died years ago. He never met the kids.”

Imogen would insist that her dad had come by the night before too, to serenade her with a ballad he’d written for her while he was away at war. “The same one he sang to me when he came back.”

“Okay, Mom,” Alice would say, and Imogen would walk away without noticing the concern on her daughter’s face.

Without her permission or awareness, Imogen had started remembering less about life after her kids and more about her life before them. Strolls and fights with her sisters when they were all kids; ice cream and bicycle rides with Ricky when they were fifteen; the day he shipped out when they were nineteen, how he’d kissed her and said he should have married her the week before so he’d die a married man.

“Then you need to come back intact,” she’d said. “Don’t think you can run away from me to some other country.”

The day he came back was as vivid in her memory as the day he died. Imogen’s sisters had pulled their resources and their husbands together to get her that portrait of Ricky. She was glad they’d picked that expression on him, the serious soldier look and not the sweet boy look he had only for her. The same smile on Ricky’s face when he came to see her.

As more days without him passed and as her hair went whiter, she spoke less and only sat on her chair facing the portrait. Alice and Rosie would come up and speak to her, and other kids called her Grandma and Mammy while giving her hugs and kisses. She returned them, not because she felt anything, but because it was nice to feel loved when she was so tired.

She sat eating the banana, looking around to everyone who had gathered in her house. She knew it wasn’t Christmas because the tree wasn’t up, and it wasn’t Easter because Rosie hadn’t pushed her to leave the house for church. She looked for Alice or Rosie, to ask them why everyone was in her house today and why she had been handed a banana. She couldn’t taste the fruit – it was only getting mushed between her gums before making its way down her throat. It tasted no different than the mush she was given at all other mealtimes.

“I think it’s time to go,” Imogen said out loud.

“Go where, Mammy?” A little boy that was next to her said. He didn’t look anything like Alice or Rosie, and Imogen wondered how he’d gotten in there. “Mom, Mammy said she’s going somewhere.”

“It’s alright, honey, she’s probably confused.” The boy’s mom looked a little like Rosie. “We’ll let you rest now, Grandma.”

Later, when Imogen was lying in bed, her eyes opening and closing as she was drifting off, Ricky was at her bedside. He smiled at her, and when he serenaded her, his voice didn’t sound far away anymore. It was the clear and assured voice he’d had for her that dripped with love and devotion, the voice that made her name sound like a sacred melody.

He stretched his hand out, but she didn’t need support to get out of bed. She knew she hadn’t fallen asleep, but her perpetual tiredness wasn’t with her anymore. She could move freely again, and when she looked down at her hand as she gave it to Ricky, all wrinkles were gone. She turned quickly to the mirror and saw herself as she remembered on her best years, no wrinkles and with brown hair falling at her shoulders.

“I feel so alive,” Imogen said. Ricky smiled and pointed to the figure lying on the bed. Imogen looked at the old woman, her face sad and with some tears falling down the corners of her eyes.

“Come on, Immy.” Ricky said, grabbing her hand. “It’s time for you to be with me now.”

She went, because she wasn’t tired anymore. And the portrait in the living room was later taken down because there was no one on the chair to look at it anymore.

Flash Fiction: Toss and Turn

This week’s entry was supposed to expand on this alternate reality post of imagining my life had I pursued a different career – in my case, a nurse. With the current situation and the literal heroes that nurses are (they always are, but especially now), it felt out of touch to proceed as planned.

I’m not feeling particularly creative this week, and I didn’t work on my new project over the weekend – I’m trying this new thing where I don’t berate myself for not being productive while in quarantine. It’s lovely once you realize you don’t have to have something to show for it to prove you were productive – self-care can also “yield” the result of feeling better, and that’s important too.

So my remedy for feeling uninspired? Attempting a challenge (and being satisfied with the result if I tried my best, but I’m still working on that) gets my writing muscles moving and stretching, and hopefully by the end of it I’ll feel more inspired and excited to go back to my new project.

This week’s challenge: flash fiction.

I have to thank a good friend and writing colleague for this idea. It’s not quite the “a story in six words” challenge – that’s further down in this year’s plan – but it’s equally a challenge to condense a story with a beginning, middle and end in 1,000 or less (my final word count is 1,014 – a respectable first draft). Less words doesn’t mean less writing; it means more editing.

So here I go – tell me if I nailed this!

Image of a broken paper heart strung on string against a black background.
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash


She’s awake. What time is it? Why is the bed empty? How long has she been asleep?

3 a.m. And he’s not here.

She calls him, asks where he is, if he’s okay, why he isn’t back yet. What happened to being back by 11?

I’m across town. I’ll be home soon.

The phone clicks and she turns to her side, knowing sleep was impossible but deluding herself to try. She had just gotten good at falling asleep when he wasn’t there.

Breathe. Toss and turn. Breathe. Toss and turn.

She checks her phone again. Facebook, Snapchat, texts, then Facebook, Snapchat, texts, then Facebook, Snapchat, texts, then… Anything to tell her that he’s okay and he’s on his way home, that nothing has happened to him on his journey.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

The door goes and she comes to, angry that she’d fallen asleep but relieved at the same time. She can sleep without him there, but it’s more comforting otherwise. She doesn’t know this yet, but she would become quite good at sleeping alone soon.

She turns toward him, asks if he’s okay.


She turns his back to him, hoping that by some miracle she’d fall asleep. The morning light was starting to stream through the skylight and she checks her phone. 5 a.m. She has to get up for work in an hour and 20 minutes.

He crawls into bed and she feels his arms around her and for the first time in her life, she squirms away. Says no.

Stop breathing. Start crying.

Their house crumbles, disrespect as big and destructive as a bulldozer. Their foundations are not as solid as she thought, if one late night without calling can do this much damage. Where had he been? Who had he been with? Only bartenders, students and dishonest people stayed out past 3 a.m. on a Sunday – which one is he?

In the dim morning light, he looks alien to her. The smell of alcohol and sweat familiar but unknown on him at 5 a.m. on a Sunday. She tries searching for another smell, any indication of where he had been and with whom, what he’d done with whoever it was. But smelling requires breathing, and she is too busy crying to do that.

Breathe. Slowly.

She turns over and hiccups more sobs. She stares at the wall and more sunlight streams in as he repeats, over and over, that he’s sorry. He repeats it so much, he falls asleep and his even breathing is interrupted when her alarm goes off. She turns it off and shoots awake, headed to the bathroom. He tries to grab her again but she shrugs him off and heads inside the small bathroom. She slams the door.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Swollen eyes. Red nose. Messy hair. Where had he been?

Since when was this a place he didn’t want to come back to? What had she done for him to think that staying out past 3 a.m. without a call was acceptable? People who loved her didn’t make her worry, lose sleep and cry.

Is she a good girlfriend? Is she a good homemaker? Is she someone he doesn’t want to come home to anymore?

Is she a good woman?

Her teeth are brushed, her hair is combed back and full of product and her face is washed of the salty tears but not of the shame. She boils herself some water and squeezes a lemon in it – it was time to work on her face.

She’s not tired or sleepy, but this exhaustion was as alien to her as the man who was supposed to be the man who loved her, lying in bed with his eyes closed but not breathing deeply. She isn’t tired but her body is heavy, her head threating to start pounding at any loud sound. Her eyes hurt and twitch every few seconds. Every movement is loud.

Moisturizer, concealer, powder, foundation, more concealer and more powder. She looks more normal, like someone worth coming home to. She flicks eyeliner across and swishes two coats of mascara before putting on red lipstick. She briefly considers the too-red red not really work appropriate, but settles for a muted rose – no need to call more attention to her face today.

She gets dressed, cup of warm water now lukewarm and acidic. She leaves it on the vanity and heads for the door – it’s the first time in months she’d be early to work. She walks past him – he’s awake.

Breathe. Breathe.

He’s on his phone typing and she’s angry. She ruffles through her bag like she doesn’t know everything that is there.

I’m going to the gym after work.

I think we should talk when you’re back.

Talk about what?

Us. Where we go from here.

She turns around and is wide awake. Her body stops being so heavy in a split second and she lets anger buoy her up. Her old self is on a life raft, floating and maybe surviving this shipwreck.

You get home at 5:30 a.m. and you’re the one who wants to know where we’re headed?

It was 5 a.m.

You’re joking.

I’m not. I checked my phone and it was 5 a.m.

She looks at his face. He’s gone. He never really came back from wherever he was last night (this morning?) and whoever came back wasn’t the same man who left. The man who loves her doesn’t look at her with unkind eyes and arms folded across his lap on top of the covers. This man is a stranger.

He didn’t come home last night, in the end. The man she thought she’d spend forever with. Because she isn’t someone worth coming home to. If she were that kind of person, the same man who kissed her goodbye yesterday afternoon would have been the same man who respected their home and came back by 11 as he’d promised. Not this stranger who isn’t looking at her in the face. The face he once couldn’t get enough of.

Breathe. Through a hollow chest. Breathe.


Over the weekend, I wrote the most words I’ve written yet for my new project. I was thirteen words shy of four thousand. Four. Thousand. That puts me at slightly over thirteen thousand words in total. Thirteen. Thousand. Words. Thinking back to before I started the blog and got back to writing more regularly, writing more than eight hundred words was like drawing blood out of the stone, and any time I wrote anything substantial for my old project, I would end up deleting it the next day.

Upon reflection, I had to admit to myself that my old project isn’t ready for me – or maybe I’m not ready for it. I thought back to the other projects I wrote before that one, all about motherhood in some capacity. What did I know about motherhood at twenty or twenty-one? I’m no closer to knowing anything about it at twenty-seven, so why did I think I knew anything then? I have some complex thoughts about motherhood, and it’s best I work those out before trying to write about it with any authority.

Trying to carry on with the inspiration from the weekend, I will stick to writing about what I do know: writing exercises (that are not about motherhood).

A skill I’ve developed over the past four years is writing marketing copy, and it’s a skill I develop every day. In this week’s writing exercise, I try to combine that skill with storytelling. Will I succeed in causing some sort of feeling for the reader? Read on to find out…

This box of cereal won’t change your life.

Really, what box of cereal changes your life? It’s an understated food mostly associated with kids and morning plot lines in TV shows and movies. Some people don’t have time for breakfast, and their life really can’t be changed by a box of cereal. So really, this cereal won’t change your life.

This box of cereal is made of organic ingredients and there is a version that’s vegan, but it’s hard not to find a vegan option of pantry staples lately. It’s not like it’s hard to make a cereal vegan, really: we just subbed maple syrup for honey. It took away from the bottom line, sure, but that’s why you have to read the label – we’re putting the onus on our customer and made the differentiating feature so small, you have to work to find it, and if you spend money for us along the way, happy days. In that sense as well, this cereal won’t change your life.

This cereal is for those who have grown out of Trix, Froot Loops and Fruity Pebbles on the weekday but still keep a box for the odd weekend when they watch cartoons. This cereal is for those people who want to put minimal effort into starting their day, those who want a small win but a win nonetheless when it comes to getting their life together. For however fleeting a moment, this cereal will help you feel like you have your life together and set you off into your day with a pep in your step, but then by lunchtime you will be calling for an adultier adult when you have a grilled cheese with canned tomato soup. Also in this sense, this cereal won’t change your life.

When creating this cereal, we almost felt bad for those cereals we left behind as kids after we realized that they’re empty calories and only give you the illusion of starting your day the right way. On reflection, sugary balls of corn didn’t even taste that great, but throw in some color and a talking animal, and us kids were all over it. We have no talking animals promoting this cereal, but only because we knew our target audience was too smart for that. For you to believe this cereal will be the best start to your day and will pair perfectly with your morning caffeine, we felt we only needed to add a reminder that you need to take care of your insides now that you get a strain injury from sitting down at a desk all day. Because of this reality, our cereal tastes like all decently priced granola does and can be eaten with milk, yogurt or as a topping for a smoothie bowl. It tastes like any other granola, so in that aspect either, this cereal won’t change your life.

So at this point you’re wondering why bother buying this cereal if it won’t change your life. But do you really go out looking for something that will change your life when you go out looking for cereal? No, you don’t. You only go out looking for something that will keep you full until lunch so you don’t snack in between meals. You go out looking for a cereal that will taste better than something you make yourself (if you haven’t tried to make your own granola before, don’t; it takes hours to make a decent batch). You want a cereal that tastes like something you can’t make because it’s too difficult, a cereal you don’t want to go through the effort of making but is just there when you wake up. You want something that feels life-changing but is really just one more thing in your day.

Look no further than this cereal: It won’t change your life, but it does taste like what an adult eats.

Useless Love Connection

Welcome new followers! Happy to have you here – I hope you find something you think a friend would like to see, too.

Well, it’s been… a week. It’s day 46 of self-isolation/quarantine/social distancing/a new normal, and it’s finally gotten to me. I’ve had a few not-so-good days of not dealing with the waiting game (how long until we can go back to normal? What would that look like? How long until I can travel again?). I saw a post somewhere this week that we may be feeling grief for the way things should have been had the crisis not come along, and that helped put a name to what I was feeling.

Something else that helped me get through these odd feelings was writing. I wrote a good chunk of a new work in progress over the weekend, and it was setting-dominant. Not surprising that writing about a different place that means a lot to me, imagining it and creating a version for storytelling, was a soothing form of escapism. Rather than making me feel even more restless than I already was, imagining and writing about a different place was actually helpful – it’s all about how you spin it.

So for this week’s post, I spin the current situation into a positive reading experience. This post is something of a step away from what I feel comfortable writing, but I liked the challenge. I hope this entertains you, and let me know how you’re keeping sane during whatever day of quarantine it is for you.

Image of tabby cat sleeping on a couch
Picture of my own cat, Chiquita, on my own sofa, which has magically escaped her long, adorable claws for 11 years.

She lost track of what day it was. The sun had come up a number of times and he was still here, with his alarm going off some days and not others.

He turns this morning’s alarm off, moans and stretches. She does the same, stretching as long as she can go and turning to her side. She gets up first and bends down to stretch one more time while he says good morning. She turns to look at him and blinks without saying anything before walking to the kitchen.

Her breakfast isn’t ready yet but she hears him in the bathroom; he’s brushing his teeth. She walks over to the window for something to do instead of sitting where he can see her. They live in an apartment in a really high floor, and she spends hours looking out the window on a normal day, but coming to see what has changed every hour is more of an obsession now.

The streets have been empty for days – weeks, maybe – and her usual people-watching opportunities have been traded for watching the odd car, bus or bike now. People still walk the streets, but they all wear masks or hoods even when it’s a sunny day out. She sees dogs more often now, dogs she saw on walks barely once a week before. There’s a great dane who likes to bark at anyone walking across the street, so he gets walked early in the morning or late in the evening. There’s the pair of beagles that used to get walked together that now wag their tails at each other from across the street – their owners wave and swiftly walk away. Her favorite to watch was the fluffy saint Bernard – he used to get a walker every day when the streets were fuller, but now he gets walked by a tall and slender blond woman who gets yanked forward whenever he sees a pigeon.

The pigeons! She hated them but loved to watch them when they perched on the balcony just outside her window. She liked to make noise inside to get them to go away, and since there are so few people in the streets now, they seem to have taken license to fly about more, and they extended that same courtesy to those weird small birds that live in big cities, the kind who rummage through trash and travel in groups of at least 100.

He finally comes out into the kitchen and starts fixing her food.

“What do you feel like today, sweetheart?” He asks, like he’s not just going to give her the same thing as every morning. “Here you go.”

He sets the plate in her usual spot and she goes to eat. As the familiar flavor fills her mouth, he pats her head. She moves her head away and squints at him – he knows better than to bother her while she’s eating. He chuckles and goes off to turn on the coffeemaker and make his own breakfast. While his bread toasts, he goes to the dining room table to turn on his computer.

Another area lost to her while he’s been at home all day, every day: the dining room table. Not that she ate her meals there anyway, but she liked to sit with him while he had his dinner (the only meal he ate at home before). She liked to stare at him, thinking how much he annoyed her when he laughed at something on his phone, with food showing in his open mouth while he chewed and laughed. She also thought how much she loved him, how he knew exactly at what time to prepare her meals every day with minimal reminders from her – no one else could do it just like him. Now, the dining room table has been full of papers she pushes off, pens that she keeps stealing and he keeps replacing, Reese’s wrappers and sticky notes. There is barely any room for her, so she spends her time on the sofa while he works.

He brings his breakfast to the dining table and starts clicking away at the computer, the now-familiar hum of the machine grating at her ears. He talks to himself as he goes, often with his mouth full. He whispers something about campaigns, engagement, lay-offs… she tunes him out and soon is asleep.

These morning naps were great for her. She never got a full-night’s sleep and woke up several times a night to stretch, for a drink, the bathroom, so the morning naps were essential to her daily functioning. She usually laid down on the couch, dozing off to the familiar sounds of cars honking, people yelling and dogs barking. Since the world went quieter, she dozed off to the music he played while clicking away at the computer. Some days the beat is chaotic and disturbing, heavy with guitars, when he barely talks to her except when he yells at her for making too much noise to scare away the pigeons. Other days, the days when her morning naps last until noon, it’s softer music that he hums along to, and his hums are easy to fall asleep to until he interrupts himself by talking more about campaigns and sales.

There isn’t any music playing today, so she dozes off to the silence but doesn’t completely fall asleep. She dreams about pigeons again, except this time they’re as big as the saint Bernard and they’re walking next to each other and they’re the same size. At one point the pigeon is walking the saint Bernard while the slender, blond woman is running in circles around them before falling with a clang and–

She’s awake and searches for the source of the noise. It’s him, dropping the pan he used to fry his eggs in the sink. She yells at him and shoots daggers from her eyes.

“Sorry, my love.”

Awake and pissed off, she stretches and then walks to the window again. Nothing had really changed since this morning. The streets were still empty and the people walking by were still wearing masks. It’s a cloudy day, and there aren’t a lot of dogs out today either.

“Anything interesting out there, princess?” He walks up next to her and they both look out the window for a minute. He’s drinking his second cup of coffee of the day. “What I wouldn’t give for a cup of coffee outside that I didn’t have to make myself.”

What I wouldn’t give for you to go outside in general.

He pats her head again and she lets him – the mussing feels good and she has an itch behind her ear anyway. She stays at the window for a little bit longer and as she’s pondering whether to go for a bath or another nap, noise starts up from the computer again but it isn’t music – it’s voices.

“Good morning, team,” he says and waves at the screen. The greetings come back from a handful of people. She’d gotten used to these daily occurrences too, but she didn’t like them. Since he’d been home, he not only ignored her most of the day, but he talked on the computer to people multiple times a day. It wasn’t as loud as the music, but she still fell asleep to the sound and tried to distinguish his voice from the hum.

“What’s on the agenda for today?” This sparks another conversation on the other end, and while the people on the line chat on the other end, he mostly nods, hums and sips his coffee. 

The conversation distracts her from her window watching so she goes up to the dining table to see when he’ll be finished. She pokes her head in front of the screen and immediately gets a lot of greetings.

“Oh my gosh, hi, Brandy!”

“Brandy, you’re looking gorgeous!”

She knows she looks gorgeous – she takes care of her skin every day during her baths. She keeps her head in front of the screen until he acknowledges her, and when he finally does, it’s to shoo her away.

“Sorry, guys, she’s having a morning. Where were we?”

She walks away from the dining table and goes back to the sofa, picking at some skin on her side. After a while, he says goodbye and shuts his computer closed. She looks around to him and realizes it’s lunchtime again – he sits with her at lunchtime, so she scoots to the far side of the sofa. On his way to the kitchen, he stops by her side and pats her on the head again. She lets him because she enjoys his touch.

“You’re such a good girl,” he says as he strokes her. “What would I do without you?”

Be incredibly lonely as you continue to never leave the apartment. How much longer will he have to be here? She wants him to leave so she can get excited when he comes through the door again.

“Good kitty,” he says with one final pat before heading to the kitchen for another lunch at home.

My Journey to Book Publishing

Today is World Book Day and Shakespeare Day, so I’m dedicating this week’s post to my journey into book publishing and writing. It’s also day 37 of self-isolation, and I haven’t been feeling very creative these past few days. I took advantage of last week’s inspiration boost to get ahead on my new writing project and to get last week’s personal essay out of me, but this week I feel drained. I know I’m not the only person feeling drained for a variety of reasons, but I also know I’m not the only one in need of a distraction, of something else to focus on however briefly from this chaotic new normal.

It’s also good to reflect, though, and that’s the approach I’m taking here: self-reflection on where I’ve been to figure out where I’m going.

Stay sane and happy reading!

I hope that one day I stop feeling ashamed that my journey with writing started with Twilight. I was endlessly teased for it in high school, but I can promise you I never wore the t-shirts (to school) and only stuck to bracelets, necklaces or keychains. I never had a Twilight-dedicated blog, YouTube channel or fan account, and my Facebook updates at the time were only about how excited I was to go to a midnight showing of the new movies (yes, I did do that but I never, never adopted the Twihard title).

For all the teasing, Twilight the book had an effect on me, because it was the first author I looked into beyond the backflap of the book jacket. I’d spend an hour or two on the family computer researching Stephenie Meyer and her own journey into authorship, and it struck me that she fell into the job. Granted, Twilight came during the YA boom of the late 2000s early 2010s, when heroines with book sagas and movie deals came out every month, and it could be argued that Meyer was lucky enough to send her book proposal to an editor who read it through dollar-sign-colored glasses. She loved books, is what she said in many an interview, and I distinctly remember her saying she studied English literature in college because she could read books and get a grade for it. That sounded perfect, except that simplistic view of majoring in English Literature lasted me only until my second semester of freshman year.

I mostly enjoyed my literature classes, but my creative writing classes didn’t always feel like work, and I always did the reading for those (I was supposed to read Far From the Maddening Crowd once and I couldn’t even bring myself to use Spark Notes). Workshopping my stories didn’t always feel daunting, and editing and providing feedback on my classmates’ work was enjoyable and a one of my strengths. I’d always feel confident on an edit and prided myself on my instincts, and while that made me the ideal candidate for a book editor career, I had a few turns to my story left.

After graduating college and spending a year in an awful job that at least allowed me to save up, I started graduate school. That decision was the main plot point in my story, and it came about accidentally, too. The novel-writing program that accepted me effectively rescinded their offer but offered me a place in their hybrid creative writing and publishing program, which was shorter and (they promised) just as valuable as the two-year course I initially applied for. I figured that if I was going to write a book someday, I might as well learn about the actual process of getting a book published.

Like my undergrad degree, I enjoyed my creative writing classes more, but that’s as far my creative writing career has gotten for me (until the start of this blog). Like the best stories, mine took a turn from the most unexpected place: the publishing part of my degree. 

I interned at a publisher while I was wrapping up my degree, a publisher I still work for today (three job titles up from intern, thankfully). It’s not a fiction publisher and I don’t read all day every day and get paid for it, but I do have an understanding of how books work. More than that, I enjoy it. I’m not an editor, but I never saw that career path for myself anyway and never worked toward it. I don’t blame anyone who thinks that’s all there is to book publishers, though, just authors and editors. It’s more complicated than those two roles, but I think learning the in and outs would ruin the magic for a reader. Lifting the curtain. It’s not always a glamorous industry, and I haven’t met anyone famous yet or have connections that will make publishing my own as-yet-unfinished book easier than it would be otherwise. 

I somehow ended up right in the middle of the industry, working with books every day and seeing the work behind the scenes. I’ve learned heaps, from how I’d like to be as an author, what I’d like to have in a publisher and (reluctantly but realistically) that there isn’t a lot of money in books unless you’re J.K. Rowling, Stephen King or Suzanne Collins, or you put in double the amount of work it took to write the book to promote it and yourself as a brand.

I didn’t know when I signed up for my master’s that this is where I’d end up, and mostly saw myself writing every day, and I very much didn’t see myself here when I started reading Twilight or watching author interviews on a family PC. What hasn’t changed is the fact that I love books, reading, the written word and storytelling, but now I know that’s not enough to “make it” or make a living out of it, but it’s a start.

A London Love Letter

Where are you from?

It’s a question that gets more complicated the older I get. Does it mean where feels like home? Where does it feel like I’m from? Where was I born? Where I grew up? Where I grew into myself?

The older I get, the more those answers vary, and to spare you the memoir-length answer to the first two questions, I will start with the easy ones. I was born in Quito, Ecuador, but I grew up in Silver Spring, just outside Washington, DC. I only just starting saying “I grew up there” because, as of two years ago, I’ve spent more time outside of where I was born than the time I actually lived there.

When I talk to other people who have spent a significant time in another place than where they were born, the common theme is the fact that where they were born no longer feels like home because they’ve been out of it for so long. By those terms, I’m from here, the DC-Maryland area.

Saint Paul’s Cathedral pictured from the top of One New Change. It’s my favorite place in the world.

That logic gets tricky when I’m in the US, to no one’s surprise. When I’ve been outside the country, most have no issue believing me when I say I’m American. After all, I sound American with the non-regional accent I developed while learning English as a second language (and after I shed my Latino accent tell that only surfaces when I’m nervous or tipsy). Although it’s less common to say I’m American when I’m in the US, the few times I’ve said it in front of my family, I’m quickly berated with “You’re Ecuadorian!”

But am I?

I no longer identify with core cultural principles of the country (except an infatuation with potatoes in all forms), I know next to nothing about the current political outlook and I would get lost if dropped off on any street and told to go to the house I grew up. The last time I went back was 2008, and even then I didn’t feel like I belonged there anymore, and now that it’s twelve years later, I often experience the feeling that other “Others” feel when contemplating belonging: I’m too much of THIS to be fully That, and I’m too THAT to be fully This.

That’s a feeling I took with me when I moved to London, but sadly I didn’t spend nearly enough time there to deserve the coveted “I’m from here” badge and had to settle with “I live here.” I grew into myself in London, and for that it will always live in my heart whether it wants to or not.

London is my three-year love affair. My geographical true love. Through disappointment, heartbreak and loss, London never lost its charm. During tough times far away from home, some people are quick to point the finger at the city, its unfriendly people, rodents in the underground transportation system or extortionate rent prices. Not me. London never let me down.

Leaving London was heartbreak in its own right, the kind of heartbreak that comes when you say goodbye to someone you love because being together isn’t that simple. When saying goodbye is the only option because the alternatives are too complicated or downright impossible. So you part on the best of terms, the friendliest and most loving break-up you’ll ever have.

London further complicated my sense of belonging, because my answer to “Where are you from?” had even more layers, not least because there was never a box I could check off in demographic information forms. There, “Other” was my go-to, the characterization I always avoided at home because it felt harsh, because I had boxes available to me at home. 

Yet, that characterization of “Other” provided added opportunity, the air of “mystery” (but never exotic – I’m not a fruit) that allowed certain foibles that I was ridiculed for at home. Like in college, when I was talking about study abroad to incoming freshmen and how my choice was influenced by my priority of wanting to go to a place where I spoke the language. When I said my native language was Spanish, the response was “I thought I could hear an accent in there.”

Or more humiliating yet, when my answer to “Where are you from?” was betrayed by pronouncing words wrong, like fun-gee instead of fun-guy when describing a mushroom in science class, or saying words that are not correct like “dumbly” or “indignated.” An answer further betrayed when phrases from my native language fit a situation perfectly but there’s no translation, or when my brain beats me at translating and comes up with a word that’s not incorrect but it’s wrong. “Babe, we need a balance in the bathroom, to weigh ourselves.” Because “scale” in Spanish is balanza

But for every foible allowed, there was a microaggression, or a remark I chose to take as well-intended because the alternative was too contentious (too contentious for a former almost-mother-in-law, anyway).  Where are you from? A question that some think allows them to see my culture as a party trick, something to relate to me when they introduce me at a party. “This is Vanessa. She’s Spanish.” How to even begin to correct that?

That’s one of the reasons I love London, because it posed me with challenging questions, but challenging in the way someone you love challenges you so you can find the answer yourself and be better for it. London gave me so many questions, situations and decisions I needed to overcome to arrive at who I am today, and for that, I’ll love it forever.

Taking Flight

Although today in particular we may be looking for laughs or pranks, anything to distract us from the current world situation, this week’s post will provide a sideways distraction, of sorts. Unreliable narrators aren’t necessarily April Fool’s pranksters, but they are the closest thing in the literary world on a day like today – aside from court jesters or tricksters that belong in a different genre.

Happy reading! I truly hope this provides a distraction from any awful feelings or thoughts you may be having in the current climate.

Image of shallow focus photography of people inside of passenger plane.
Photo by Suhyeon Choi on Unsplash

“We will now be boarding rows 30 and on, as well as any other boarding groups we’ve already called.”

Finally! Marcy and Cody are right behind me, their carry-ons lugging behind them and their neck support pillows on their shoulders. I bought them those neck pillows at the airport, so we were sure they would fly and not get taken away by flight attendants before boarding. I would have loved one too, but budget for this trip is planned to the T, and today’s incidentals budget went on the pillows.

“Mr. Sonny Johnson?” The flight attendant glances at my boarding pass then at my face before scanning it in. The machine light goes red then green before she waves me through. I stand just behind the woman while Marcy and Cody give their boarding passes, their faces barely containing their excitement. They’re keeping a straight face, but that’s probably so they don’t come across a hokey or touristy.

Once they’re scanned, we walk down the jetway, stand in line again for a bit behind another family, one with a toddler who keeps glancing around and flailing. I check my watch – our departure time is ten minutes away and there are at least fifteen people standing in the jetway. Luckily we’re the last ones to board, and Marcy and Cody are so excited to go on this trip with me, they’ll be seated and strapped as soon as we find our seats.

We finally step onto the plane when another flight attendant puts her hand on my arm. “I’m sorry, sir, we’re going to need to check your carry-on luggage. We don’t have any more space in the overhead bins.”

“We’re not paying for that,” Marcy says.

“It’s complimentary, ma’am,” the flight attendant says. “You can pick up your items at baggage claim at your destination.”

“Fine,” Marcy says and hands over her rolling bag before I give her mine. Cody only has a backpack and his fanny pack. My girl is always looking out for us and my boy is always ready to go. Care and practicality.

“Now we’ll have to pick up all our stuff at once!” I say as we walk our way back to the plane. “It’s probably better that way.”

“My shawl was in my carry-on,” Marcy says. “I’ll be freezing before we even take off.”

“You can have my sweater, honey.”

“Why did you even bring that? We’re going to Florida in April. There’s no need for a sweater there.”

Always thinking ahead.

We get to our seats but there are people already sitting down in our row. “Excuse me,” I say, “But I think you’re in our seats.”

“Sonny, leave it,” Marcy says. She probably doesn’t want to cause a scene or make the flight even later than it already is.

“We’re 32A, B and C,” I say. “Could we see your tickets?”

“Dad, leave it,” Cody says. “I’m on 34A and Mom is on 34E.”

“That’s not right at all,” I say. I checked the purchase almost ten times, and I made sure we all got the same seats.

“Just sit down,” Marcy whispers as she squeezes past me, then Cody does the same and she asks her seatmates for space to get in.

Well, that’s okay. We have two weeks together in Tallahassee, so five hours apart isn’t that big a deal. Beaches, parks and drives. And seeing Tessa too – it’ll be great.

Marcy and Cody were excited for the trip too, and their constant questions about money or time off work were fully about me and my well-being. We’ll figure it out, but as long as we’re together for two weeks. Since Tessa had gone to Florida State University, we hadn’t seen her except for holidays, and anything longer than Thanksgiving break, she’d go see friends or stay with her boyfriend. Liam? Or is it Rodney now?

Now we’re surprising her with a trip just before her spring break. She hasn’t said what she wants to do for the week that she’s off, but I didn’t say anything in case she stresses about trying to fit a family visit and a vacation into one week. We can even drive to Disneyland for a day. My $20 per person per day may just stretch that far.

Every half hour or so, I look back at Marcy and Cody. I can only see the top of her head, so Marcy could be reading. Cody has the aisle seat and he’s watching something on his phone, not using his neck pillow. Maybe he doesn’t feel like taking a nap yet.


I avoid Dad’s glances every time he turns around and keep checking on Mom. How they’re both coping without headphones is beyond me. Mom at least has a book, but the people around us are being loud and I haven’t seen her turn a page yet. Dad just stares ahead, watching the shows on the headrest TV. All of them keep glitching and the picture freezes often.

I tried telling Dad that Tessa doesn’t want us to come visit, that she’ll make it up to West Virginia eventually. But he insisted on surprising her and taking her to Disneyland, thinking we can show up and buy a ticket like it’s Six Flags. As soon as we land and find our hotel, I’m finding my way to Florida State, saying hi to Tessa quickly then tour around the campus. It’s a big enough campus for the two of us to never run into each other, but close enough should we ever need anything from each other. But then Dad would have an excuse to come down to see us.

Unless I tell him that I’m going to Florida State College in Jacksonville…


I’ve read the same sentence for the past hour, not knowing where I’m even at in the book. I grabbed one off the shelf last night as I packed my bag, fully convinced this trip would be cancelled at the last minute. I think I started reading this around Christmas, when I picked it up at random in Target.

Sonny has not stopped talking about this trip since January that Tessa said she wouldn’t be coming home for spring break, taking it as an opportunity to go see her rather than listening for signs that she did not want to see us. Or Sonny, really – it takes a saint to not be overwhelmed by Sonny a day or two after meeting him. It’s not the slow-burning entrapment of annoying personalities, or the secret Type A that lurks until something flips their switch. With Sonny, you got to a day where his mere breathing bothers you, the feeling of his presence a heavy fog. When he walks into a room, you immediately stop talking for fear that anything you say would send him into a dumb joke spiral he goes down to avoid reading the discomfort in the room.

So I continue to stare at the same page, hoping the drum of the engine and the flight will be numbing enough to let me read more pages, then hopefully finish it and start it again over the two weeks and again on the flight home if necessary. Anything to not talk to Sonny and kill time until we’re back in West Virginia and I can leave. I don’t even want a divorce – I just want to leave. I can’t think far enough down to divorce proceedings, splitting the stuff or fighting over who gets which car. Cody turns 18 at the end of the year then is off to college too, but I cannot wait that long. If I hear one more dumb joke, I will scream.

What Does Writing Block Feel Like? A writer vs someone who writes

Ah, writer’s block. An indulgent excuse or a legitimate obstacle? When is it a legitimate hurdle and when is it something we hide behind when we can’t bear to keep writing?

You’d think with the mandate to stay home and avoid people, I’d have endless time to write now, to be inspired to keep at my new work in progress. And yet, despite not having to commute to the gym or the grocery store, I seem to keep dancing my way around writer’s block and running out of ideas. What does it feel like for me? It actually feels quite a few ways.

Image of yellow and black smiley wall art
Photo by Andre Hunter on Unsplash

Sometimes it feels eerily like inadequacy. I think about the stories that I love, love for different reasons. I think about the plots, the characters, the voice, the detail; I think about the talented genius who wrote them and wonder, “How do they make it look so obvious and easy? Of course that character would make that choice and the plot would unwind that way – why can’t I think about my own story the same way?” Looking at my favorite stories that have been out in the world for a while, I wonder if I’m cut out for this after all. I can think I’m a writer all I want, but if I can’t deliver what I can see in my head, am I not just another someone who writes?

On another day, writer’s block feels like ennui. Complete lack of inspiration that makes a blank page or screen look like a wall instead of clay to be molded into the picture I see in my head. This version is the one that’s most commonly associated with writer’s block, the lack of ideas, the lack of good ideas. The typing, deleting, retyping and deleting again, but not in the satisfying way that helps one build and carve out the story. This dissatisfaction version of writer’s block goes hand in hand with the inadequacy version, because why would you write, delete and retry unless you felt it wasn’t good enough? At least, that’s the case for me.

The third version of writer’s block for me is the two previous versions turned up to the max. Anger, frustration and hate that verge on rage. There have been times when I hate the story and everything about it so much that I can’t continue writing. I hate everything that comes out, each development point feels unbelievable and it makes me wonder who would read this if I can’t even stand to write it. Sound familiar? It should, because I’ve already written about it.

All three versions of writer’s block for me have their different “cures,” lest they mutate and I have even more excuses to not write. When I feel inadequate, I take a step back and confide in someone who has read my writing before for an ego boost. Vain, but it helps. Reassurance and support go a long way when I feel I shouldn’t be doing this to begin with, because it reminds me that if I don’t write the stories in my head, if I don’t flesh them out and develop them into a decent shape, someone else will. Or, even worse, nobody will and the story will remain untold. If the story isn’t worth telling, why did I think it up to begin with?

Ennui and lack of inspiration are fixed by reading. After all, the best writers are also readers, not just because they’re scoping out their competition, but because it reminds us why we started writing to begin with. Writers are inspired by other writers – don’t we all remember the exact line and writer that inspired us to write in the first place? (For me, it was that scene in Ratatouille when the mean food critic writers his glowing review of the dish – don’t judge me.) When I’m feeling uninspired, I go back and read for a bit, take a break from creating. At the moment, I can’t wait to start reading My Dark Vanessa and Corazon, one for narrative inspiration and one to get me out of my usual tastes.

How do I get past the rage version of writer’s block? A combination fix of the other two, predictably. I get angry at myself for thinking I could write in the first place, so I reach out to my support network and really take a step back from the story I’m attempting, sometimes abandoning it altogether. It took some soul searching, but I’ve taken breaks from certain stories for various reasons over the years, and taking that time away can be cathartic – I often come back with new ideas and new angles from which to tackle the story.

Writing the novel I started when I was doing my master’s has caused me to experience all three types of writer’s block over the years, most recently the rage version. So I’m pivoting – I’m choosing to take a long and conscious break from writing that particular story until it is ready for me, as opposed to the other way around. This choice came partly after a painfully obvious suggestion from a friend – if I hate it so much, why not take a break and write the story I actually want to write? I was very much missing the forest for the tree.

I don’t doubt this new story will present itself with a new type of writer’s block when the time comes, and with the current situation that version will most likely be due to the current world crisis and the fact I can’t leave my house. Until that time comes, though, I will ride this new creativity wave, and try to remind myself that I am not just someone who writes – I’m a writer.

Rips and Scrapes

It seems I double-booked myself for this week’s post, so I’ll do something I haven’t done yet: taking a previous prompt response and going further. I was surprised how easy “Grape Juice” came, so I tried extrapolating. I’m not too confident about this piece, but it’s a first draft, and I’m surprised, again, at how easy it came along.

This week I also had guest post published with The Wacky Writer on admitting I’m not good at writing description of a place and why that’s not such a bad thing. You’ll notice I didn’t do much describing on this week’s post either and focused on dialogue to move along the story – that’s what I enjoy about writing, moving along the story.

Happy reading, and please do pay The Wacky Writer a visit.

From that first sleepover on a school night, Milo and Kenny ate lunch together every day. When Milo brought a can of La Croix in his lunch box one day and let Kenny try it, Kenny had made a face like when Milo had asparagus.

“It kinda tastes like when I burped grape juice at your house that time.”

Milo had laughed and taken a sip of the drink himself. “You can’t say that! This flavor is my favorite!”

“Want to try mine?” Kenny handed him a green can with golden letters. The can was cool and the bubbles tickled Milo’s nose as he took a sip.

“That’s gingerale! But why does it taste funny?”

“Funny? That’s what gingerale tastes like.”

“That’s not like the one we have at home. You can have some today if I can find it in the garage.”

Kenny smiled and said, “I’m bringing Hungry Hungry Hippos.”

“You don’t want to play Sword Escape? I can’t pass the dungeon level.”

“But you said you’d never played Hungry Hungry Hippos!”

“It just sounds like a game for little kids.”

Every day since that first sleepover, Kenny came over Milo’s house. He didn’t come over on some weekends, except for that one time Mom had gone to pick up Kenny from his house to take them to the zoo. Kenny had brought his address and his mom’s phone number written on his notebook the day before. Mom had called Kenny’s mom to ask if Kenny could come to the zoo.

When they’d gone to pick him up, Milo was looking for houses and yards, but he only saw buildings with lots of doors and windows on them, with stairs in the middle. The very top of the buildings were pointy like Milo’s and his neighbors’ houses, and when Mom was parking, Kenny came out one of the doors, jumped up and down and waved. He looked funny bouncing behind the banister.

“Stay here, honey. I need to talk to Kenny’s mom before we go.”

“Can I go too?”

“No, you stay here.” Mom left then, and the doors of the car clicked. Milo couldn’t see much from the backseat, but the top of Mom’s head showed on top of the railing and a lady’s face outside the open door Kenny had come out from. After a minute, the door closed and Mom turned and walked to the stairs in the middle of the building. That’s how you get up there.

Milo was worried Kenny couldn’t come out after all because he hadn’t seen him behind the railing, so when he came down the stairs next to Mom, Milo smiled and scooted to the next seat so Kenny could climb in.

“Hi!” Kenny said and grabbed onto the door to climb inside the car.

“Hi, Kenny!” When both boys were sitting and had their feet dangling off the seat, Milo said, “Mom, can I come over Kenny’s next week?”

Kenny started bouncing on his seat and clapping his hands. “You can finally see my room!”

“Seatbelts, both of you, please,” Mom said and turned on the car. “Kenny would need to ask his Mom first, and you have really slacked off your piano lately, Milo. You need at least two days next week, and both of you need to do homework. Mrs. Myers has already called me to say your homework is always only half way done for math, and you haven’t spent much time outside.”

“We can be outside when you’re over my house,” Kenny said. “There’s some grass on the back and we can play catch.”

“We’ll see,” Mom said. “Now, seatbelts, or we’re not going anywhere and they’ll be out of popcorn and ice cream at the zoo by the time we get there.”

It took two weeks after the zoo visit for Milo to be allowed to visit Kenny’s house. Mom said they couldn’t have a sleepover that time, but that they could have dinner before he got picked up.

Kenny’s room was smaller than Milo’s, and his bed wasn’t as comfortable. He had posters on the walls, of video games and basketball players, and he had a laundry hamper in the corner of the room. His computer had a bigger screen than Milo’s, but it was black and not gray and Milo’s had a white apple on the back. Kenny’s desk was brown and had chips on the corners, and the chair looked like the ones in Milo’s backyard.

‘So what do you want to do?” Kenny asked.

“I dunno. What do you usually do when you’re here?”

“Change my clothes before going to your house.”

“What other games do you have besides Hungry Hungry Hippos?”

“All the other ones have missing pieces or they’re boring, like Uno,” Kenny said and sat on the floor. “We could play catch?”

“I don’t know. Mom told me not to go outside.”


“I don’t know. She said we could play catch at my house next time.”

Kenny didn’t say anything and plucked a thread from the carpet. He pulled and pulled and there was a rip.

“Oops,” he said. “Crap. My mom will kill me.”

“Put the laundry hamper on top of it,” Milo said. “Then just carry the laundry down and don’t let her come into your room.”

“We carry laundry to the car,” Kenny said. “Then we drive to the laundromat.”

“What’s a laundromat?”

“It’s a place with a lot of washers and dryers where we do laundry. We use quarters.”

Milo stayed quiet and watched Kenny pluck out more threads. There was brown floor peeking out and dust coming off every thread. 

“You know how in your house there’s only one of each? In a laundromat, there are rows of them on top of each other. My mom lets me ride around in the carts sometimes.”

“Why are there carts?” Milo asked.

“To get the laundry around,” Kenny said and looked up. He suddenly stopped plucking and he looked at Milo. “There’s a cart from Giant in the back! We could go ride it!”

Milo smiled and was almost off the bed, but he stopped. These were his favorite jeans that Mom let him wear to Kenny’s, and he didn’t want to get them dirty.

“C’mon!,” Kenny said. “It’ll be fun. Then we can have pizza bagels.”

“I’ve never had pizza bagels!” Milo stood up and followed Kenny. They went out the front door and down the stairs Mom had come up the day of the zoo. Then they ran to the back and saw the grocery cart.

“Get in,” Kenny said. “I’ll push you down the hill.”

Milo climbed in and twisted so he was sitting cross-legged in the basket. Kenny was at the handle, pushing, but the cart didn’t move much. Milo was bouncing inside the basket once Kenny got it going, but it was fun. They made it to the small hill facing the parking lot where Mom parked and Kenny let go. Milo rolled down and let out a scream. Kenny couldn’t have heard him, but Milo’s scream was cut off when the cart suddenly stopped and tipped forward. He felt a pain on his knees and hands, and when he tried turning around he couldn’t for the cart on top of him.

Kenny was next to him, trying to lift the cart off him, but he couldn’t, and Milo started crying. He couldn’t hear what Kenny was saying, but then the cart was off him and Milo got up.

“I’m sorry, momma,” Kenny said. “We wanted to take turns down the hill.”

“What if I hadn’t pulled up just then, Kenny?” Kenny’s mom was yelling. “My shift ended early and I come home with dinner and you’re out here with your little friend.”

Both boys looked down and sniffed. Milo wanted to go home.

“Get inside,” Kenny’s mom said. “Wash up and set the table. We’re having fried chicken.”

On the way up the stairs, Kenny asked, “Have you ever had fried chicken?”

Milo shook his head and wiped at his eyes. His t-shirt was dirty and his jeans were dusty. His palms had scrapes, and when he walked up the stairs he saw the rip on his jeans and little tiny rocks on the cut. Milo wiped at it but it really hurt his knee.

“Ow!” He yelled and the tears started coming again. “My mom won’t let me come over again.”

“It’s okay, Milo, don’t cry,” Kenny said when they had walked through the front door. “We’ll wash our hands and I’ll wipe down your jeans. I get dirt off jeans all the time – I always roll down that hill.”

“Okay,” Milo said and wiped his nose and rubbed his hand on his t-shirt. At least fried chicken sounded good. Mom didn’t let him eat anything fried.

On Honesty

I’m back to my usual this week, with another post from a prompt born out of 642 Things to Write About by The San Francisco Writers’ Grotto.

That’s what the prompt is, “on honesty.” It’s one of those prompts that can be intimidating because you don’t know where to start, but it can also be exciting because it’s a writer’s blank canvas.

So here I humbly present my musings on honesty. Let me know what you agree and disagree with in the comments.

Image of broken blue ceramic plate
Photo by chuttersnap on Unsplash

Honesty is one of those things that get more difficult as we grow up. Not because it’s harder to be honest as we grow up, or because we find more ways to be dishonest as time passes, but because honesty loses its simplicity over time.

When we are kids, we are told to tell the truth when a vase breaks while we play with a ball inside the house or how our faces got smeared with chocolate when our t-shirts are covered in crumbs. When we begin getting crushes, we can’t be honest with them and tell them how we feel because we don’t know what would happen if we do. We can’t tell that one girl we don’t want to be friends with her anymore because we don’t like how she talks to us in front of other girls because we’ll be the weird person who sits alone at lunch.

When we’re adults, we can’t always be honest with our partners about a choice they make for worry that it’ll make us sound selfish and hurt their feelings or make the choice more difficult. That silence is dangerously close to lying, and a lack of honesty here snowballs into resentment over there.

Honesty, it would seem, grows with us. It gets more complex as we get more complex, as our desires, goals and fears evolve and have layers on top of each other and interconnected branches and roots. Even with this complexity, we’re always expected to know when “honesty is the best policy” and deal with the consequences of our choices either way. What if we don’t know if or when honesty is the way to go, or if we don’t know what the consequences will be either way?

Perhaps the hardest kind of honesty is being honest with ourselves. It’s not impossible to lie to ourselves, to pretend we know better than to stop or start a behavior or thought pattern – until we dig ourselves into a hole and honesty just gets more complicated. There’s less accountability, more bending around the consequences. So how can we ensure that we’re always honest with ourselves?

So maybe honesty doesn’t need to be complicated, but being honest can sometimes be complex.