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The Adverbial Life: A Singing Bowl and Four Lamps

It’s odd to me sometimes just how unobtrusive a powerful beginning can be. This Eating Adverbs book project for instance, started with a simple ten-minute Zoom call with the publisher. There was nothing planned, nothing formed, no clear idea if I even had the capacity to write a book. We just chatted about my fascination with solo activities.
 
But that short call was like opening a doorway – very quietly and slowly. Once opened, it didn’t close and continues to propel me forward.
 
This week, I’m thinking about five adverbs that feel like doorways. Each one carries a rhythm, a reminder, and a way to begin again: Today, Completely, Effortlessly, Abroad, and Once.

TIME

“Today” feels like the kind of word that should come with a bell chime or maybe the smell of rain on pavement (which, incidentally, is exactly what I’m smelling as I write this.)
 
There’s something about this moment that feels both ordinary and monumental. I’ve spent years circling the ideas that eventually became Eating Adverbs, but not in a straight line. Nothing in life seems to run in straight lines. Last year, in springtime (the time of beginnings) things started to coalesce. Slowly – with writing, rewriting, doubting, deleting, and returning. But the truth is, this book has been forming for decades – percolating in the back of my mind and waiting for the right time to begin.
 
And now, here I am. Sitting at my desk, the same place where I’ve cried, laughed, and stared blankly at the ceiling trying to find the right words.
 
“Today” is always a beginning – not a finish line. It doesn’t have to be dramatic and, in fact, most of the time it is quiet and deliberate.
 
There is a kind of grace in choosing to do something “Today,” not because everything is ready, but because something inside says, “It’s time.”
What’s one thing you’ve been saving for “someday” that might be ready for “today”?

DEGREE

I have written with my whole being. With my fingers bruised from gripping a pen too tightly and my desk cluttered with post-it notes and with drafts I couldn’t bear to delete. Yes – I am ‘old school’ and tend to write all of my notes longhand before sitting down to type. The amount of paper I have used would probably alarm the conservationists out there.
 
Eating Adverbs is the most emotionally intense creative thing I’ve ever done. Some days I feel proud. Some days I feel like I’m shouting into a void.
 
But I keep going. Because I believe in what the book can do. I truly believe it is more than words on paper.
Where in your life are you showing up completely, even if it’s messy?

MANNER

I know this Eating Adverbs process might look effortless: the curated posts, the well-produced video. Even that smiling photo from 1989 (which you’ll see a bit further down in this newsletter).
 
But behind the scenes, it’s messy. My desk is a collage of sticky notes, some with ideas I love and some with ideas I’ve already outgrown. I’ve cried into my coffee more than once.
 
I’ve cried into my wine a whole lot more.
 
There are days when I feel like I’m building something beautiful, and days when I feel like I’m unraveling in slow motion.
 
Eating Adverbs is a book about solo joy, but writing it has been anything but solo. It’s taken a village of encouragement: friends who text me reminders to breathe, readers who send quiet affirmations, and a few people who’ve said, “This matters. Keep going.”
 
I’m still learning how to ask for help, still learning that grace doesn’t mean ease and most importantly – still learning that what looks effortless often takes everything you have.
What’s something you’ve made look effortless that actually took everything you had?

PLACE

In 1989, I packed a backpack and flew to Europe. When I got on the plane in September 1989, I didn’t know what I was looking for. I just knew I needed to go. Here is a photo of my on that trip, sometime in early November 1989 overlooking Neuschwanstein Castle in Bavaria. I miss that trenchcoat and, boy, what tales it could tell.
 
That trip, three months of solo wandering, planted the seed for Eating Adverbs. The gestation period was long – very long – but it has finally blossomed after 36 years.
 
I often think about concepts like “abroad” and feel like they are far more than an external concept. There is a faraway place – abroad – within our minds that also needs exploration and often excavation. Eating Adverbs is not about travel or dining – it’s about transformation. Sometimes the catalyst comes from the outside (like that backpacking trip) and sometimes from the inside.
 
That trip and all the things that have come since leading to this book have taught me that solitude isn’t something to fear. It’s something to savor.
Where have you gone, physically or emotionally, that changed the way you see yourself?

FREQUENCY

This week, I have focused on things that evoke memory.
 
  • Song on Repeat – One of my favorite Stephen Sondheim musicals is Merrily We Roll Along. The song that I have had on repeat this week is “Not a Day Goes By.” In the show, there are two versions of the song – one sung by a younger Mary who is heartbroken about losing the man she loves (Frank) to another women (Beth). The other iteration is Beth singing about breaking up with Frank because he cheated on her with another woman (Gussie).

    It’s astonishing to me how the same song, with very minor changes of lyrics, can completely shift from sad/melancholy to sad/bitter/angry.

    Sometimes, it only takes “once” for something to happen and your whole life changes.
  • Book I Keep Returning To – Not a book this week, but a playscript. One of my favorite theatrical experiences early in my career was stage managing a production of On The Verge . . . or the Geography of Yearning by Eric Overmyer.

    The play follows three Victorian women explorers as they journey through a mysterious, uncharted landscape they call Terra Incognita. As they travel, they begin to absorb fragments of the future: slang, pop culture, inventions, even feelings they don’t yet have names for. It’s strange and funny and deeply moving. The play becomes a meditation on curiosity, transformation, and the ache of wanting something just beyond reach.

    I reference it often in Eating Adverbs because it mirrors so much of what I believe: that language can shape our emotional geography, and that yearning isn’t something to be solved . . . it’s something to be honored.
  • Ritual – Sometimes rituals are built without conscious intention. They grow from repetition and then suddenly you stop and think, “Hey! I do this every day!”

    I recently had one of those “a ha” moments.

    When I arrive at my office in the morning, I have discovered I follow a clear pattern. I open the door and then proceed in a clockwise pattern around the room.

    I turn on a lamp by the door, then move to a standing lamp that has shelves beneath. I turn that one on, then ring a Tibetan singing bowl on the top shelf three times. I then move around my desk, turning on the third lamp proceeding to another corner of the room where I turn on the fourth lamp and deposit any coats or bags that I have in a chair. Finally, I return to the table with the first lamp and prepare a small pot of coffee from the supplies I keep in that cabinet.

    Only then do I go to my desk and turn on the computer.

    Something about this simple ritual seems to ground me every morning.
What’s one daily ritual, no matter how small, that helps you feel anchored?

The Adverbial Life: Oban, 1989

Writing Eating Adverbs has been (and continues to be) one of the most emotionally intense creative journeys of my life. Some days I swing from joy to overwhelm before I’ve even finished my coffee. But through it all, I’ve stayed grounded in one truth: this book matters.
 
This week, I have focused on five special adverbs to keep me moving ahead: Finally, Deeply, Gracefully, Somewhere, and Daily.

TIME

At the beginning of this book writing process, the publisher tasked me with answering a daunting number of questions – all designed to help me frame the direction of the project. In one section of questions, they asked me to talk about the stories in my life that resonated and make me want to write a book.
 
I have nurtured my brand, “Table For One, Please” for many years and have struggled to figure out how to get traction on it. It was originally very narrow – just about dining alone. I then tried to expand it to go into cooking for one and traveling alone – but it all felt very disconnected and forced. Not cohesive.
 
During one of our calls, the publisher asked a few questions that finally caused me to have an epiphany. I realized that all of it was connected as part of a lifestyle. There was a singular moment where I stopped and said to myself, “You have something here that defies popular stereotypes. There has to be a way to package and share this information with the people who need to hear it.”
 
So, finally, I stopped thinking about it and started writing.
What is one thing you have been waiting to begin? What would it look like if you ‘finally’ started?

DEGREE

In May 1989, after graduating from college and working for a year to save funds, I quit my job and moved my things into storage. I spent the summer working at a theater company, and then in September I flew to Europe and spent the next three months backpacking alone.
 
Without the immediacy of computers or social media, the chronicle of my experiences relied entirely on a camera and my commitment to write something every day so that I would never forget the journey. I photographed constantly, knowing I wouldn’t see a single image until I returned to the U.S. and had them developed.
 
I also wrote in a journal daily—on trains, buses, and ferries. I wrote while dining in cafés, restaurants, or with picnics in the park. Museums were often perfect spots for quiet contemplation and journaling.
 
Daily writing became a ritual. A therapeutic tool. A way to process the highs and lows of solo travel. And there were plenty of both.
 
Reading those journals again recently, I was struck by just how resilient I was. Despite the bad days, I managed to stay focused on the thrill of discovery. Through it all, I grew confident and began to trust myself in ways I had never trusted myself before.
 
On Tuesday, October 3, 1989 I was in Oban (Scotland) and wrote the following in my journal:
 
I feel different, somehow. I sense the beginnings of a subtle shift in my perspective, in myself. Not remarkably obvious, but happening nonetheless. I feel emptied and in the process of refilling. I know it sounds odd, but I feel like I’m returning to a level of awareness I’ve lost. How metaphysical! I feel alone, yet not lonely. The world walks beside me and every place is home because home is within. I leave a bit of me each place I go, but return with more, as each place fills me to overflowing. I feel like Thoreau, to paraphrase, “I went to the world to live a while. To experience life. To know.”
 
I am still astonished at how Deeply I was feeling my life in that moment!
What is something you feel ‘deeply’ connected to within yourself? How might you express that outwardly this week?

MANNER

The prologue to the section on Adverbs of Manner is titled, “The Art of Thriving Solo” and begins with this quote:
 
“The greatest thing in the world is to know how to belong to oneself.” – Michel de Montaigne
 
In the book, I talk about how independence can be built through bold declarations or grand adventures, but it can also grow from small choices, the quiet moments where we choose ourselves. All of that builds a foundation for lasting change.
 
But the truth is that change, especially the kind that redefines our relationship with solitude, autonomy, and self-trust, can invite resistance. Not just from others but from within but also from the quiet weight of the mysterious “they.”
 
  • “They say you shouldn’t do this.”
  • “They think solo activities are strange.”
  • “They wonder why you’re changing.”
 
Growth isn’t always smooth. It’s messy, uncertain, and sometimes uncomfortable. In those moments, the greatest gift we can offer ourselves is compassion, the ability to move forward without punishing ourselves for perceived imperfection.
 
Moving through our lives Gracefully.
Where do you feel you might need to move more ‘gracefully’ through a situation in your life?

PLACE

While writing this book, I found early on that I simply don’t do my best creative work at home. Certainly, a great deal of my writing has happened there (including writing this paragraph) but for inspiration I often need to find somewhere different.
 
One of my favorite spots for inspiration is the Morton Arboretum in Lisle, IL. It’s a huge tree sanctuary and feels almost sacred to me when I visit.
 
My favorite spot is along the shores of a small lake. There is a hazel tree by the water with a huge root system, almost like an altar. I love to sit, watch the light flicker on the ripples, and let silence do what language cannot do for me.
 
I visit there when I feel off-center. Blocked. Lonely. Curious.
 
It’s my “Somewhere” that can help refocus me.
Where is your ‘somewhere’ that can be a place of creation and beginning in your life?

FREQUENCY

This week, I have been focusing a great deal on returning to a place of center. I keep thinking about the word “equanimity.” The adverb that resonates for me here is “Daily.” Each of the three elements of this section have been something I visited daily all week long.
 
  • Song on Repeat – I have long been a huge fan of Mary Chapin Carpenter, and this week I have revisited (frequently) her song “Almost Home.” In the chorus, she talks about ‘not running’ any longer, about ‘resting in the arms of the great wide open,” and finally allowing yourself to realize that you are on the right path.
  • Book I Keep Returning To – When I was dealing with cancer back in 2021, a good friend sent me a copy of The Book of Awakening by Mark Nepo. It has 366 inspirational messages, one for each day of the year (including leap years). My friend had been gifted this book when she was dealing with cancer, and had found it to be healing. I, too, found that – and this past week as stress began to overtake me again I pulled it off the shelf and have made this a part of my daily ritual again.
  • Ritual – In earlier newsletters I mention the “4 a.m. Club.” I have continued to wake up then (or as closely as possible) every day. The morning rituals include yoga and now the reading of the daily quote from The Book of Awakening. The newest ‘add on’ to the morning bundle of rituals this past week was a daily commitment to sitting quietly for five minutes and simply scanning my body. I try to avoid focus on my thoughts, simply allowing them to come and go – just focusing on breath and physical sensation. It has been a great healing tool.
What are your ‘daily’ repetitions and rhythms this week?

The Adverbial Life: Just Be Nice, Please

If you have been here from the beginning, you will realize that I skipped a week on this newsletter. I could tell you that it was due to a ridiculously busy schedule – which is actually true.

But, honestly, it was due to a “crash and burn” moment I had in relation to this project.

Now, I am going to preface this by saying that I am absolutely open to feedback as long as it is constructive and grows out of a genuine desire to help me improve. What I am not open to is mean-spirited criticism that serves no purpose except to make the sender feel somehow powerful.

After the last newsletter, I received one of those nasty takedowns, and it blindsided me. My goal for Eating Adverbs and everything associated with it is to remain positive and uplifting – to give people a vision of how they might be able to shift perspective and improve their lives.

I admit, the dark energy spiraled me down – deeply – for days. I questioned if I should even continue to send out newsletters. I doubted my ability, my talent, my vision – myself.

But here I am again. I cannot allow one random stranger to derail me or to sabotage my happiness. I hope that you are all still with me here, and that you will continue to send me your insights, suggestions, and – yes – even critical feedback.

Just be nice, please.

The Adverbial Life: The Shelf That Holds More Than Books

This week, I’ve been thinking about what it means to live in a way that quietly affirms possibility. Not by teaching, not by persuading, but simply by being. By showing what’s possible through presence, rhythm, and truth.
 
A reader wrote to me after last week’s newsletter and said:
 

“Do you realize just how many people you’re speaking to? How many people can relate? This is wonderful and I do hope you have thousands of people who are hearing this.”

That reflection stayed with me. It reminded me of something I wrote near the end of Eating Adverbs: that living adverbially isn’t just about solo thriving. It’s about resonance. It’s about becoming a mirror for someone else’s courage. A quiet kind of leadership that says, “You’re not alone. You’re not wrong. You’re not too late.”

TIME

One reader shared a story that beautifully traces the arc of time: from Later (running a booking agency), to Soon (beginning the transition into retirement), to Now (living the dream they once postponed). They described how songwriting and practicing now fill their days, how they cook without watching the clock, and how their music room has become a space of daily joy. And now, they’re building their own music career: “essentially a slightly paid retirement hobby.”
 
It’s a beautiful example of time unfolding with intention. Not all at once, but gradually. A life that was once deferred is now being lived.
 
Where in your life have you moved from Later, to Soon, to Now? What part of your rhythm is finally happening?

DEGREE

Recently, I attended an industry conference – one I helped plan, which meant my schedule was packed from morning to midnight. It’s a performing arts conference, so after full days of professional development, meetings, and a trade show, the evenings were filled with showcase performances. From 9 a.m. to midnight, I was in motion. Present. Engaged.
 
And yet, on two mornings, I woke early enough to focus 100% on this book. I edited two chapters before the day began – fully immersed, fully committed, even in the midst of the noise.
 
That’s what I’ve been thinking about this week: the texture of showing up fully. Not just physically, but emotionally. Not just checking a box, but inhabiting the moment. Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it’s hard.
Where in your life are you showing up fully—even when it would be easier not to? What’s asking for your complete presence?

MANNER

I’ve been thinking about how often we move through life without choosing how we move. Autopilot is efficient, but it’s not always kind. It gets the job done, but it rarely asks how we feel while doing it.
 
There’s a moment I wrote about in Eating Adverbs – setting the table with intention, even when dining alone. Real silverware. A cloth napkin. A candle lit not for romance, but for presence. That act wasn’t about performance. It was about choosing to honor the moment. About moving through the evening deliberately, rather than just getting through it.
 
It’s easy to default. But when I choose deliberately, even in small ways, it shifts the emotional tone of the day.
Where might you be moving on autopilot? What’s one thing you could do deliberately today, just to feel more present?

PLACE

This week, I spent time with one of my bookshelves, not to alphabetize or decorate, but to listen. Some books felt like companions. Others felt like obligations. A few whispered, “You’ve already lived what I came to teach.”
 
Letting go wasn’t about tidying. It was about clarity. About choosing what still resonates and releasing what doesn’t. But it wasn’t just about subtraction. What remains holds weight.
 
These are the voices shaping Eating Adverbs. Some are quoted directly. Others influence the atmosphere.
Is there a space in your life that holds more than it seems? What are you ready to see beyond its surface?

FREQUENCY

A reader wrote to me this week:
 
“Being alone is different from being lonely. Very different. And while I am blessed to have had my significant other in my life since 1975—yes, 50 years—I am ok with my ‘lone’ time. I cherish it.”

That word—cherish—stayed with me. It reminded me that some things, though rarely spoken, are always felt. That quiet time isn’t empty—it’s full of return.
 
Here are three things I keep on my “bookshelf,” both literally and metaphorically. They don’t demand attention. But they return.
 
  • Song on Repeat: “Me and the Ghost of Charlemagne” by Amy Speace – I’ve always been drawn to singer/songwriters who write songs about being singer/songwriters. There’s something beautifully meta about it—like Jackson Browne’s “The Load-Out.” But this song by Amy Speace goes deeper. It’s a reflection on legacy, on what we leave behind when we’re gone. It’s haunting, tender, and true. I return to it when I need to remember why I write at all.
  • Book I Keep Returning To: “The Tao of Pooh” by Benjamin Hoff – This book is the clearest, kindest explanation of Taoism I’ve ever found. It uses the beloved characters of Winnie-the-Pooh to explore flow, simplicity, and presence. Pooh isn’t wise because he tries, he’s wise because he doesn’t. He listens. He notices. He moves with the current instead of against it. I return to this book when I need to soften, to recalibrate, to remember that effort isn’t always the answer.
  • Ritual – Setting the table with intention, even when dining alone. Real silverware. A cloth napkin. I don’t do it every day. But when I do, it changes the shape of the evening.
What do you rarely do that always brings you back to yourself? What quiet rhythm is asking to be kept?

The Adverbial Life: The Ironing Board Studio

This week I moved a pile, cried over a chapter, counted my blessings, and built a camera rig out of an ironing board and two wine chillers. The usual.

TIME

In Part One of Eating Adverbs, I explore the emotional progression of time: how we move from later, to soon, to now. It’s not always linear, and it’s rarely dramatic. Sometimes, it’s as simple as shifting a pile.
 
For months, I’ve had a file drawer that quietly became my “later” zone. Medical paperwork, receipts, tax forms, financial correspondence—all tucked away with the silent promise: I’ll sort this eventually.
 
But over the weekend, I pulled everything out and placed it on my desk. Not to tackle it. Just to see it. To let it sit beside me as I write this newsletter. It’s no longer hidden. It’s visible. It’s annoying. And that means it’s moved from later to soon.
 
That’s the shift. Not heroic. Not glamorous. Just intentional.
 
What’s one thing in your life that’s quietly moved from “later” to “soon”?
A pile, a plan, a promise?
Reply and share it with me. I’d love to hear how time is unfolding in your adverbial life.

DEGREE

In the last newsletter, I wrote about the discomfort of vulnerability, how writing Eating Adverbs has asked me to show up fully, even when it’s hard. But this month, I want to share the other side of that coin: the moment when vulnerability becomes too much.
 
In an early draft of a chapter, I wrote about the co-dependency in my marriage and the painful split with my ex-husband. The writing was raw. Brutal, even. It poured out of me in a way that felt necessary: cathartic, clarifying, honest.
 
But when I read it back, I knew this wasn’t for the reader. Not in that form.
 
It was important to keep something of the experience in the book to illustrate how solo living isn’t always chosen, and how healing can begin in the aftermath of rupture. But I had to reflect deeply before even sending it to my editor. I had to ask: Is this truth, or is this wound?
 
That’s the lesson I’m learning: vulnerability isn’t just about how deep you go. It’s about how gently you surface.
 
What’s something you’ve processed privately that shaped you deeply, even if you never shared it?
Reply and share it with me. I’d love to hear how you’re navigating your own thresholds of truth.

MANNER

In Eating Adverbs, the MANNER arc moves from mindfully to boldly to gratefully. It’s a progression I’ve lived through more times than I can count. First, you notice. Then, you act. Then, you appreciate.
 
For the past 14 years, I’ve kept a daily ritual: writing down five things I’m grateful for. Every single day. Nearly 3,000 entries and counting. It started as a way to stay grounded during a difficult season, but it’s become one of the most powerful solo practices I know.
 
Some days, the list is poetic:
  • The way the morning light hit the kitchen tile
  • A perfectly ripe pear
  • A stranger’s unexpected kindness
Other days, it’s practical:
  • Finished the laundry
  • Got through a tough meeting
  • Didn’t forget my umbrella
But always, it’s honest. And always, it’s mine.
What’s one thing you’re grateful for today, no matter how small, strange, or specific?

PLACE

As part of the marketing prep for Eating Adverbs, I needed to shoot an introduction video. Simple enough, except I don’t have a studio in my house. (Who does?) So I improvised.
 
The photo here shows the backroom of my house, transformed into a DIY production set. There’s a green screen, tripods with ring lights, a stool, and then… the camera rig.
 
Let’s just say it’s not exactly industry standard.
 
To get the right height for the camera, I started with my ironing board. Then I turned over an ice bucket and placed the tripod on top. Still not high enough. So I added a wine chiller upside down on top of the ice bucket, and perched the tripod on that. It looked ridiculous. It worked perfectly.
 
This is what solo creativity looks like: a little absurd, a little brilliant, and entirely yours.
 
I used to think I needed the “right” setup to do things professionally. Now I know: I just need the right intention and a willingness to stack wine chillers if that’s what it takes.
 
What’s one space you’ve transformed—however temporarily—to make something happen?
Reply and share it with me. I’d love to see your version of the ironing board studio.

FREQUENCY

These are the frequencies I’ve been tuning into lately: small rituals and repeat inspirations that keep me grounded, smiling, and moving forward.

  • Song on Repeat: Walking on Sunshine by Katrina & The Waves – Okay, I know this one’s polarizing. Some of my musical friends roll their eyes and call it trash. But here’s the thing: I love it. Unashamedly. It’s happy, it’s perky, it’s pure dopamine in song form. If you’re a critic, give it another listen, but don’t expect high art. That’s not the point. It’s joy. And sometimes joy is loud, bright, and a little ridiculous.
  • Book I Keep Returning To: “The Joy of Less” by Francine Jay – As I continue reshaping my space and my routines, this book keeps whispering reminders about simplicity, clarity, and intentional living. It’s not just about decluttering, it’s about making room for what matters.
  • Ritual: My new evening unwind – After dinner, I turn off all electronic devices. No screens. No scrolling. I settle into my favorite comfy chair, pour a glass of wine, and read fiction . . . something that takes me far away from my own world and into someone else’s. It’s quiet, immersive, and deeply restorative. Then I go to bed. No fanfare. Just presence.

Share Your Adverb Moments

  • Did you live gratefully by savoring a quiet ritual that’s just for you?
  • Did you live resourcefully by stacking wine chillers to make something work?
  • Did you live honestly by choosing what not to share—and honoring that boundary?
  • Did you live intentionally by moving something from “later” to “soon”?
This isn’t just my story. It’s ours.
 
Let’s keep building a community of solo thrivers, one adverb at a time.

Notes on Thriving Solo

Welcome to The Adverbial Life, a space for anyone curious about thriving solo, embracing independence, and savoring life on their own terms.
 

Drawn from my book Eating Adverbs – part memoir, part mischief, part practical guide, coming May 2026 – this reflection explores how language, especially adverbs, helps us name the invisible and live with intention.

 
Each section follows the rhythm of the book: TIME, DEGREE, MANNER, PLACE, and FREQUENCY. You’ll find stories, quotes, music, books, and rituals. Sometimes vulnerable. Sometimes playful. Always honest.

TIME: A Shift That Changed Everything

The first spark for “Eating Adverbs” came years ago, during a solo dinner that felt like a revelation. Dining alone wasn’t just a necessity—it became a ritual, a celebration, a way to listen inward. But over time, that ritual turned into routine. I started bringing my journal, my phone, my deadlines. I was dining alone, yes, but I wasn’t truly being alone.
 
While editing a chapter on intentional choices, I had a moment of clarity:  
“Maybe I should follow my own advice.”
 
So I did. I went out for dinner and left everything in the car—no phone, no journal, no agenda. Just me, my wallet, and my keys.
 
And something shifted.
 
I tasted the food. I noticed the wine pairings. I chatted with the staff. I watched the room unfold around me. I was present. Fully.
 
It reminded me why this book matters. Why solo experiences, when lived intentionally, can be transformative.
 
What’s one solo moment you’ve had recently that reminded you to slow down and be present?
 

DEGREE: Writing With Your Whole Heart

There’s a moment I keep returning to. I was deep in edits, wrestling with a chapter that felt too vulnerable, too exposed. I kept asking myself: Is this too much? Too personal? Too raw?
 
And then I realized: That’s exactly why it belongs.
 
This book isn’t just a collection of stories. It’s a mirror. And sometimes, mirrors show us things we’d rather not see.
 
But I kept going. I wrote through the discomfort. I let the words land where they needed to. And when I read that chapter back, I didn’t flinch. I felt proud. Not because it was perfect, but because it was honest.
 
“Eating Adverbs” is teaching me to write not just with skill, but with soul. To show up entirely.
 
When was the last time you showed up fully—for something creative, emotional, or spiritual? What did it reveal about your own grit or vulnerability?

MANNER: Joyfully, Loudly, Alone

I’ve created a playlist on Spotify called “Songs That Make Me Happy“. I sing along: loudly, shamelessly, sometimes off-key but always joyfully. Especially in the car, where the acoustics are forgiving and the audience is nonexistent.
 
I don’t dance (grudgingly, occasionally, never publicly), but I do sing: passionately, dramatically, and unapologetically. Solo living means I get to soundtrack my life exactly how I want. No vetoes. No interruptions. Just me, harmonizing with the universe… or at least with Brandi Carlile. 

Tips for Thriving Solo (Musical Edition):

  • Create a playlist that makes you feel like the main character.  
  • Sing out loud—even if it’s just to your toaster.  
  • Assign theme songs to your daily rituals: coffee, emails, laundry.  
  • Bonus points if you narrate your life like a musical.  
  • No audience required. Just joy.

PLACE: The Rolltop Revolution

“Where intention goes, energy flows.”
 
For most of the time I was writing this book, my computer lived on a table in the living room—a space that had quietly morphed into an all-purpose zone: writing, eating, watching videos, reading, scrolling. It was convenient, habitual, and energetically… muddled. The rest of my apartment became “just space”—unused, uninviting, unconsidered.
 
And here’s the kicker: I used to be a Feng Shui consultant. I know better. I know how space holds energy, how function and flow matter. But even with that knowledge, I’d slipped into a kind of spatial autopilot.
 
Then came the epiphany. I moved my computer into my home office, onto my rolltop desk—a piece I love but had let gather dust. I cleaned up the living room. And everything changed.
Suddenly, I had no easy place to eat dinner in front of a screen. So I started setting the table in my kitchen again, using my china, sterling silver, and crystal. I reclaimed the living room for reading. I reclaimed the desk for writing and work. This gentle compartmentalization—this honoring of space—made me feel lighter, more focused, more alive.
 
It also revealed the clutter I’d been ignoring. I’m re-reading “Beyond Tidy” and “The Joy of Less”, and the paradigm shift is real. My writing is sharper. My editing is faster. My home feels like a partner in the creative process, not a passive backdrop.
 
Rearranging one thing can shift everything. What corner of your space is asking to be reclaimed?

FREQUENCY: Tuning In

Creativity isn’t always a lightning bolt. It’s often a quiet hum. A rhythm. A return. These are the frequencies I’ve been tuning into lately, and they’ve kept me grounded, inspired, and surprisingly productive.
 
Song on repeat: “Broken Angels” by Over the Rhine. Yes, it’s melancholy. But it’s also hauntingly beautiful and evocative in a way that leaves me feeling strangely uplifted. There’s hope tucked inside the sadness, and that duality speaks to me.
 
Book I keep returning to: “Move Your Stuff, Change Your Life” by Karen Rauch Carter. One of my favorite Feng Shui texts. As I’ve reshuffled the activities in my home, I’ve been revisiting all that long-dormant knowledge and wow, it’s revolutionizing my space and my energy. Whether you’re new to Feng Shui or just need a refresher, this book is a gem.
 
Grounding ritual: Rejoining the “4 A.M. Club.” I’m reviving an old rhythm: wake at 4, morning yoga, meditation, an hour of writing, a proper breakfast (yes, with actual silverware), then off to work but with a bonus half-hour of book time before I leave. It’s early, yes. But it’s sacred. And it’s working.
 
What rhythm is keeping you grounded right now? A song, a book, a ritual? Let it hum.

YOUR TURN: Living Adverbially

Living an adverbial life means noticing how we move through the world—not just what we do, but how we do it.
 
Quietly. Boldly. Joyfully.
 
This space is for naming those moments and honoring their power.
 
Explore more reflections, meet the avatars, or dive into the book. Your adverbial life is already unfolding.