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.