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Blog -not for everyone but yes -I talk to myself |
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Why I Write By Tee M. When I was in seventh grade, my teacher, Mrs. Banks, asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. Without hesitation, I said, “I want to be a writer.” She looked at me and said it would never happen. Never. Fast forward. In high school, I became editor of the school newspaper all four years—grades nine through twelve. Later, I earned a full scholarship to college because of my passion for journalism. So why was she so certain I couldn’t do it? Because at the time, my reading comprehension was poor. I couldn’t spell. My grammar was atrocious. But what she didn’t know—what no test score could measure—was that I had a gift for storytelling. I could hold a room captive for hours, spinning tales for friends and family straight from my imagination. That was my superpower. It still is. The best writing advice I’ve ever received was simple: Just tell the story. Write your first draft without worrying about spelling, grammar, or the “small stuff.” If you focus too much on perfection, the story itself gets lost. So that’s what I do. Even with all the modern writing tools available, I still write my stories the same way—heart first. The first draft is just me, telling the story as it comes. It may not be the way everyone writes, but it’s what works for me. Because at the end of the day, I write because I love to tell stories. My journey to becoming a reader was a long one, but now I read everything I can get my hands on. And yes—my favorite stories always end in happily ever after. Someone once told me I must be a hopeless romantic because I’m obsessed with happy endings. They were right. To be a writer, I believe you have to love storytelling. To become a published author—that’s a different journey. Not every story is meant to be shared with the world, but when you write one that is… you feel it deep down. There’s a lot of self-publishing happening these days, but that’s not the part I know. What I know is this: I tell stories. That’s what I do. I also journal and blog—but not about writing. My journals are filled with daydreams, character conversations, and little scraps of future stories. My blog is more of a break—an outlet, a place to learn, explore, and connect. My head is often in the clouds, and I like it that way. I don’t like nightmares. I prefer dreams filled with love, kindness, and a little magic. Because in my world, the story is everything. |
| Prologue Sharp’s Awakening Heart Raymond Jackson, call sign Sharp, had never flinched from violence. Special Forces had carved him into a blade—forged for silent kills and cold decisions. Threats were targets. Emotion was noise. He had lived that truth for years. Tonight, it faltered. The objective was simple: intercept insurgent leaders before they slipped into the mountains. Fast. Clean. Final. But as Sharp’s team ghosted through the shattered compound, a scream tore across the night—high, panicked, female. His jaw locked. Civilians weren’t supposed to be here. Through his scope, he found her—two insurgents dragging her across the dirt, limbs thrashing until a fist cracked against her temple. She went limp, the sight punching through him with a fury he didn’t recognize. No waiting. No orders. His signals cut the air; his men moved like shadows. Seconds later, bodies cooled in the dust and silence returned. Sharp was already kneeling beside her. Dirt streaked her skin, yet even through grime and fear, he saw beauty. Long, wavy chestnut hair tangled across her cheek. A tank top hung ripped at the shoulder, losing the battle to cover generous curves. Mud-caked jeans clung to a slender frame no taller than five and a half feet. Bare feet. Pink polish chipped, toes scraped raw. Fingernails broken, ragged—proof she’d fought like hell. Wildcat, he thought. Not a shrinking violet. Her breathing trembled in shallow pulls. Blood traced the curve of her lip. A bruise spread along her jaw. Carefully, more gently than he’d ever handled anything in combat, he lifted her, her weight fragile against his armor. As he carried her toward extraction, the thrum of rotor blades rolled across the dark. Something shifted under his ribs—feelings protective, primal, possessive in a way that had nothing to do with duty. What in God’s name was a girl like her doing here? A little sprite like that had no business in this hell. At the bird, the medic knelt beside her, hands quick and sure. Sharp hovered too close; his men noticed. They didn’t speak. “She’s dehydrated, a couple nasty bruises,” the medic murmured. “No signs of sexual assault. She’s stable for transport. We can drop her at base, let them take over.” “She goes with us.” Sharp’s voice cut like steel. “That’s final.” The medic blinked but didn’t argue. One of the men exhaled softly. “She kinda looks like that singer, Lindsey Case.” Sharp didn’t answer. He didn’t even know her name. But he knew this: something in him had shifted—clean and sudden, like a blade catching light. And Raymond “Sharp” Jackson—the soldier, the weapon, the master of the knife—wasn’t walking off this mission the same man who walked in. |
| Confession I needed to step away from the paranormal for a while. As much as I love writing prophecies and impossible worlds, it takes a different kind of energy — the kind that bends reality and asks me to hold entire universes together. Right now, I don’t have that in me. So instead of forcing myself into Book Two while I wait for my first human proofread, I’m giving myself permission to breathe. I’m going back to something simpler, warmer, and more human. I’m picking up Sharp’s Heart, the love story I started a few months ago. No magic. No spirits. No destiny weighing down every scene. Just two people learning how to love each other in the middle of their own scars. It feels good to slip into something grounded again — something real. A small break from the unbelievable so I can find my balance, refill the well, and remember why I love writing in the first place. |
| Stories That Travel Across Generations My grandmother lived to be 104. Every few months she would mail my daughter a little story — always gentle, always a touch magical, always written just for her. It was her way of keeping connection alive across miles and time. I loved that so much I quietly adopted the tradition myself. Now I send my granddaughter a story each month. We only see each other once a year, so these little tales have become our thread — something soft and steady between us. She’s nine now, and she writes back. Her stories are bold and curious: adventures inside video games, mysteries about lost treasures, worlds where kids get to be heroes. This tale is one I wrote for her, shared here with the same hope my grandmother carried — that imagination is a bridge, and love can travel inside a story. ⸻ Windy Beth Wolf and the Visit to Mossy Hollow A Tale of Kindness. In a world few know about, nestled just past the misty thickets of Whispering Pines, lives a kindhearted girl named Windy Beth Wolf. With soft ears like her forest kin and emerald eyes full of wonder, she is part girl, part wolf-spirit, and all heart. By her side trots her loyal companion, Ruffin — a clever, caramel-colored wolf pup with eyes like twilight and a nose that always knows when something’s amiss. Together, they are the heart of their woodland village, loved by creatures great and small. One sunny morning, Windy’s mom was busy baking, filling their tree-home with the scent of honey-cinnamon pies, peanut-butter cookies, and a triple-berry cake so airy it looked kissed by clouds. Windy’s ears twitched with joy as she packed the treats carefully into a woven basket. “Ruffin, it’s time,” she whispered. The pup answered with a joyful bark. Today, they were visiting Mr. and Mrs. Tallowtree, an elderly couple who lived deep in Mossy Hollow, where sunlight trickled through ivy and time moved a little slower. The Tallowtrees had once been herbalists, famous for their healing teas and glowing firefly jam, but age had softened their steps and left their pantry shelves a little lonely. With wind in her braids and purpose in her step, Windy and Ruffin traveled along leaf-dappled trails, across babbling brooks, and beneath arches of blooming foxglove. Along the way, forest creatures waved from branches and burrows, for everyone knew Windy Beth brought light wherever she wandered. At the hollow, Mr. Tallowtree was tending a crooked fence, his back bent, hands trembling. “Oh, my stars,” he chuckled when he spotted them. “It’s the Wolf Girl and her handsome helper!” Mrs. Tallowtree wiped her hands on her apron, eyes glimmering. “You’ve brought sunshine with you, haven’t you?” “We brought goodies!” Windy beamed, setting down the basket. “Mom says love is best shared in crumbs and frosting.” They spent the afternoon sipping gentle herbal tea, listening to old stories, and laughing until the wind turned golden. Windy mended the rickety gate while Ruffin politely rounded up sleepy chickens and nudged them toward their coop. By sunset, the basket was empty, but Windy and Ruffin’s hearts glowed warm as hearth-embers. Because in a world few know about, the smallest acts of kindness ripple the farthest — and Windy Beth Wolf, with Ruffin by her side, was born to make those ripples shine. “Be the heart that helps. Even if it’s just with cookies.” — Windy Beth Wolf |
| Stories wear masks. Some show you battles and prophecy first — wolves, destiny, old magic stirring in the dark. But beneath every legend, there’s a quieter truth humming like a heartbeat. Not loud. Not demanding. Just… present. Waiting to be seen. This Moon Saga carries that kind of truth. It isn’t only a tale of wolves, tribes, and humans bound by ancient promises. It’s also a story about fear — how people learn it, inherit it, cling to it. Prejudice doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it breathes in silence, in glances that look away, in histories no one wants to face. And yet, even there, love keeps trying to bloom. Across borders and bloodlines. Across old wounds and older grudges. Across the places where suspicion once rooted itself deep. A girl stands at the center of that struggle. She isn’t a warrior because she fights. She’s a warrior because she chooses gentleness where others choose walls. She bridges worlds by believing they can meet in the first place. Her kindness isn’t softness. It is rebellion. It is strength in its most unassuming form. Every prophecy in this story isn’t just fate — it’s a choice. Each act of grace, a small revolt. Each forgiveness, a chain breaking link by link. It is heart, It is wolf It is moon It speaks one simple belief: Love — steady, patient, unafraid — is the oldest magic there is. And even when the world divides itself into us and them, the heart can choose we instead. |
| I am just trying to figure out how this site works right now… So a blog about my work. Starting with I believe in love at first sight, and I believe in happily ever after. Often, I start with a little tease like “Sharp’s Awakening Heart” —just a glimpse of a moment, a spark on the page. It’s my way of feeling my way into a story, testing its heartbeat. Slowly, almost without realizing it, the characters begin to embed themselves in my heart. They whisper their secrets, reveal their wounds, and before long, their stories take on a life of their own. It never feels forced. It’s as if they were waiting all along, ready for me to listen. And when I do, the words come—not as work, but as a kind of magic. |
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