Click the words FREE LINK for the free version.
This essay was originally titled “I Am a Nature Witch.” As readers don’t tend to leap into “I” stories, I’m trying to drop the over usage of “I” in titles. I won’t lie — it’s hard. This is me, in all my quirky, unpolished, new to blogging witchy nature glory. *FREE LINK*
This had a super terrible title. I just changed it. Maybe it’ll get more hits. My heart’s in the right place and there are some snazzy photos. *FREE LINK*
Imagine that we are sitting in a classroom on a crisp autumn day. There are twelve of us sitting at desks that are arranged in a circle. There’s natural light pouring in through large glass windows.
You’ve come to learn how to craft creative nonfiction and personal essays. I sit with you, as one of you. We are all on this journey of life, and every single one of us has the wisdom to contribute to the discussion.
If you don’t already know, I give you my credentials: storyteller for as long as I can remember. I hold a Bachelor’s…
Hi, My name is Aimée Gramblin. I’m a veteran wife (18 years and counting), badass mama jama of two kids (a teen and a tween), a writer, a nature enthusiast, and a curious soul. I’m a first generation Oklahoman, in the United States. I’ve almost moved out of state three times, but got cold feet each time. We almost moved to Atlanta, Georgia; Memphis, Tennessee, and Swansea, Wales — all for school related opportunities. We ended up moving from Norman, Oklahoma to Tulsa, Oklahoma, where we’ve lived for almost fifteen years now. It’s green, slightly hilly, a bit more progressive…
My writing buddy, Hogan Torah, recently decided he’s done with writing gritty, artsy, cerebral stuff. That’s some of my favorite stuff from him. But, it’s not bringing in the big bucks, as unique and quality writing truly has a hard time making its way to the surface, to you — the reader interested in imbibing creative nonfiction that makes your heart hum, drop, stick in your throat, and flutter.
It’s your choice
full moonlight bathing
glowing water emergence
fresh grass sitting
renewed cells invigorated
amelioration fighting dictation
shadow person gulping
grey nights collaborating
with grey days
shoving sleep’s countenance
stars dangling by silver threads
reaching for your eyes
into smoked mounds
gouda, blue cheese
blue moon, swoon river
the psyche argues in her sleep
Thank you for reading! Here’s a complete list of my poems for your perusal.
You might also like my poetry list 📝, or these poems:🐍 Ode to Medusa
🌸 Flora and FaunaTwitter | Newsletter| |To My Lists
Yesterday, after assessing my screamingly aching hip joints, I decided to take a midday bath. I was enjoying my Epsom salt soak, phone in hand — because I’m one of those people who takes the phone with me into the bath — when it began to ring. I ignored the number from “spam” the first time, but the second time something nudged me to answer. So, I did.
“Mrs. Gramblin? This is Mrs. D — I’m calling to inform you that Cecilia has been exposed to Covid-19 — ”
Naked in the bath, where I usually refrain from taking calls…
Eighteen months into the Covid-19 pandemic, we find ourselves in a conundrum. When will this thing let up? What will ever feel like normal again? When will we be able to drop the masks and sneeze in each other’s proximity again?
I don’t know.
I do know music makes life better. After school pickup today, we had the good fortune of being behind this car at a stoplight. Agreed — Life is better with music.
Do you find yourself fascinated by the possibilities of what happens after death? Many of us do. We can let our imaginations run wild, but the truth is none of us know for sure until we’re actually dead. The following series produced captivating tales about death.
There are way more than 5 shows about death —these are the standouts worth watching. Strong direction, sharp writing, detailed set design, and stellar ensemble casts make each of the following series extremely binge-worthy.
Sela doused the grimy kitchen counter with homemade cleaner — vinegar, fresh lemons, and baking soda diluted in water. She scrubbed intently, scouring away the smatterings of butter, grease, eggs, chopped onions, and who knew what else.
She moved from the kitchen to the front door, closing it against the cool autumn breeze and subdued sunshine. She would not be subdued again. The door locked and bolted, Sela glanced at her clock radio but decided against playing music. What if he was like one of the “guests” on Sally Jessie Raphael and had plans to capture and torture her? …