Not actually me, but it captures the spirit of the day rather well.
Something small, but super exciting to me, happened today.
I got a third monitor for work.
Now my big standing desk, the one I rarely stand at, is completely filled. Three monitors now sit across the desk, filling the space in a way that feels oddly satisfying and comfy cozy at the same time. Everything organized, icons cleaned up, switched from giant icons to medium like a responsible adult. It probably sounds silly, but it made my desk feel kind of… official.
Like I have my own little command center.
The monitors are just for work. My writing still happens on my laptop, and sometimes on my phone. For years it was only my phone. So much writing tucked into those tiny keys over the years.
But today, sitting there with my new setup, I felt a kind of pride about my job. The pay isn’t amazing, but I work from home, have great hours, and I genuinely like what I do. These blessings are not lost on me today.
Life outside the desk is a bit of a mixed bag right now.
Mama’s health isn’t great. My brother just lost his granddaughter. My sister had a house fire.
Also, several of my close friends are going through really hard seasons of their own.
So yes, the world is messy. Beyond my little corner of it, wars rage and political divisions seem to expand more every day, much like inflation.
But somehow, in the middle of all that, I feel grateful.
My granddaughter living with me has changed things more than I expected. She has pulled me out of my shell a little. I’m reconnecting with friends more. I even went out of town last weekend with my friend Deanna. My brother Bill, who I admire so much, has been staying in closer touch too.
It feels like something is shifting in a good way.
Another change I didn’t see coming is this: the TV is mostly off now.
For years, a lot of my free time disappeared into television. Now, I read more. I write more. Sometimes a lot more. It’s funny how a season of life can change without you planning it.
And honestly, the biggest catalyst has been my Mama.
She has told me since I was in the third grade that I’m a writer. For years she has pleaded with me to take it seriously. So recently I thought, while she’s still here, maybe I should honor that and see what happens if I try. I have shared her influence on my life many times, in my writing and in conversations. It is a very meaningful truth about my story. It keeps showing up.
That’s when this whole writing journey really started to take shape. Writing has become the place where my inner life and my outer expression finally meet.
I bought a laptop, started a website, submitted a few pieces. And now, I’m working on a novel.
Attentive reader, you may have seen me share these milestones before, but I have a soft spot for them. They mark the beginning of something important to me, and I believe they deserve appreciation. I find myself returning to them on weary writing days when I need a little inner pep talk.
Along the way, while working through all of this writing and learning, I also started using AI as a sounding board. A strange thing to admit, but it has been surprisingly helpful when I want to think something through. And yes, I know it probably tells everyone they are rare and special. I also know it is basically my coded therapist mirroring my thoughts back to me. Still, it works, and sometimes that is enough to help a person get unstuck.
Maybe that says something about me.
I’ve always been a little bit of a researcher at heart anyway. At one time, I wanted to be a research biologist. Now, I guess I just turn everyday life into research projects instead. People, experiences, questions, patterns. I’m always looking for the takeaway.
Recently someone told me my positivity is “toxic.”
“Hey, if looking for the right in a pile of sludge is considered toxic, then maybe being a little muddy isn’t so bad.”
Maybe that’s just how I survive the messy parts.
And right now, messy or not, I appreciate this season.
Three monitors sitting across my desk. My laptop rests beside them, still holding a pile of half-finished stories. A house that somehow feels a little more alive than it did a year ago.
It was about that time I decided to take her words seriously and finally try. That decision has altered my days in ways I never expected.
Thank you, Mama, for believing I was a writer long before I did.
It is not even a question spoken out loud. It is simply one people are thinking.
Did AI write this?
Just between you and me, reader, how many times have you started reading something and thought, “This is AI”?
I ask because I catch myself doing the same thing.
It seems to be a common reflex now. AI shows up everywhere, in reels, images, and increasingly in writing itself, so suspicion has become a byproduct of the tool. We see a crisp photo of a tiger, and someone immediately says, “That’s AI.” Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. It is a shame, and I don’t want that doubt to surface with my readers.
I will confess I do use AI, and I even love it. But before you start rolling your eyes or assuming I let it write for me, let me be clear: I don’t. I use it as a teacher and as an editor. I have always enjoyed editing my own work, watching a rough piece slowly take shape. What AI can sometimes do is help me see a sentence with a more trained eye so I understand why something works or does not.
I say, “Put your teacher hat on. No generating text.” I want guidance. I want to learn craft, not bypass it.
The truth is, I see its advantages. I see how it can teach, guide, and accelerate learning.
But I am not oblivious to the potential pitfalls.
I worry about a future where writers feel replaced instead of sharpened.
The more I work with AI, the more I notice something important: it has limits. Those limits may change as technology develops. But for now, they are there, and they remind me that learning the craft still matters. I do believe, and maybe this is me just hoping, readers will always want the human touch.
I know when something is my voice. I can feel it. I can hear it when I read it back.
But can others?
Recently I wrote a piece and ran it through an AI detector just as an experiment. The result was mixed. Some of it was labeled human. Some of it was labeled AI.
Wait, what the heck?! It was all mine.
Which left me wondering.
Do writers now have to look a little less polished to be believed?
As I write this, I remind myself that I could give diddly squat of what others think of my writing. Ok, just a little. Ok, a lot. But I know I am still doing the thinking, wrestling with ideas and sentences. I love crafting. It is a fun place to go, and it is something I value.
So maybe I am wrong to hate the thought of others thinking I use AI. I do use it, but as a tool, not something I outsource my thinking or creativity to. I am still doing the work, and honestly, that seems like a good idea. Don’t you?
Lilly woke before sunrise, the opportunity from the night before still pulsing in her chest. She slipped quietly out of Roni’s apartment with her laptop tucked under her arm and found a coffee shop a few blocks away.
It was still dark outside. Only a few early customers sat scattered near the windows. When she ordered and chose a small table near the wall, she eagerly opened her laptop.
This should be easy, she told herself. Just observe and write about what you see.
She began:
The city is alive, already moving before the sun rises. Local cafés open their doors early. Quaint shops surrounding the café cater to tourists, their windows filled with souvenirs and local crafts.
She read it aloud.
The words sounded interchangeable. Like something that could describe any city. If she were reading this on a travel blog, she would close her laptop a few sentences in.
She knew because she began to close her laptop halfway and whispered, “No.”
After a breath, she opened it again and pushed harder:
The city pulses like a restless heart, its streets throbbing with the urgent rhythm of human ambition before dawn even breaks.
She stared at the screen.
It was worse.
Irritation turned inward. Maybe her dad had been right. Maybe passion and ability were two different things. She looked at the paragraph as if it were evidence. The spiral began.
Roni’s text came at just the right time.
“Lilly, we have so much to do. Where are you?”
Lilly straightened her shoulders. Whatever this paragraph suggested about her future could not show on her face today.
Today, the floral boutique awaited their prompt arrival.
She shut the laptop fully and headed back to Roni’s.
The scent of lilies reached her before she crossed the threshold. Their bold perfume filled the entrance, impossible to ignore.
Further inside, carnations. She leaned in automatically, catching a whiff of their subtle, slightly spicy aroma.
Then she noticed the unmistakable Mr. Lincoln roses with their distinct, commanding scent.
For a moment she stood there, letting the layers of fragrance settle, the room alive with color and variety.
“Hey, Lilly, I need you,” Roni called, holding up two bouquets. “Which one? The bright white or the ivory?”
Lilly stepped closer.
“The bright white,” she said first. “It matches your dress. It’ll look clean in the ceremony photos.”
She touched the ivory petals.
“But this one,” she added, “it’s softer. It would feel warmer at the reception.”
Roni studied her for a second longer than usual, then smiled. “That’s why I brought you.”
Lilly shrugged. “Yes, you do need me,” she said, and they shared a quick giggle. As Roni’s attention moved back to the florist, Lilly’s eyes drifted to her hands. They were strong, muscular hands that moved with surprising softness as she handled the stems that had left their marks on her skin.
She followed Roni out of the floral boutique, the scent of lilies still clinging faintly to her sweater.
The afternoon was moving quickly now. There was one more stop before lunch.
Lilly slid into the passenger seat, delighting in Roni’s excitement. She talked fast, unable to sit still. Lilly rested her hand on her knee and said, “Settle down, beautiful bride-to-be. There is more to come.”
Lilly held Roni’s hand as they walked into the dress shop. They let go at the same time as a young fair-skinned woman welcomed them, holding two glasses of wine. Roni’s enthusiasm once again could not be contained. Just before she grabbed the drink, she jumped and squealed like a child in a candy store. Lilly had never seen her this happy. After a few moments, an older woman approached. She clearly knew Roni. “The time is now. Are you ready to try it on?” she asked.
The two disappeared behind a curtain while the younger attendant guided Lilly to the best seat in the house, a large, soft chair positioned in front of a three-way mirror. Lilly leaned forward, anticipation tightening in her chest, when she heard the outbreak of frustration. A mother stood firm, insisting on the dress she felt most proper, while her daughter stomped in protest. “Mom, I knew I shouldn’t have brought you. This is my dress, not yours.” Lilly chuckled to herself, thinking how often that line must echo between mothers and daughters.
Then there she was. The silk clung to her curves, thin pearl-wrapped straps resting against her bare shoulders. She turned slightly, and in the mirror Lilly caught the sweep of her open back. It wasn’t modest, but it was tasteful and elegant.
Roni’s voice trembled. “Well… don’t just stare. Is it the one? Is it perfect?”
Lilly swallowed. “Bestie, I have never seen anything more lovely,” she said, a tear slipping down her cheek.
As Roni disappeared back into the dressing room, Lilly studied the three-way reflection. Mannequins stood behind her, one in a mermaid silhouette, another in an old-fashioned princess gown. The mother and daughter were still squabbling. Every detail in the room seemed to offer itself up.
She stood. Her breath quickened.
The pieces aligned.
Out loud she said, “That’s it. Tomorrow I’ll…”
To be continued.
Tag, you’re it. If you’d like to jump in, feel free. If not, I’ll keep moving it along, bit by bit.
