Nicole Sharp


Author: Nicole Sharp (page 2 of 13)

My sister lives in Italy…

At the ripe age of 44, I have trouble recalling some of my youthful motivations. Why did I want to be an astronaut? Why did I love Raggedy Ann and Holly Hobbie so? What did I ever see in that weirdly lanky kid in seventh grade that I had a crush on? (He must have had a great personality.)

I also have been wondering when my deep rooted love for Italy started. Was it ingrained in me? Italy was at the forefront of who we were, my family. Italy was where we came from. We had Italian blood running through our veins!

Perhaps it was the unattainable idea that was appealing to me in my youth. As an awkward, insecure teenage girl, Italy was far away and romantic and therefore, full of promise of the unknown.

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The breath of a memory…

It was Thanksgiving, the end of November. I was twenty-eight or twenty-nine. I went back to the place where my life began. A visit to the south. Georgia to be exact. Two aunts, an uncle and my grandmother still lived there. A handful of cousins as well. So I went back to visit.

The crisp fall weather was in the air. Sweatshirt weather to be sure. The barometer fell during my visit and the rains came and the freezing and the ice storms.

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Eating the moment

So I’m in the midst of another existential crisis of self-worth. Of course, I do believe some don’t get that fancy with the wording and refer to this as “life”. But then, I’m flowery, dammit.

I’m filling out a grant application and I have everything done. I’ve picked out the allotted ten pages that best define my work as a writer. I’ve got the i’s dotted and t’s crossed. But there is one last, teneey, tiny thing that I need to do. Answer one question in 1000 characters.

Here’s the question:

Who are you as an artist? What inspires you?

Insert existential crisis here.

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Resolute Writer…

Writer resolution 2018


Write without apology

Write without worry

Write for the sake of clicking keys on the keyboard.

Write to hear the echo of a pen scratching on lined paper.

Write because it slows down the moment.

Write to capture a few good words in a butterfly net made of a blank screen and a blinking cursor.

Write to breathe.

Write to escape.

Write to find yourself.

Write to lose yourself.

Write to delve deep

Write to skim the surface.


And write…



Avast, me hearties…

I’ve been dreaming of ships and stars again. When I have time to dream that is. The dog or the kid wake me up almost every night. Somewhere between 2am and 4 and there seems to be a silent agreement between the two of them as to who gets to wake me up.

I’m not fond of waking up in the middle of the night, but this is just a phase, it will soon end and be replaced by another ‘thing’ that happens every day for a few months. For now, it would seem, this is my sleep schedule.

It’s not all bad.

Sometimes, in my exhausted wakening’s, the ideas of ships and stars linger and I slip into a sweet moment when my tiredness is put on hold and words dance through the veil and I write some fanciful, mindless ramblings down in my notebook in the darkness. Continue reading

A table for the end of the world…

With Thanksgiving in the air, I am given to reminiscing about some of my favorite meals. I don’t recall most of them,  not the food exactly and sometimes I’m not sure about the company, but what has remained are the feelings. Feelings from those meals have embedded themselves into my soul.  You see, I’ve gotten rather sentimental about the kitchen table over the years. Ever since the first time it dawned on me, life happens at the kitchen table.

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write words for a morning fall…


Write stories

Write books

Write nonsense

Write poetry.

Write songs

Write sage-full wisdom

Write winsome crap

Write blogs.

Write bullshit

Write heartfelt letters

Write mindless twitterings

Write it on pads of paper

Write it on cement in chalk

Write it in bathroom stalls.

Write it in library of congress-ed books

Write it in the sky with invisible ink

Write it in the hearts of my best friends

Write with indelible ink on my gravestone

Write using blue keys on a detachable keyboard.



And love.

And laugh.

And sing.

And dance

And help



And write dreary, dreamy, desperate odes

And witty, funny, only for friend reads

but don’t write of critics and publishers and agents and…

And get rid of the excess

And shake off bullshit

And don’t forget the muses (even if they are wrinkled and walking with canes).

and Write.

Write on the stars, in the core of the earth, in red dirt

Write in the water

Write only what I will read

Write only what I understand

Write for no one

Write from my soul, from my toes, from my heart

Write ridiculous things

Write insanity

Write pop cultue

Write til I ache

Write til I’m empy

Write when I’m empty

Write when I ache

Write when I can’t

Write when I have to

Write when I want to

And love

And laugh

And forgive

And forget

And move



And write.

Sunday morning thinking…

I’ve been listening a lot to Patton Oswalt lately. He cracks me up and I need the laughter.

He has this bit about how he knows he’s gotten old because he doesn’t hate any music any more. He said, there is music he likes and then there is music he just doesn’t listen to. And that’s where it ends. Then he goes on to say that when he was younger, there was music that he ‘hated’. HATED. He would go on wild rants and raise his blood pressure and talk about who’s selling out and who’s honing their craft and who is bullshit and who’s a genius. Backing up all his claims, of course, with his wonderful Oswalt perceptions.

I was thinking about that this morning and of course one thought began to flow into another. The new whirl of thoughts drifted to my time spent in Colorado. It’s today’s weather that brings on these new thoughts. It’s a cool gray morning, with slow, low clouds. A lot of the trees in the neighborhood have given up their harvest of leaves, others are still working on losing them. I see the light dusting of snow on the mountains beyond my window. Continue reading

City of Love…

Fall has quieted my internal riotous dialogue. The weather has changed, maybe over night, I’m not certain. The heat gave way to a briskness that itched at my feet. I spent time walking through the neighborhood, around parks, taking in the change. Then, the leaves came alive with their last show of the year. The few walks I’ve been on have me basking in the glow of yellow leaf trees.

I haven’t written much, I’ve been trying, but it’s been difficult. I’m not quite sure where I fit into this world now, my creativity is struggling in the 40-hour work week. I’m struggling as a cog in the corporate wheel. Internally, it’s been a rough few weeks, but the noise of ‘work’ seems to have quieted and the words are returning.

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working writer…

I got a job.

I hate that I had to get a job.

The writer’s dream is to be able to support one self with the money made by…well, writing.

The writing I was doing was not paying the bills, so I got a day job.

And I’ve had to take the past few months to come to terms with this idea. At first, I went ahead and jumped off the deep end of reason. Since I couldn’t make it as a writer, couldn’t make a livable wage as a writer, it was evident I must quit writing. So I viewed the day before I started my job as the last time I would ever write again.

If you’ve been reading the ‘ol blog here for a while, you know that none of that is true.

Of course, I knew it too.

So I just had to make a few adjustments to my attitude and figure out how to fit this new life in with my old ideals and blah blah blah.

There has definitely been an adjustment period. For everyone under my roof. For myself. For schedules. For meal planning. Hell, even the dog doesn’t understand what’s going on.

But good news…

I found my way back to writing this past week. Thanks to some amazing friends and one comment in general. I went to coffee with a friend and she asked how I was doing. No, that’s not quite, right. She asked if I liked the job. I broke down and cried my ‘woe is me crocodile tears’ (which is ridiculous because I have a job when so many people are looking for a job and also insert other worldly problems here…this is not something to cry over.) but I digress. Cry I did. Most of my tears were for the writer who wasn’t good enough so I decided the only thing to do would be to stifle that voice.

This friend sat back as I cried and said, “Oh thank God!”

What? Was she really happy that I was miserable?

Actually, yes, she was. She went on to explain, if this job made me happy, really made me fulfilled, then it was a good sign I wasn’t a writer at heart. The fact that I was having so much apprehension and resistance was a clear sign, the writer was still top dog.

So I let that marinate.

Then I started writing again.

Actually, I started reading about writers and day jobs.

And I read about JK Rowling. And Anne Rice. And I forgot about Stephen King and Frank McCourt and Toni Morrison and Madeline L’Engle.

They all had day jobs, a lot of them were teachers, and as the daughter of a teacher, I know how much free time they were lacking in that line of work. Not to mention most of those folks were married with kids.

So how did they do it?

They were writers and it was what they did.

I’m a writer. Because even though I tried to pretend to suffocate that part of myself. To give up. To make excuses. I added a forty-hour work week to my life and still managed to come back to the daily routine of writing this past week.

How is this going to work? Having a day job and writing?

It just is.

That probably isn’t the most insightful of answers, and I’m sure I could go deeper into the psychology and plan of it all. But the plain simple truth is that with each passing phase of my life, from single-dom to married. From childless to motherhood. From holidays to visitors. I’ve always made time for writing. This new phase of my life is no different.

So how to boil down the how to of writing while holding down a day job and all the other accoutrement of having a family and house?

You write.

Every. Damn. Day.


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