Writing is rarely a matter of waiting for the muse. It’s mostly a matter of writing until the muse shows up.–> Click to tweet.


On Fridays hundreds of writers gather here to write the muse into being. You’re welcome to join from your blog, your pen and paper, your thoughts left in the comments. As long as you write. From anywhere – your desk, your car in the car pool line, your rocking chair with the baby in your arm and you typing on your phone.

I love how we are able to make art in the middle of our every day ordinary. Did you ever see this video we made with photos sent in from blog readers of the spots where they write? It’s a beauty, worth clicking here if you don’t see it below.

How to Join:

Want to know how Five Minute Friday got started and how to participate? All the details are here.

Featured Five Minute Friday:

And every week I’ll pick a post that caught my eye and share it down there in my side bar – see where it says “Featured Five Minute Friday”? Yea -that could be you! Hop on over and visit some folk who make fireworks in just five minutes. They inspire me.

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. And then absolutely, no ifs, ands or buts about it, you need to visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments. Seriously. That is, like, the rule. And the fun. And the heart of this community..

OK, are you ready? Please give us your best five minutes on the word:::



All four of them come to meet me at the airport. Zoe is wearing Giraffee patterened pants and her faces is a riot of ketchup and paint. She can’t stop shrieking in excitement, “We come get you at the ‘port, mama.” The boys are asking about the coloring books I got for them and the sun is setting across I-395. The car is its usual riot of wrappers and pretzel sticks and someone’s crocs and someone else’s rugby ball. Everyone is talking at once and I lean over to hold onto Pete’s arm as he steers.

We come through the front door and there are a few dishes out, the shower curtain pulled back and the potty has clearly been put to good use. Shoes and pool bag and coloring books and life everywhere. So very ordinary and so very good and this is my home and my people and they teach me how to take every day and turn it into a rich rhythm of catch up and school news and summer events and that left over bratwurst. It comes naturally now. It didn’t for a long time. But now? Now I rock and sway with the wonder of it’s ordinary glory.

Kids out on their bikes and scooters and Zoe chasing down the side walk after them in only her socks and when did I grow up and discover that it’s the evening ritual and the rites of homecoming that make a life great. Not the degrees or titles or travel. But the small moments of re-filling the pink water bottle and listening to my two year old say, “tank you, mama.”

We know the steps by heart and when one of us trips or trods on someone else we know how to pull apart and come back together and sometimes that requires letting the boys build tent forts at ten o’clock at night.

Later I will load the dishwasher and wipe down the counters and leave the crayons out for tomorrow.

And the music will whisper over us while we sleep and the beat keeps thumping through it all.


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