From White Page and Dark Space, Miracles Occur


Something amazing is about to happen.


From your mind, all of the pieces that make up who you are, will band together to create….


Not just a story, but a living, breathing world.

You, are its god. You will sweat during its trials, smile during its triumphs, and cry among its inhabitants when they experience heartbreak.

Because they will experience heartbreak. You know that’s a part of life, and that sheltering your people from it is stealing away some of life’s bittersweet beauty. And because you love them, you will give them real life, taking away nothing. Not even heartbreak.


You are a writer. But more importantly, you are a storyteller.

Don’t take the title lightly.


From the nothing of white page and dark mind-space comes light, your breath, blown into pages, into the lungs of fictional characters…. You make them real by breathing your life into them. You paint a vivid world for others to travel, another existence for others to escape their own, if only for a short time. They will laugh, cry, and fall in love, just like you did. They will learn painful lessons, and feel the pain inside their own bodies. It will become their own heartbreak, they will cry your tears—the tears which came from your heart, your soul, your mind. All of those pieces of you, of your life—the good and the bad, the dark and the light—the things you thought would never bring any good, the trials of your life…. They served a purpose, and a damn good one.


You’re creating life from nothing and giving it away, a gift for all who would receive it.


You are a writer, a storyteller. You are a god of many worlds, of which you create from the depths of seemingly nothingness… but oh, that’s far from what it is. Where your story is born, many stories are born. From that well, that abyss of story-babies, drifting and swirling its current around this world and the next, for any of you to dip your fingers into and take from. When you fish it out, it will be formless, nameless, breathless, but when you set it free again, it will shine with brilliant light and breathe real air and cry real tears, and speak your name… because it is from pieces of you, mixed with the world. And it is one of the most beautiful bits of magic that could ever occur. The creation of life from your heart and mind to the hearts and minds of others. The miracle of something so great and intangible, yet able to hold another…. Strangers, yet connected by the heart.


You are a writer, a storyteller, a god of many worlds…


Don’t let anyone take away from the awesomeness that surrounds you by trying to persuade you to believe what you do is somehow trivial, insignificant.


What you do is brilliant. What you do is a miracle. What you do is magnificent, awesome, fantastic, beautiful, marvellous, pure, and full of hope for the future of our world. Because when we create, we make the world a better place.

❤ ❤ ❤



Below you will find the blurb for my upcoming YA novel, “The Treemakers.” If you’d like to be added to my launch list for when it releases, you may email me at rozelle[dot]treemakers[at]gmail[dot]com. Feel free to email me for any other reason as well; just to say hi, ask a question, or vent about whatever… just promise you’ll be nice because I’m sensitive. 😉

“The Treemakers” (Edgy YA Dystopian/SciFi)

Doomed to a life of building mechanical trees for the dying world of Bygonne, sixteen year-old Joy Montgomery remains the only one left to care for over thirty orphaned children enslaved by the Superiors in the Tree Factory.

But the iron bonds of friendship and family, the discovery of magic in the dark, and love amidst devastation, soon fuel her search for a way out. Aided by an unlikely ally who harbors a dangerous secret, Joy and the Treemakers embark on a quest for freedom, and for the truth about the existence of a forbidden paradise.

Coming in November! (Release date/cover reveal TBA)

Click here to check out some fabulous wisdom-flavored tidbits writing this novel has brought me.

Ashes to Stardust


There’s a woman somewhere who sometimes wishes she still smoked, so she could stare at the stars. Because ever since she quit, she hasn’t once just sat on her back porch and stared off into the night sky.

There’s something so delicious and lovely and humbling about sitting beneath the stars, she thinks, realizing how small you are, yet a part of this great, unfathomable vastness we call existence.

Sometimes, she needs to be reminded of before . . . .

Many a high, drunken night she sat, contemplating her place in it all.

What am I doing?

Where do I belong?

Where am I going?

Does any of this matter?


I love smoking and I’ll never quit, she remembers thinking, pretty much every time she lit up. She’s sure it was for that reason, mainly. Smoking meant she could just sit and do nothing, with the excuse of doing something—smoking. It gave her an excuse to realize her oneness with existence. It gave her reason to sit and contemplate her complex humanity and her mortality and stupidity of doing a thing like smoking.

What a disgusting, filthy habit. One reserved for those of us who like it dirty and rough, those of us who like to live on the edge a bit, walk on the wild side, look life in the eye and tell it to go fuck itself.


She loved to smoke.

But then, she was six months pregnant and hiding with her one cigarette a day, waiting until that time at night with the sky and the moon to light up, because the moon wouldn’t judge her and the stars would keep her secret.

But the guilt wouldn’t let up. With every inhale she saw in her mind’s eye, her little starlet breathing in the darkness . . . . Until he became her star, her oneness, her time with the magic of life and existence, and she didn’t even have to go outside anymore. She didn’t even need a lighter.

So now, you will not see her on the back porch, cross-legged in baggy jeans, flicking ashes into the night air. You won’t see her blowing clouds of wishes for immortality into the abyss we call Universe. You will not see her take the last drag and flick the tiny butt kamikaze-style through the air, to be obliterated on contact with someone else’s patio fern. You will not hear the wretched hacking of that chick next door who plays her music too loud and had blue hair yesterday (pink today.) You will not wonder how she goes about living her kamikaze life, filtering in the men, the booze, the crutches one by one, in and out like the white smoke from her cigarette–whole and unlit one minute, used up, stamped out, and tossed away the next. You won’t find her mumbling forgotten Psalms to the Constellation Sasha-the-Stripper, as she decides to define her life as nothing but meaningless stardust. You will not see her vanish in the daylight, nor linger beneath her own eclipse, to see if anyone notices or cares, discovering they don’t.

She no longer exists.

In the light of the moon, she disappeared, in a puff of smoke she arose, a transmuted embodiment, a living ghost, and only a burning ember, soon to be extinguished, remained.