The End is the Beginning

 

I was young, between a kid and not yet a teen. And I would wake up during the thunderstorms, the lightning flashing and the thunder rolling, only to find my Dad staring out my window with his camera in hand, completely mesmerized by the light show outside. As soon as he knew I was awake, he would grin and invite me over to see the show and take pictures.

“It’s the middle of the night,” I would say groggy but not surprised before rolling over, pulling the covers over my head, and going back to bed. 

“One day, you’ll get it,” he’d say before he went back to snapping away. 

This post was supposed to have a cheery holiday feel-good vibe, but those merry words eluded me like time, flitting in and out, prolific and rhythmic, as long as I was far from the keys or a pen. At first, I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. And then it dawned on me: this is the first Christmas without my Dad.

And whoa. 

And fuck. 

And this sucks. 

The end of his life brought me to the beginning of a life without him.

It’s a uniquely painful road to travel. A heavy numbness. A gray void. Darker. Dim. A wide chasm of nothingness.

And there’s nothing you can do but endure. One step in front of the other. One moment at a time. Learning to live with an ache that will never heal. 

It’s so fucking hard to be merry and bright. 

In my Gen X-pick-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps way, I kept myself as busy as I could. A particularly grueling grad class (read and discussed two novels, wrote two stories, and workshopped 25 short stories from my peers) and a 30-hour anatomy course to renew my yoga credentials (hit that deadline with hours to spare) worked nicely.

Until they were over. And the holidays were here. Plop in my lap. Fuck.

But I’ve got some pretty great people, places, and furry friends to support me. And all things good it has been: family, friends, laughter, delicious eats, porch sits, exciting new reads, a great new show to binge, and rest.

And even though I can’t hear his voice or feel his pat on my back, I know he’s here. Always. His presence is felt in the cardinal chirping in the maple, or as the wind chimes tingle in the breeze, or the lights flicker, or my brother tells a silly Dad joke, or a photo. A photo I felt compelled to capture. 

The river view (pictured above) is my commute (I know, right?!?). One night on my way to work, Nature did her thing as she does. I had no choice but to veer off the road and snap that picture, to preserve that moment in time. 

I had no idea what it would mean to me later. I thought I was just diggin’ a sunset, as I do, but it was more than that. It’s an innate appreciation of the natural beauty in the world and the need to stop and preserve it– a connection I share with my father that spans space and time, through life and death whether it’s pulling off on the side of the road for a sunset, or getting out of bed in the middle of the night to catch the lightshow, or a stroll through Botanical Gardens, or a walk along a beach. The need to hold that moment in our hearts. 

Grief overwhelms and swells, ebbing and flowing and hurting like hell. The pinnacle of it all is that the very last thing my father would want for me is to be sad. All he's ever wanted for me is to find peace and contentment in the beauty and joy that surrounds us everywhere. And in general, I do a pretty good job of this. The catch-22 is that now, it's so much harder without his light, his guidance, his support. 

But I honor him as I can, stopping along the river to capture the moment, following my dreams, feeling my feelings, working on myself, and saying no to all the shit that no longer serves (which is harder than it sounds). But no matter where I am or what I’m doing, I know Dad is smiling over my shoulder. Always.

Not only do I have my own personal stops and starts, but we humans find ourselves in the throes of our annual endings and beginnings.  

Seems surreal to me that we are at the end of the last month of 2025. Autumn has ended, as have the darkening nights in the Northern Hemisphere. Beginnings are soon to follow. Winter and the return of light are here, and we’re mere days away from a new month and a brand new year. 

From me to you, hoping you had the merriest, brightest, most blessed, Solstice, Yule, Christmas, Kwanza, Hanukkah, your holiday celebration of choice. May love, light, laughter, alignment, health, wealth, prosperity, and goodness find you in 2026. 

Until next year, find your creative, embrace your wild side, stay sane(ish), and happy reading!

Best, Aspen Hite

Setting Inspiration via the Haunted Mansion

Sunlight flittered through the trees as a warm breeze ruffled my hair, sending it in all directions. I pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head to contain my wild tresses and stepped into the shade. The temperature dropped, but it wasn’t just the loss of the sun; it was the house. Inside, my skin prickled under the air heavy with history, reeking from every corner. Bits of plaster and original crown molding hung here and there, and new boards supported the dilapidated, once-condemned building, and people milled about with smiles, like it was just another day, in just another place. But it wasn’t. 

I was standing in the very legendary and very haunted McPike Mansion…

They say to write what you know. The unspoken trick here is to keep fueling the Know Pile. This adventure started as a bit of setting research for my latest novel, and a bona fide interest in hometown history. Once I discovered that one of the most haunted homes in the nation was on the list, I sent out the group text, and, lucky me, I was able to gather a few of my favorite gals (we love hauntings), and we made a day of it. And a great day it was. All around.

There were other houses on the tour, and they were also pretty cool, with all their history and nuances, as well as their restorations, renovations, and modernizations.

Still, weeks later, it's the haunted mansion that sticks with me, not just the known history: Henry McPike, the abolitionist, lived on his 21-acre vineyard, intricately tied to the Underground Railroad, leading a life of mystery and intrigue, followed by a death and legacy shrouded in the supernatural.

But the unspoken history—the stuff only the ghosts know. The unanswered questions underneath the raw reconstruction, or the dark, dank wine cellar, or that mysterious crypt behind the house. What had that wine cellar seen? What secrets were hidden in the home? Who was buried in the mysterious crypt? All the things we don’t know on this plane and beyond.

For now, we know what is known and can speculate about the rest, but perhaps as the owners work through the long, laborious process to restore the home to its original glory, more secrets and unknown histories will be revealed.

Until then, the McPike Mansion has inspired a bevy of ideas. In fact, it might make the perfect backdrop for the Grey Mansion. What if the McPike Mansion had never fallen into ruin, but instead had been lived in by a prestigious Lycan family?

Inspiration is everywhere in everything, all around us. How will you find yours?

Thank so much for tuning in. And a special nod of gratitude to my gals for embarking on this adventure with me. 💜

Until next time, find your creative, embrace you, stay sane(ish)

Best, Aspen Hite

Thirteen Years

 

📷 credit: Tumisu

Thirteen Years 

I had to be in 8th grade, sitting on the back patio with my younger brother as he taught me to inhale a cigarette. We grew up with a smoker (in the car, the bathroom, the kitchen, and the living room). A cloud of smoke was normal, and for a LONG time, I thought of it as a sign of fun and sophistication.

Thank the heavens, perspectives change.

For many years (nineteen, to be exact), I was a die-hard smoker. I mean, it was so "relaxing" anytime. There was nothing better than a smoke after a good meal, especially if wine and adult beverages were involved. Or in the morning with coffee. Enjoying a book. After sex. In the car. On a break from work. Getting ready for a night out. All the time.

I lit up for just about any reason and was one of those young 20-somethings who would roll into the gym parking lot with a cig hanging out of my mouth and then light one up before I pulled out of the parking lot afterward. 

For many years, I justified my smoking by telling myself I’d quit when it caught up to me physically. I mean, I made it to the gym five times a week. I was 'healthy." One day, I noticed the new lines around my mouth and under my eyes. My skin was dull. And then, I had to pause at the top of the stairs. 

For the following six months, I smoked in blinding denial of the damage and havoc I was inflicting on my sweet meat suit, my temple, my body, the only home I have. Until one day, I saw things clearly and my denial fell away.

That day was Saturday, March 19, 2011.

I’d just returned home to Arizona after meeting my youngest niece for the first time. This entailed a quick (long) roundtrip cross-country road trip with a husband and two dogs, none of whom traveled well in a not-so-large vehicle. 

Upon returning to my cozy ranch outside of Phoenix, I made sure all was well, and all creatures were accounted for before I toddled out to the patio with my bottle of wine, a pack of smokes, and a stack of gossip magazines to decompress from travel. 

That Saturday night, I devoured the magazines, polished off the wine, and inhaled half the pack. 

It was the last time I smoked a cigarette. 🚭

Between sheer willpower and support (data) from an app (ironic because I hate apps), I quit smoking cold turkey thirteen years ago. 

Not a single drag since, and by far one of my favorite decisions.

***Side note: I also ditched gossip magazines unless I’m flying. Then, the mindless flipping keeps my mind at bay during take-off when I often imagine the plane spontaneously combusting at 10,000 feet – the joy of anxiety and a writer’s imagination. ✈️

Also (more) noteworthy: What happens when someone kicks the habit? The effects of the health benefits begin immediately and last the rest of your life.

According to the American Cancer Society:

Within minutes of smoking your last cigarette, your body begins to recover:

20 minutes after quitting		Your heart rate and blood pressure drop.
A few days after quitting		The carbon monoxide level in your blood drops to normal.
2 weeks to 3 months after quitting		Your circulation improves and your lung function increases.
1 to 12 months after quitting		Coughing and shortness of breath decrease. Tiny hair-like structures (called cilia) that move mucus out of the lungs start to regain normal function, increasing their ability to handle mucus, clean the lungs, and reduce the risk of infection.
1 to 2 years after quitting		Your risk of heart attack drops dramatically.
5 to 10 years after quitting		Your risk of cancers of the mouth, throat, and voice box (larynx) is cut in half. Your stroke risk decreases.
10 years after quitting		Your risk of lung cancer is about half that of a person who is still smoking (after 10 to 15 years). Your risk of cancer of the bladder, esophagus, and kidney decreases.
15 years after quitting		Your risk of coronary heart disease is close to that of a non-smoker.

These are just a few of the health benefits of quitting smoking for good, but there are others, too.

Quitting smoking lowers your risk of other cancers over time as well, including cancers of the stomach, pancreas, liver, cervix, and colon and rectum, as well as acute myeloid leukemia (AML).

Quitting also lowers your risk of diabetes, helps your blood vessels work better, and helps your heart and lungs.

Quitting smoking can also add as much as 10 years to your life, compared to if you continued to smoke. Quitting while you're younger can reduce your health risks more (for example, quitting before the age of 40 reduces the risk of dying from smoking-related disease by about 90%), but quitting at any age can give back years of life that would be lost by continuing to smoke.

Sadly, I remember puffing on and then eating those candy cigarettes when I was a kid –  a great idea to hook them young. I knew then that I would be a smoker. I also knew someday I would be a non-smoker. 

Thirteen years.

As always, thank you for stopping by. I’d love to hear your comments below. 

Until next time: Be creative. Find your wild side. Stay sane(ish). ✌️

Happy International Writers' Day

 

📷credit: Chen

Can I See Your ID? 

Last night, I cruised through Hit-N-Run (a drive-thru convenience store where a human comes to your car, takes your order, gathers your items from the store, and then brings them to you in your car).

The young clerk (probably 20-ish, but he looked 12) took my order.

Him: Can I see your ID?

Me: Aww…aren’t you sweet.
Him: Why’s that, ma’am (the tell-tale lingo for an old lady)?
Me (as I reach for my ID): Well, I’m gonna be 49 this year.
Him: You know, ma’am, 49 isn’t that old; it’s like middle age.
Me: I’m not sure I’m gonna make it to 100.
His face drops. Him: Oh yeah. I guess not. (Then he works really hard to recover). But you know, ma’am, you really only look about 32, maybe even 30.

He smiled at me and collected payment before he walked back inside. Grinning and giddy, but without any cash on hand, I rifled around the vehicle gathering, every last quarter I could find and gave them all to him as a tip. He thanked me profusely. And I him.

He was a sweet kid, and he's gonna need all his extra cash for a good eye doctor. 👀🤷‍♀️🤣

The End

I appreciate you stopping by. Feel free to leave your thoughts on this super-short Creative Nonfiction in the comments section. 

Until next time: Be creative. Find your wild side. Stay sane(ish). ✌️

~Aspen Hite

Out With the Old; In With the New

📷credit: Mohamed_hassan 

Out With the Old; In With the New

Time is a funny, fickle thing. In some moments, I feel silly and young and alive, like I’m 17, and in other moments, I’m tired, like I’ve lived 117 years and a thousand lifetimes. Somehow, in a way I don’t really understand, this year flashed in the blink of an eye. As 2023 ends, I like to reflect on how I spent the year. 

What have I been doing? My knee-jerk response is to shrug and say, “I don’t know. Nothing.” But in truth, I’ve been busy working, teaching, reading, resting, letting go of all that no longer serves, and easing into all that is meant for me. Some of it’s heavy stuff. 

But I’ve also been writing. In fact, I spent a good chunk of the year tuning out the world and writing. I am beyond grateful for that opportunity because the grown-up outside world can come knocking, like a wise guy barging in to break your legs. So, I am humbled and thankful for that time.

At the beginning of the year, I tried hard to have an online presence. However, convincing strangers I'm a writer takes a lot of work. It worked for a while (welcome to the odd time in the 21st century, where we talk more than we do). One day, I had nothing left to post on my blog, and I’d spent too much time focusing on social media. It was the literal antithesis of where I wanted to be. 

I needed a kick in the pants, so I got out of my comfort zone and went to a writers' conference. Not only were there some great workshops, but I also got feedback from industry professionals and pitched to an agent who asked to see the first 50 pages of my novel! It was an INVALUABLE experience. 

After some polish and shine, I sent the pages to the agent and waited, checking my email every ten minutes while simultaneously planning the agent’s delighted response. (Ever see A Christmas Story where Ralphie envisions his teacher’s joy at reading his essay? It was a bit like that.) She was going to love it. I was on Cloud Nine. This was it; my time had come. 

But I also had a genuine problem. I had embellished (it’s what writers do) the completion level of the novel. I was only about halfway through and still needed a middle, a climax, and an ending (roughly 30,000 words). I DID have an outline and an idea (or two). So I wrote. Tuned out the world, and spun a tale.

I put all my energy into finishing that novel. Short stories and blogs sat incomplete and unfinished. The online posts stopped. My reading slowed, and I almost forgot about my word game. The only thing in my crosshairs was telling that story. 

One day in mid-June, I finished. It wasn’t shiny and polished, but I’d told the tale. With nothing but radio silence from the agent, I let the first book simmer and immediately got to work on the second one. I was on a roll.

Finally, a response from the agent came. I was giddy until I opened the email. 

The agent passed on the story. To her credit, she was kind and even offered specific areas of improvement. And she was right, but now what? My dream of a smooth path to publication (after ten years) was just gone. Poof. Snap of the fingers. In one email. Gone. 

It took a hot second to allow the disappointment to fade, but then things became clearer: 

1. I’d made writing a priority, and I had two new novels and a third in rough outline form. All of it had been to show myself I could do it. 

2. It was time to stop fucking around. Stumbling around aimlessly, trying to be a writer was over.  I didn’t need any more ways to NOT write a bestseller. I needed to learn—the tricks of the trade, the ins and outs. 

So, after jumping through several flaming hoops and almost getting lost in paperwork, I’ve been accepted into a Master of Fine Arts in Writing program. 

Brand new story beginning January 2024. Is it going to lead me to a life of best-selling novels (and that private island I’m always going on about)? Probably not, but as I learn from local industry professionals, I’m open to discovering my niche to see where it leads. Hopefully, to a revenue-generating career where I can entertain people with stories and positively impact the lives of readers of all ages. Perhaps I wind up back in a classroom or write a Kids' Yoga book (better yet, the next bestseller turned Netflix series). Maybe self-publishing, editing, or freelance writing will fit my lifestyle better. Time will tell. 

For now, I’m embracing the present, celebrating the lessons of 2023, and having faith in the ebb and flow of the journey.

Endless possibilities loom on the horizon, each filled with challenges and lessons, all filled with learning and laughter (to keep me balanced). 

Wishing you a wonderful New Year. May 2024 bring you peace, joy, and blessings. 💜

Until next time… 

Be creative. Find your wild side. Stay sane(ish). 

Aspen Hite ✌️

A Writer Musing: Writer Workshop Day

A Writer Musing: Writer Workshop Day

I love to learn. I love to write. When I have the opportunity to learn more about writing, I’m giddy. 

Recently, I attended a Writers' Workshop in St. Louis, MO. Despite a sleepless night before, a dreary day, cold temps (in and out of the building), and a clogged ear making it hard(er) to hear, it was a fantastically awesome day.

The Four Classes 

Class #1: Common Pitfalls in Publishing

Hybrid author, Katie Otey, shared her writer-life experiences and advice. Invaluable information, plus she's a super cool lady. 

Class #2: Everything You Need to Know About Agents and Query Letters 

Kourtney Price laid all the nitty gritty for those pesky query letters and finding the right agent. 

Class #3: 10 Surefire Ways to Strengthen your Writing 

Kerrie Flanagan, author and facilitator of the event, not only gave us a list but also read real-world examples AND offered the audience opportunities to create smooth, fluid writing. 

Class #4: Pros and Cons of Traditional and Indie Publishing

Laura Benedict held nothing back as she delivered all the bottom-line details of traditional publication and self-publication. An eye-opening experience. 

Other Noteworthy Events

Agent Pitch: I pitched to esteemed literary agent Bonnie Swanson. It was a quick and dirty 10-minute segment. It was the highlight of the day!

Writer’s Got Talent: A First Page Critque-Fest

Every writer in attendance had the opportunity to anonymously enter the first page of their manuscript. Several were randomly selected to be read aloud not only to the group but also to a panel of industry professionals (authors, agents, and editors). 

As the narrator read the pages to the room, the panelist would hold up a hand whenever they would stop reading. At the end of each page, the panelists provided feedback. 

The first page was a paranormal genre and MINE! Holy hells. My heart ricocheted around in my chest, and at one point, I could barely hear the feedback (my clogged ear didn't help). Feverishly, I scribbled notes to reflect on when I got home. An absolutely priceless experience. 

My Takeaway:

The opportunity to learn from experts in the writing world changed my perspective and provided new insight. This workshop was the push I needed to propel my writing forward. 

A Writing Musing: Respect the Process

 A glimpse behind my creative curtain...

Respect the Process

The fiction writing has been going well, but it really is a process.

Brainstorming: The creation part, which is ALWAYS fun, is the beginning. This stage is messy and chaotic as I’m jotting loads of ideas and notes anywhere and everywhere (post-its, notebooks, napkins, receipts). I have multiple documents open on my computer (all very random). And I am actively talking to myself, playing out the actions and motives of the characters. 

Drafting: I make it all up as I tell myself the story. I have to understand what’s happening. What’s the first problem? What’s the goal of the character(s)? How will I complicate it for them? And what can I do to surprise the reader? This part is my favorite part. Of course, I usually come up with my best-complicated surprises in the shower or while I’m driving, and when I get to some sort of way to record my thoughts, they have all flittered away. Sometimes I chase them. Sometimes I wait for them to return…the good ones always do. 

This stage can be quick or long and drawn out (like now). It usually also involves various forms of rewriting and junk piling. At this point, I know the overview of the story, but scenes are still coming in scattered pieces, like a puzzle. I’m turning the pieces over, finding the edges, and putting similar ideas (pieces) together.  I can picture the final result, but seeing it complete before me is a long way away. 

Revising/Rewriting: The puzzle comes together. Once I finish the first draft, I’ll reread (over and over) to fine-tune it and polish it into a creatively stimulating story using nothing more than words (the ultimate goal). This part can be enjoyable (like when I come up with something good) or torture (like when I hit a wall or write myself into a corner). 

Editing: This is my least favorite part (perfecting the puzzle, pressing the pieces together, adding a gloss or glue), but it’s essential.  It always entails reading aloud, Grammarly, laughter, and tears. Sometimes, I seek out an extra set of eyes. However, if my work is bound for publication, I will hire a professional editor to critique and correct my writing. Nothing more embarrassing than a typo on the title page.   

Publishing: The final stage: sharing the best version with the public.

Where am I now? In the drafting stage, with two feisty and hard-to-control heroines: Em De Mone and Elle Kingsmith. These ladies and their crew of characters have been chattering and rattling around in my head most recently. These ladies are particularly interesting because their stories span many millennia and interconnect on multiple levels. But they are also very much the stars of their own stories. The experiences of their 20s (current WIPs) are not only happening in my head now, but their actions will vastly impact destiny. So technically, I’m creating the surprises and twists of future stories. 

To sharpen my storytelling skills, I’ve also been dabbling in nonfiction, writing short stories about teaching, or dogs, or life, or writing. 

I’m enjoying learning to respect the process as I create my writing journey. 

What’s next? A mixture of fiction and nonfiction musings. And hopefully, some exciting book news soon.