Author Archives: Bronwyn Wilson

What I Learned From Fluffing Plastic Bags (and living a better life)

People are often unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered; Forgive them anyway.

People are often unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered;
Forgive them anyway.

When you volunteer to work at the food bank, you probably think to yourself, I’m going to help people and that’s a good thing. I’m going to help people who have hit hard financial times and need a lift in their spirit as well as food in their cupboard.

You imagine the recipients will look upon you as a Mother Teresa-type, grateful to your sweet spirit of volunteerism of handing out turkeys and canned pumpkin and toys for the kids.

A week before Christmas, I showed up on time for my assigned volunteer shift,  ready for my Mother Teresa benevolence to begin. read more

Things I Learned in 2014

Ring in the new year and set new goals.

Ring in the new year and set new goals.

Things I learned this past year:

  • I learned hotels in California install booby traps in their parking lots. The hotel staff refers to these booby traps as curbs. Hah! Curbs! I call them dangerous booby traps lurking in wait for you, hoping with evil delight you break your foot when you stumble over it and your body lands splat on the sidewalk.  I know. I was booby trapped and hobbled in a cast for months.
  • I learned Californians are actually friendly. You realize this when the hotel’s booby trap (the so-called curb) exercises demonic power and shoves you into a graceless fall. Californians rush to help you; ask if you’re okay and help you get up while gathering your purse and water bottle and other things strewn about. You wonder. Are these nice people really Californians? The same Californians who honk their horn and shout from their car window, “Go back to Washington!” And of course, you live in Arizona so their request isn’t easy.
  • read more

    My Awkward Moment & Fruitcake

    I’m laughing. Ha, ha, heh, heh.

    She’s not.

    Silence.

    Uh. Hullo?

    Lull of silence continues at the other end of the line.

    I often feel like these reindeer, trying to fly but falling flat on my face.

    I often feel like these reindeer, trying to fly but falling flat on my face.

    I’m interviewing nationally-known author Debbie Macomber (pronounced like cucumber her publicist informed me).  I’m writing a feature article for our local newspaper about an annual festival held in Port Orchard, Washington, which is the real-life setting for Macomber’s novels. At the time of the phone interview, six or seven years ago, Macomber had sold over sixty-million books.  A fact the city of Port Orchard celebrates. Thus, the festival. Although I personally hadn’t read Macomber’s books, I had read of her determination to make it as a writer. In the face of financial hardship, she persevered until she sold her first book. I recall her telling me during the interview that it took her twenty years to become an overnight success. read more

    I’m a Survivor and You Are Too

    Merry Survival! Merry Survival!

    “Your book title tells me nothing about your book,” says the literary agent.

    She sits across from me at a table in the far corner of an empty room. She flips through the pages of my book, Five Minutes For France, with nonchalant abandon.

    I assume she’s a nice lady in real life. She probably packs her kids’ lunches with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches along with brightly-colored Post-it notes reading: “You’re awesome!”

    But at writers conferences~agents who sit behind tables in far corners can morph into Cruella Devilles.

    Not that they’re intentionally mean. But they don’t want you to get your hopes high without equipping yourself with some nice, hard truth. And there’s a lot of hard truth for a writer to swallow. read more

    The Rude and Uninvited Guest

    Arizona

    When you move to Arizona, you never think about crickets. Not at first, anyway.

    Once in awhile, a bold cricket will barge into our house without permission.

    This happened the other day. A rude and uninvited cricket ascended my bookshelf, which is a rather tall bookshelf that reaches almost to the ceiling. Once the cricket made it to the top, with the assistance of a harness and nylon rope, it yodeled oh-lay-dee-hooo and hollered “I’m king of the mountain” to see if it could hear an echo.

    top of bookshelf

    The cricket camped out and sang inside the shelf’s corbel.

    Then he got down to business and began chirping his heart out. Chirr, chirr, chirr-pity-chirr, chirr, chirr….CHIRRR, CHIRRR… read more