Showing posts with label Inner Earth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Inner Earth. Show all posts

Monday, April 11, 2022

Do you Ever Hear THE VOICE?

You know the one.


The one that says you can’t do whatever you decided you were going to do.


Not clean the house or mow the lawn—you know you can do that. You just don’t want to. 


It’s the creative endeavor I am talking about.


Build a She-shed or a Man-cave in the backyard?

It’s too much work, will cost too much, and I l don’t know. 


Want to paint?

Well, I’m crummy at it. It will take too long for me to get any good. Everybody else is so much better than me.


Want to write?

Ha. Who do you think you are?


Want to learn a musical instrument?

Well, it’s too late for me now.


The Italics represents THE VOICE.



Since writing is my chosen mode of expression—besides talking and yelling at the dogs to stop barking, I know that almost everybody writes like most everybody walks. Even if you are not a budding (or indeed an accomplished) fiction or non-fiction narrative writer, most of us have emails to answer. If you are a business owner, you have copy to write, and since most businesses these days are expected to have a blog, you have that sitting in the to-do file.


For writers, that blank white page looks as immense as a football field. Yet, you have to get something out. You need to respond to a customer, and while you want to jump on their head and pound them into the ground like a stake, you need to be friendly and meet their needs.


(Once, when my first-born child was little, I said to her, “If you don’t stop that, I’m going to jump all over you.”


Very calmly, thoughtfully, she said, “You can’t jump on my head.”


Of course, she got a laugh, a hug, and a kiss for that one.)


Back to the voice…


“You can’t do it.”

“You’re not smart enough.”

“Who wants to read your stuff anyway?”

“You might as well give up.”

“It’s hopeless.”


It’s not that you don’t have anything to say or that you’re stupid. Neither is it that nobody wants to read your stuff. It is, according to Steven Pressfield, RESISTANCE. (Otherwise known as procrastination.) And, of course, you are not supplying what your readers want--there's always that little challenge. However mainly they don't tell you so it's a crap shoot.


“If I could implant one solitary thought in the brains of every struggling soul on the planet, it would be this:

That negative, self-sabotaging voice you hear in your head is not you.

Those thoughts are not yours.

They are Resistance.

Everyone hears that same voice.”—Steven Pressfield.



Why the negative likes to get hold of us is beyond me, but we know it’s true, for we have experienced it. And I’ve heard that even those illustrious high-paid writers are visited by the VOICE every once in a while.


First of all, stop comparing yourself to others.


And if you think you have no original thoughts or that everything that can be said has, read what Anna Quindlen has to say:


“Every story has already been told. Once you’ve read Anna Karenina, Bleak House, The Sound and the Fury, To Kill a Mockingbird, and A Wrinkle in Time, you understand that there is really no reason to ever write another novel. Except that each writer brings to the table, if she will let herself, something that no one else in the history of time has ever had.”


Last week after listening to an interview by Julia Cameron on Marie TV, I wrote a brief blog post on


Cameron’s bookThe Artist’s Way, is in its 30th Anniversary year and still going strong.


Because of Cameron’s comments, I felt empowered to do the Morning Pages, take that walk, ask for guidance, and go on my Artist’s date. (Her Four Core tools.)


See, that will keep you so busy you won’t have time to listen to THE VOICE.


Tomorrow I am taking my artist date to the extreme and going to a cabin in the woods. Can you see me that sitting on the front porch in my Mukluks for this morning I got a note from the owner saying I might encounter SNOW. 


Ha ha has, don't tell me the Universe doesn't have a sense of humor. I thought it was spring.


But, isn’t it cute?


See ya later.

You know I love each and every one of you.



P. S. A reader (bless her heart) read both The Incredible Yellow School Bus and A Journey Into Inner Earth and found a typo in both. (I just can’t help myself.) One was here meant to be her. In Inner Earth, I left out two words, the and year. (Kindle said I had no spelling errors, but I can find a way to slip something past their watchful eye. Too bad my muse acted like the surgeon who said, “You close.” And I goofed something up. That’s the reason I’m not a surgeon.)


I’m not going to beat myself up. I corrected my mistakes, and no one's body was injured. and that's the reason we need someone else's eyes on our work besides our own. We know what we mean to say so well our eyes glaze over.


And, dear readers, I welcome critiques. (Click on book to see it on Amazon) And please notice, I'm jewell d.


Tuesday, April 5, 2022


 I don't know why this impacted me so.


I've lost pets, and I've grieved over them. However, when I checked in again to I was impacted a second time over the loss of Charlie, the coyote. And for Shreve Stockton, who is still grieving. 


Charlie was almost fourteen years old, a good age for a coyote, and he lived a happy life on the farm with Shreve, Mike, her partner, a hound dog named Chloe, and Eli, a tomcat. 


And I found that Shreve had taken a year off from writing. 


I have followed Shreve's site since reading her book, My Daily Coyote in 2009. She was riding a Vespa from San Francisco to New York when she stopped in Wyoming and found a home. She made it to New York but went back to Wyoming, where she fell in love with the land and a man. When her partner brought home an orphaned coyote pup after his mother had been shot for killing sheep, she had a family. That family expanded to another dog, two cats, numerous cows, and chickens. And the one coyote who entered the fray as one of the gang. 


Someone wrote that this story wouldn't have a happy ending. They thought the coyote would eat the cat and bite Shreve's face off while she slept, but Charlie cuddled with the cat and dog, and they frolicked and played together. When Charlie was sick, a magpie came to Shreve. As magpies were not familiar in that area, she felt it was Eli, who came to help Charlie transition to the other side, or maybe it was to help Shreve.


Over the years, I worried that he might get shot, but he lived to a good age and died of natural causes. The story ended sadly, but his legacy lives on, and his life was happy.


Thousands of people fell in love with Charlie. And a ten-day-old, eyes-not-yet open coyote pup became a phenomenon.


I thought of how we become embroiled in other people's lives, and although Charlie was a real flesh and blood animal, I only knew of him through Shreve's magic words and photos. She is an excellent photographer and began taking a picture a day of Charlie and sending them to friends who sent them to friends. And with the blog and a nod from Rosie O'Donnell, it got national attention. And I know Charlie and Shreve more intimately than some acquaintances in real life.


Fiction can be that way as well, for we know the characters in ways real people will not share. We know their thoughts and feelings. We ache with them, are embarrassed with them, and take joy in their joy. I remember reading that in England, when Jo, a character in the novel Little Women, died, the country went into mourning.



For a fun read, check out, A Journey into Inner Earth by jewell d on



SCUBA, whales, a school bus, six kids, and a journey to the North Pacific and into a land inside the earth. (A review would be lovely.)

Tuesday, February 22, 2022

2:22, 02/22/2020

 "You find sometimes that a Thing which seemed very Thingish inside you is quite different when it gets out into the open and has other people looking at it."

– Pooh, "The House at Pooh Corner"

And from Rabbit: "He respects Owl, because you can't help respecting anyone who can spell Tuesday, even if he doesn't spell it right; but spelling isn't everything. There are days when spelling Tuesday simply doesn't count."

"The House at Pooh Corner"

Is this one of those Tuesdays?

Today is 02/22/2022. I don't know what that means, but it seems significant. My daughter reminded me that at 2:22 in the afternoon, it will be 2:22, 02/22/2020. Cool. When things line up, it means something is working.

I will say it's my books The Incredible Yellow School Bus and its sequel A Journey Into Inner Earth.

 I placed both on a Website, bought a domain name, then found they wanted to charge me big bucks to connect the domain, so I redid it on Blogger. Bless those people who have carried my blog Wish on White Horses for years. Maybe I can transfer my domain there, but in the meantime, its address is




After reading A Journey Into Inner Earth, you might imagine there ought to be a third book in this series. However, it isn't written. Do you think writing it is a good idea? I have an idea, but that includes building an ultra-light airplane, but I don't know how--yet.

And I haven't the strength right now. 


Neither do the kids have the finances to buy one outright.

Maybe someone will donate a fictitious ultra-light.

Carry on, 




I just noticed that one distributor for Regal House Publishing has reduced the price of my book, The Frog’s Song by Joyce Davis, from 6.99, Kindle to $3.73, and the paperback from $12.95 to $4.09. (Yesterday it was $3.73, so better act fast.) Holy Cow! One distributor is offering it for $23.43.

The Frog’s Song is not a children’s book, but an adult nonfiction. The book tells how one husband, one daughter, one seven-month-old grandson, two dogs and two cats, plus this narrator packed up their belongings and moved to a tropical Island. (The dogs and cats didn’t pack, they did their work by riding in carriers in the luggage department of the airplane, and that sucked.)

Who knows what lurks on that island–we didn’t know until we got there. 

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