Let’s Get Topical. #Electionnight

I usually stick to fiction, confessions about writing, and book related things, but I must say that tonight, I can’t concentrate on those topics. Tonight I seriously worry about the well-beings of many people residing in the United States of America.

If you follow me here, you know I am Canadian. Furthermore, I am a Trudeau supporting, equal rights advocating, feminist, immigrant-welcoming, Canadian. If you do not share the same values. I suggest you move on to a post more appealing. Like, now.

I am not writing this post to get comments from trolls who spew un-reseachered BS. I am not even writing this post to hear well-researched criticisms. I don’t care who you are frankly, for tonight, if you are human, you should be team Hillary.

If you are a woman, you should be voting for someone who supports woman, who is a woman, and SHOCKER, who doesn’t abuse woman.

If you have a daughter, you should vote for someone who is NOT currently being accused of raping a 13 year old girl. Regardless of the truth in these accusations, the fact that it even exists (along with several other sexual assault accusations) is disgusting.

If you, or your ancestors immigrated (legally or otherwise) to the USA, you should vote for someone who will protect immigration, not someone who calls a person from Mexico a “Bad Hombre”.

There are too many more reasons to write out, and still post this before the polls close. Basically, unless you a single white male who only cares about yourself, you should be voting for Hilary. Its common sense.

Yet, I sit her as the early results come in, refreshing the page every five minutes, and its currently 24 to 3. The favour is for Donald Trump. For misogyny. For Sexist, abusive behaviour. For ignorance. For denial. For a man who isn’t even allowed to update his Twitter account. I know its very early, and far too soon to tell, but tonight myself, and many other Canadians, will not rest easy.

We will worry about our friends,  and family that live beyond our boarders. We will worry about the economic, political, and international future of a country that is our close neighbour. Finally, we will worry about ourselves, because the unfortunate reality is that what happens in the States effects us, up here in the True North. It effects our trade, or economy, our safety. Our relationship is crucial in many ways. We may be strong and free, but we rely heavily on our southern allies.

Avoid setting yourselves back by decades, and please, please, vote for Hillary.

UPDATE: By the end of writing this post, Clinton has risen to 44 – 31. (Improvement I like to see!)


Lauren E. Miller

Featured Image courtesy of WallpaperCave


Quick Update!

Hi all,

I miss you guys, honestly! I need to find some time to post on here, and reconnect with you all.

That being said, my blog was mentioned by my editor, and fellow contributor to #AmReading.Some of you may be interested in giving it a read, and I have great intentions to write a new post tonight. I hope! Clink this link for a direct path to said article, but also feel free to poke around, there are some amazing, hilarious, and poignant writers over at #AmReading. I am honoured to be featured in this post, and love contributing to the team!

If your interested in reading more of my #AmReading posts, I will happily create a blog post just for them. Leave me a message and let me know!

In other quick news – I am a part time content writer now, as well as a contract ghost writer for short stories. I’ve been writing for years and years, but now I can say with confidence that I AM A WRITER. Gah – Feels so great!

Keep tuned for more posts!

Forever writing and reading,

Lauren E. Miller

Featured Image courtesy of Pixabay


A Monster’s Bedroom

Let me transport you to a less than magical place. Close your eyes. Take a deep, relaxing breath, and enter your deepest imagination.

As you turn the cool handle of the doorknob, and walk into the room, the first thing you feel is the soft carpet squishing under your toes. There was carpet outside the room too, but you notice that its still there. The light that fills the space is dull, hidden behind a drawn pull-down shade. Residing on either side of the large west-facing window are long, gorgeous white curtains. Hanging from the center of the room is a pleasant looking silver chandelier. As your eyes follow the walls and move toward the floor, you gasp!  How could anyone live this way, you think. It’s not something you see. It is what you don’t see. No dressers. Only one four segmented, espresso book shelf with four wicker baskets. The mountains of folded and strewn-about clothes are cringe-worthy.

Your face contorts into a grimace as you scan the room. This is the bedroom of a monster,  yes? Spotting a door to your right, you walk through. Inside the door is all you had hoped to find and more. A spacious, bright room with hangers and spiffy clothing. Woman’s shoes for days line one wall. Men’s shoes on the other. You freeze. Again you wonder why the rest of the clothes haven’t made their way in here. At least hide your mess, you think, for christ sake. Leaving the smaller, kinder, much more organized room, you shrug. Seconds later you peer into the master bath. A nice glass shower. A normal room. No art or photos anywhere. Are they squatters? Squatters with 37 pairs of shoes? Your mind is bursting with questions, but you would never ask them.

On your way out of this disaster of a space, you notice the bed. How did I miss the bed, you wonder. Its small for the room, a double maybe. Light wood from, nothing exciting. Spread over the mattress are some dark purple sheets and a grey duvet. The grey matches the grey on the walls. Too much grey. You blink, and notice two last details. The nightstand is cute, a three drawer light solid wood unit. You would keep that, maybe. The wall behind the bed is navy blue. Also kind of cute. Maybe a navy theme would do this room justice. Your mind wanders.

A king sized bed, with white and navy blue duvet and navy blue sheets. Oak dressers, or white would work. Photos of the monsters that live in this current hell-hole would be a plus. Maybe a cute little corner office too. There is lots of room for magic.

Now open your eyes. Aren’t you glad you’re not in my bedroom!

Ps. We’re not monsters, I swear.  We just need a few (a lot) things.

With Love,

Lauren E. Miller

Every Day Confessions

It always bewilders me that we love one another despite, and sometimes because of our oddities (thank you to everyone that loves me). I am about to disclose some oddities about myself. People who know me well will know these strange and wonderful characteristics, but others have no clue. These are parts of my personality that I do not share often. Please know that the confessions to come are not deep ones like I once stole a corvette, or I have a secret life as a matador.  No, I have not stolen a car. Terrorizing bulls for the sake of entertainment: also not my thing. The following are every day confessions. If you have an every day confession you’d like to share, I would love to read about it! Please comment.

Confession One:  Dish Clothes

I hate them. I use two things in my kitchen sink: a scrub brush, and a disposable J cloth. I know the J cloth isn’t the most environmentally friendly answer, but anything to avoid a smelly, grungy fabric cloth. I use them until they are falling apart too, to be a little more Eco and less asshole. Also on the note of dish clothes, I have to hang it up over the sink or faucet. A balled up, wet, slimy cloth sitting alone and cold in the bottom of my sink is a very real form of Lauren torture. Ew.

Confession Two: Clean Hands

My family can attest to this one. As a child I could often be found carrying a wash cloth around with me. Wiping down cupboards and what not. Today, I still can’t stand sticky or dirty hands. Honestly, I do not know how people can function with sticky hands. I have to immediately wash them, or go insane. Those are the choices. My nemesis are not human, not even animal, they are mushy banana and sand. Dear dirt under my nails, get the fuck out!

Confession Three: Gross Things

Ear wax is kind of gross. So are boogers. So is poop. Yet, we have/ see these things daily. My confession is more towards ear wax, and boogers, then poop. If I clean my ears with cotton or the controversial q-tip, I have to look at how much I got out. If its covered in wax, I am for whatever strange reason, pleased. Before we go further, I know I shouldn’t use a q tip, and I am gentle I swear. Keep your judgements to yourself. If I blow my nose, I always look too. I guess to make sure I am not bleeding out.  Anyhow, I’m aware that I am strange, but can you say with all honesty, that you don’t look?      Didn’t think so.

Confession Four: Reading

Before I start any book, I read both covers, and all review snippets. I have no idea if other people do this. Is it normal? odd? bat shit cray? I have no idea. Fill me in.

Confession Five: Odd Numbers Rule

When list writing, or decorating my home, I am more likely to use odd numbers than even ones. Three and Five are my favourite groupings. I don’t hate on even numbers either. This last confession is rather pointless, but I couldn’t leave it at four. Point made. Mic dropped.

With love, clean hands, hanging dish supplies, reading book reviews, boogers, ear wax, and odd numbers,

Lauren E. Miller

Short Story: Franshesco

Dear Diary,

The sun was impossibly hot today. Sweat beads slid down my earth dusted neck. They rolled their way over my center spine, and kissed my butt crack. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, and each day more and more I wish I could escape this life. I was meant to be more. More than a coffee bean farmer. Picking coffee cherries is not how I want to earn a living. My father keeps telling me I am next in line to run the farm. How do I tell him that his sun wants to leave the farm. His son wants move to New York City. He’d have a heart attack I am sure.

My younger sister, A, isn’t capable of running a farm. She cares more about her precious reflection, then other people, never mind land or business. A was the first to announce she was leaving. Right after high school I am so out of here, she’d gloat. I have always been the one expected to stay.

Maybe if the Honduran sun wasn’t so hot?  Maybe then I would stay?   Who I am kidding? I can’t leave anyway. I wish I had the balls A had. I wish I could stand up to dad and say thanks, but no thanks.  He believes we are so lucky to have this place. We make far more than the average Honduran family. My mother is American, so we speak two languages, and are well educated by this countries standards.  What my father doesn’t understand is that we aren’t happy. He’s happy, and mom’s happy I suppose, but that’s where it ends. This place, these people will never accept me. Boys can’t like boys here. Boys can’t love boys. I love a boy, a New York boy. I met him over the internet. All we talk about is snow, and building, and trips. He has told me so much about America. Things my mother only briefly spoke of. He says if we love each other in person, too, that we can get married. Isn’t that something?

I need know what else is out there in this world, and I must experience it first hand. Picking up a cold, wet, clustered handful of snow is the wildest dream I have. Could you imagine? No, of course you can’t. You’re a book. Not a solution to my problems. Only lined paper I can etch my thoughts into. Lined paper I have to keep hidden. Not under my mattress or in the closet, but buried in the backyard, just behind the shed. Your dirtier than my neck and no one can find you, or I’ll be dead.



*Writing first person challenge: Write as if you were someone from a different culture, different country, and opposite sex. Writing time: 20 minutes. Editing time: none.*

Lauren E. Miller




The Fine Line

Write about your first kiss, they said.

Eleven is an interesting age. Its a time where everything lies in the in-between. Especially for girls. School yard cliques are real, bulling is in full force, and style is important. Too much uniqueness sets you apart and you’re picked on, and yet, too much copying and you’re “that girl”. Everything is a balance. Friends, sports, and getting into trouble is cool. Make belief is not. For me, eleven was all of these things, and then some. Eleven was when I had my first kiss.

It was awkward. Terribly awkward. I remember the feeling of the scratchy red-brick facade of the school at my back. My hair sticking to it as it would a static laden balloon. I was teetering my tip toes to be the same height as (we will call him…) George. Ready is not what I felt. Boys were still part of the fine line that is eleven. The line between cooties and curious. The line between chasing, and chatting.  He had a hand places on the brick beside me and leaned in to plant one. I turned, and he got my cheek. There was a second of relief on my end. I was in the clear. Kiss avoided.

Not. The second I looked back at this tall, cute, boy I got to call (bashfully) my boyfriend, he kissed me. It didn’t last long. The details don’t matter. I wasn’t ready for it, but after I can remember thinking about it for days. My face glowing red each time my brain flashed back to the moment. I felt embarrassed, but also curious. The line had been crossed.

Lauren E. Miller



7x7x7x7 Creative Writing Exercise

I remember why he hid that name from the world.

Not a soul was capable of understanding,

of believing,

in a name that had no purpose.

A name that had no meaning.

Long since buried,

his name has been forgotten.

Lauren E. Miller


– The purpose of this exercise is to take the 7th book from your book shelf, turn to the 7th page, and borrow the 7th line. Write a 7 line poem with said sentence being the first line. I must confess (since that’s my thing) that I did not take the 7th line on the 7th page of my hardcover copy of “Insurgent”. that line was dialogue and a little strange to start a peom. So instead I took the first line that called for me. What a great exercise! –