I read an article recently from Newsweek that I couldn’t shake off…it was about how Taylor Swift is not a good role model. And it wasn’t just because I am a diehard Swiftie that I was perturbed by the author’s errant remarks–it was because of what this article symbolized.

John Mac Ghlionn cited Taylor’s dating history as the crux of his argument as to why she is not a role model for our girls. In his article, he argued about how her celebrity dating defiles her message against the patriarchy, how her lyrics portray her as a victim, and how her success is unrealistic for girls to aspire to. 

Perhaps the irony of it all is that this article is exactly the patriarchy that Taylor encourages girls to scream at the top of their longs at…because this masochistic view of a categorizing a successful woman’s admirability by her dating life is the perfect example of unfair bias toward women (See: “The Man” by Taylor Swift).

Nonetheless, this article isn’t here to school Mac Ghlionn on his tacit compliance with age-old social confines and condescension toward women. I sense his article was a grasp at fame through a thinly veiled attack on Taylor Swift because she’s popular and trending. As a writer, I can appreciate the fact that sometimes, you write to the market, and Taylor Swift’s name certainly gets you at the top of the stack these days, even if your logic is unsound.

This article is, however, a look at why I do think Taylor Swift is a positive role model for girls, for females, and for every gender–and why it is downright demeaning for anyone to defile someone’s reputation based on their love life. Because women are worthy of so much more than being defined by their romantic life. This antiquated view that feels like it's out of an 1800s novel, though, still runs through the modern world thanks to articles like this.

And before John’s friends come for me in the comments, yes, I’m a Swiftie and a huge fan of her lyrics. If you look on my social media, you’ll see my cheesy grin on the field at the Eras Tour in my photos. Yes, I understand her lyrics and choices ruffle feathers and, especially with your children, you have to ascertain for yourself if her words comply with what you want to teach your children. And yes, I agree that worshiping anyone, even if they’re someone to look up to, can lead to unhealthy habits. All of that aside, though, I do think there are many reasons why Taylor Swift should be lauded as a positive role model and influence. Here are the points the aforementioned writer “forgot” or failed to mention.

1. Her charity work

    At every tour stop on the Eras Tour, Taylor has made significant donations to food 
banks in the areas, positively impacting millions of people. But if you do a dive online, you’ll find this isn’t her only way to give back. Publicly and privately, Swift has shown kindness and generosity in her gifts of money and time to causes she holds dear. 

In December of 2023, the star donated one million dollars to the Community Foundation of Middle Tennessee after the tornado on December 9 caused damage and deaths. In August of 2023, she gave super-sized bonuses to her Eras Tour workers, reportedly giving $100,000 bonuses to her drivers. These are just a couple of her reported “sizable” donations to various charities over the years, including pet rescues and individuals going through hard times.

It isn’t all just about the money, though. In 2012, Swift wrote the song “Ronan” in honor of a little boy who was struggling with fatal neuroblastoma. In the same year, she pledged all proceeds from the song to cancer charities.

Yes, Taylor has the money and influence to do things like this–but she’s also a great role model for using your power and gifts to make a difference that lives on and impacts others. That’s something I think many of us can look up to.

    2. Her body positivity

In her documentary “Miss Americana,” Swift is vulnerable and honest about her 
struggles with eating disorders. And although the press still likes to make 
incessantly inappropriate commentary on her size and weight, Swift’s message has been one of body positivity. Her outfits on the Eras Tour demonstrate a confidence in who she is. As a thirty-six-year-old, I appreciate the strength and beauty Taylor demonstrates; she’s reminded me that a woman can still be seen as sexy and confident in her thirties and beyond, something I think many of us struggle with. 

This isn’t to say Swift is perfect. In 2022, she released a video for “Anti-Hero” that featured Swift stepping on a scale that said “Fat.” After realizing that the message of this scene could be hurtful to body positivity, Swift immediately cut this scene from the video. This shows she is not only trying to spread a positive body message to her fans, but that she’s willing to take ownership for her mistakes. 


3. Her passion for her work

    Taylor Swift also demonstrates how pursuing your passion and being true to 
yourself leads to success and fulfillment. She is known for her tireless work and dedication to her artistry, constantly releasing new music and ideas. She speaks frequently about how music is her passion, and she’s living her dream. She also has been open about how she never could have imagined this success when she was a teenager from Pennsylvania. Her story reminds us all that dreams come true if you work hard and stick to your passion.

Even when things get difficult for Swift due to bad press and haters, she’s stuck with her passion and still pursued her musical journey. In the middle of the Kanye and Kim media storm, Swift disappeared for five years…but then came back stronger with “Reputation,” an album with a message of female strength, confidence, and perseverance. She shows girls and really everyone that even when the world seems to be against you, you should stick to your passions and chase the dreams you want. She’s never shied away from being who she wants to be and saying what she needs to say, even if it ruffles opinion writers’ feathers. 

To have that unwavering sense of self and what your purpose is inspires all of us to find the thing that lights us up…and to dream big.

4. Her lyrics and emotional vulnerability 

For me, the pull of Swift has always been in her vulnerable, emotional lyrics that capture what it is to be a woman, an artist, an outcast, a dreamer, and so many other things throughout our lives. Swift’s ultimate role model status comes from the fact that she is inclusive in her lyrics and who she reaches. When you go to the Eras Tour, you’ll see people from all walks of life, backgrounds, and personalities because her music has a universal pull. 

Her songs remind us that we are not alone, that we all go through difficult emotions and fall down. That we all feel like we don’t belong sometimes in “Anti-Hero” or that sometimes the memories of the past haunt us in “All Too Well.” She reminds us that it’s okay to stand up for yourself in “Look What You Made Me Do” and that moving on is difficult in “Fortnight.”

Her songs are a celebration of the raw realness of being a woman…and of being a human. She reminds us that emotional vulnerability isn’t weakness but instead leads to connection, something our world is often missing. And if you talk to Swifties, you’re apt to hear story after story about how her music helped them through difficult times, through loneliness, and through good times. She’s hallmarked so many of our lives with her lyricism and honesty, and she’s reminded the world of important messages along the way such as with her song “The Man” and “You Need to Calm Down.” She isn’t afraid to go to the deep topics to make a statement, using her influence to make a difference.



At the end of the day, admittedly no one knows Swift other than what we see of her in the media. It’s up to us to make our own judgment on who to look up to and why. But to blatantly disregard Swift’s achievements, charity work, and positive messaging for women simply because you don’t like how many men she’s dated is a flagrant disregard for who she is as a person. It’s not about protecting Swift’s image or her fans being upset that you tried to attack our idol.

It’s that articles like these tell girls and women that no matter what they achieve or how good of a person they are, their validation always comes from the men they do or don’t date. And if you ask me, that message is the truly poor role model for our girls, for women, and for all of us.


Lindsay Detwiler is a high school teacher and the USA Today Bestselling author of The Widow Next Door as well as several other thriller novels.

1. You can always change your mind; there is no wrong choice.
2. Listen to your heart and your emotions.

These are the two lessons I’ve learned this past year in my core, lessons I didn’t quite expect to come to fruition in the way that they did. But standing here over halfway through the year, I inhale deeply in the knowledge that these two mantras are true–and I share this in the hope that it will inspire you if you’re feeling stuck, trapped or fearful about your choices.

Two years ago, I made the difficult decision to leave the classroom. At the time, a new opportunity to write in a corporate setting came up, and it felt like the right decision. It felt like a new adventure. So, I took the leap. And for the past two years, I’ve learned about corporate world. I’ve grown. I’ve explored. I’ve had all sorts of new experiences and changed in a lot of great ways. But there was one major problem.

It didn’t feel like home. It didn’t feel right. And in my core, I kept thinking about how I’d left my one true calling.

Like so many of us do, I tried to rationalize it away. I told myself change was hard, that it would just take time to feel at home. I shoved down the voice of my five-year-old self who wanted nothing more than to teach, who would set up twenty stuffed animals on the steps of her childhood home with a chalkboard at the bottom. I told myself that the fact I was running into my former students literally EVERYWHERE wasn’t a sign–and wasn’t making me sad.

But deep down, I knew. The whole time, I think I knew that even though there were so many awesome perks in my new job and reasons to stay, it wasn’t what my heart wanted. So, after some re-evaluation and some soul-searching, I did what I needed to. I listened to my heart–and I turned back around. I changed my mind. And luckily, things fell into place to allow me to do a U-turn and go back to where I belonged, where I felt at home, and where my heart felt like I was meant to be.

This fall, I’m heading back to my alma mater to teach. This time around, I’ll be a business teacher, which feels like it was meant to be; it’s made the past two years in corporate world and also my accounting degree make sense. It’s made my time away feel like it was necessary for me to grow in order to do the best I can in this position. 

And you know what? Ever since I’ve made the decision to go back, I’ve exhaled a breath I didn’t know I was holding for two years. I don’t wake up in the middle of the night anymore in a panic that I left teaching. I feel awakened and excited in a way I haven’t for two years. My heart, in short, is happy, and I feel at peace again.

Making a change is scary but sometimes necessary. But I think the most beautiful thing about this life that we sometimes forget is that you’re never stuck, and no decision is final. You make the best decision you can with the information you have at the time. And then, you listen to your heart. You let your emotions guide you and you do the best you can again. You change your mind. You turn back or turn left or stand still for a bit until the path becomes clear. 

Because this life is too short to be somewhere that your heart isn’t happy. And I’m so excited that even though it’s been a long road these past two years, I’ve been reminded of what makes me happy, what makes me fulfilled, and where I belong. I’m fortunate and grateful to be given a second chance at my passion, at doing what I love. 

I’d like to think that five-year-old version of myself standing at her makeshift chalkboard would be excited that even though I veered off the path for a couple years, I found my way back to the front of the classroom where my heart knows I belong.

Lindsay Detwiler is the USA Today and International Bestselling author of The Widow Next Door, The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter and several other novels. To learn more, click here.

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From the first Caboodle makeup holder I received in late elementary school, I've been obsessed with beauty products. New lotions, potions, hair masks...I'm here for it all. But I also consider myself pretty low maintenance with my looks. I don't get my eyebrows or lashes done. I don't go for manis or pedis. I'm at at-home, DIY, on a budget kind of girl. I'm okay with splurging for products that work...but I want to get the most out of my money.

I'm taking some of the guess work out of your beauty routine by racking up my Sephora points...and giving the newest products a try. Learn from my loves and leave-its below. (Links are to Amazon, which I am an affiliate for, so I get a small commission if you buy using my links. But I always post products I've tried and ACTUALLY love). 

I came across this setting power that is SO MUCH MORE on influencer Sydney Schiffer's page. The secret is to get the Cherry blossom variety. And yes, it's pink...but for my pale girlies, this one is the BOMB. Literally.

Since losing weight, my 30-something wrinkles around my eyes are so much more noticeable. I've been working all summer on a concealer routine that will mask my dark circles without accenting my fine lines. This powder is a lifesaver. It literally blurs your skin and makes your pores/wrinkles disappear with just a tiny bit. And it smells amazing.

Check out my non-filter photo below (ignore the wonky eyeliner...it's been a morning). It also comes in a mini size, which is nice if you want to just give it a try.

My salon recommended this as a heat protectant for my hair, and I'm obsessed! It not only protects your hair but also gives you mega shine! I will say to be careful when spraying because it makes ceramic floors SLICK (My Great Dane won't walk past my vanity now because the floor is perma slippery). But the shine makes it my favorite heat protectant to date!

Find yours here.

If you want your makeup to look smooth, sometimes it's all about the skincare. This exfoliating scrub is a perfect addition to my routine about twice a week. It's gritty, but not like the exfoliating scrubs I used as a teen. It's gentle but still sloughs off dead skin for a better makeup application. And this one is super budget friendly (around $14). Click here to check it out.

A co-worker recommended this leave-in spray, and I'm a fan! I use it twice a day. You can spray it on damp hair, or I even spray it on dry hair for a refresh because it smells AMAZING. Like amazing amazing. And it lasts forever.

Just shake it up, spray, and your hair will be so soft and smell heavenly. It also doubles as a detangler, which I love. Check itout here.

My co-worker also got me hooked on Good Molecules products. They're super budget-friendly, work well, and are cruelty-free. I have so many of the serums, but my favorite product is the mineral sunscreen. It gives you protection without being greasy at all, and is less than $12. Click here to grab yours...I wear it every single day! (I also love their brightening serum). 

When I decided to go darker with my hair for summer, I wanted to make sure to keep it popping. I bought Matrix Keep Me Vivid. And it works great on my locks...EXCEPT my bangs.

If you've got Taylor Swift bangs going, this product is NOT for you. Or at least not for your bangs. I couldn't figure out why my bangs constantly looked greasy, no matter what I did or how much I washed them. And then I sorted out it was this shampoo. 

So if you're going to give it a go, be sure to use a different shampoo on your bangs.


Alright, that's all for now, everyone! Happy summer, happy shopping, and be sure to let me know what you think if you grab any of the products above!

Xoxo,

Lindsay (L.A.) Detwiler

The cool metal shocked her already frigid hands as she pointed the gun toward the blackness and willed her breathing to slow. Fog veiled the woods, but it wouldn’t be enough to shield her. Her heart thumped so wildly it would certainly betray her position. Hair falling into her eyes, she whipped her head back and leaned against the tree, commanding her body to still, trying to recall what her yoga teacher would have told her in what was certainly a different lifetime. 

She wasn’t the likely one to survive, but she had no choice. Sometimes statistics had to be shoved aside for what must be. That was that. She adjusted her finger on the trigger.

Footsteps quaked the forest floor in the distance. Too close. Her chest plummeted. The horrors of reality weren’t lost on her. Here one minute, eviscerated the next. Flashes of the victims she’d watched die pounded into her skull. There should be peace in the quick finality of it all, but the realities of death terrified her since she was a little girl, comfortable under her crocheted pink blanket perfumed by that familiar laundry detergent and the lingering perfume of her mother. Like some pink-dusted harbinger, the thought of disappearing into the thick blackness of non-existence plagued her long before the world had ended. 

How things had changed since just…what? A few months ago?...when death’s embrace beckoned her like a siren’s harrowing song. She dared to glance at her wrists now, the scars of that person she once was resonating deeply in the darkness. She gripped the gun tighter. It would be of no use, the weapon simply something to grasp onto in a futile attempt to keep hope flickering.

Footsteps slinked closer. Was it her imagination, or did they sound lighter? That flame of possibility sparked once more. She hated herself for it.

And then, a roar of footsteps, one right after the other. She sank tighter against the tree, her full back smooched up against the bark, the gun clutched to her heaving chest as she closed her eyes. There it was, the truth of her facade. She was masquerading as a brave soldier when, in reality, she was the weakened victim. She always had been, the voice whispered to her.

Hands grabbed her in the blackness, and she squealed. A hand covered her mouth.

“It’s me,” he whisper-shouted, and she opened her eyes, staring into his disturbingly familiar stare. His chest rose and fell as he heaved for air, his hands warm against her clammy skin. He was alive. So was she.

He claimed the gun from her shaking grip, turning quickly from her to peruse the area, a necessary skill in the new reality. She didn’t say a word, partially in tacit compliance of their desperate game of cat and mouse, partially because she didn’t know what to say. He was there, her savior, emerging from the wreckage of their terrified escape. Yet her quavering heart didn’t slow or soften. Terror clutched on, sinking its bloodsoaked fangs into her flesh deeper.

“Have you seen it?” he murmured, so low she thought she imagined it. But she’d adapted to this kind of quiet now. In just two months, it was crazy how readily the human body and spirit could adjust to the transformed reality they were forced into. She shook her head. 

“Maybe we did lose it,” he said, still scanning. Life had become a constant, weary scanning.

“Or it’s toying with us,” she replied, a horrifying reality no one had dared to believe in the early days. They’d been told the unidentified creatures that had infiltrated the world were mindless, dangerous in their stupidity. Now, the survivors, though, had come to understand differently. There was a protocol to the beings’ way of hunting, to their mind games. It was more sinister than the radios could have ever relayed before they all went completely silent two weeks ago. 

They were on their own now, survivors few and far between…which was the way they had to prefer it now. No one could trust anyone, and it was ironic he was back. Because she’d never been able to trust him, even before the Arrival. Now…

“We need to move,” he mouthed to her, and she nodded. The woods were a double-edged sword, paradoxically giving them cover but also exposing them to its preyful stare. He pulled on her hand, the gun still aimed forward as he panned the darkness. She followed behind him, the sweaty smell of him a recognized musk, as it had been for so many years.

She let him lead her, as she once had all those years ago, their college romance turning into a torrid trip to the altar. Back then, the only darkness lurking was the danger of their flame burning out, of the realities of life beating them down. 

Not of being eviscerated by vile monsters. 

Slowly, silently, they pushed on to an unknown destination. She stepped cautiously, rigidly, trying to obliterate every crunching leaf or twig, trying to anticipate the loud parts of the forest floor. 

The fog cleared and the densely packed trees opened up, a relief and a new terror. Exposed in the open, the creature was certainly waiting to pounce. Any second…

He stopped in front of her, and she leaned against his back, strong and muscular, as she’d remembered it. As she’d sometimes fantasized about in those months after he’d left. Damp with sweat, the fabric of his shirt clung to him. So did she.

He pointed toward the distance, and she peered around him to see a dilapidated barn structure. He looked to her, but she shook her head. Too dangerous. There could be others in there, one of the roving bands of real soldiers who had been tipped toward immoral mores. But she glanced behind her, the unknown of the blackened forest another danger. There wasn’t anywhere safe. Every choice was a deliberate risk.

He leaned close, his breath caressing her neck, her ear. “We have no choice. We can’t stay out here, and we need to rest.”

He was right, of course, although she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing it. They hadn’t slept in days, hadn’t eaten in almost as many. Her mind was leaning toward hallucinatory. Still, she shuddered to imagine the mortal beings in that barn who could be waiting to strip them of their belongings, of their flesh, or worse. Intuition failed her, for she didn’t know which way to go.

And then, as she was prepared to provide evidence for the case to him, a roaring squeal behind them and pounding footsteps made the decision. He yanked her forward, toward the barn, the only refuge available. 

Legs burning as she ran for her life, him in front, she could think of nothing. If these were her final moments, she would die with a blank mind, a thought unsettling in itself. Gulping air, she kept her sights on the barn as it grew closer and closer. But the running footsteps behind them continued on, the rebel yell of the creature shredding any semblance of reassurance in her heart. Her head rattled with its yell, and she sweated through her clothes as she ran, thinking of the searing pain of being shredded in its hideous maw if it caught her.

On they ran, the moon shining down on the path. They were getting closer. Somehow, although she knew it probably could have reached them by now if it wanted, it did not. It spared them, goosebumps raising on her arms at the thought. If she were alone, she would probably stop and surrender, let her body be devoured so her mind could finally be at peace. But he pulled her forward, the unlikely savior who had once shattered her heart now saving it. Life had a funny way of turning, and so did death.

They reached the door of the barn, and he flung it backward, not having time to scan the area for peril because it was already on their heels, a hideous thief. He flung her inside the darkness, closing the door behind them. He glanced around in the darkness, and she did the same. It didn’t seem like there was anyone or anything inside. Luck greeted them for once.

They didn’t celebrate the victory, though. Instead, he ushered her to help him move a table and a few boards in front of the door in a haphazard security attempt. Nothing other than a ten-foot cement wall would stop the creature from getting in as they’d learned in the past few months. The sheer size and power of the monsters made it all the more difficult to survive. Still, human’s folly was indeed the penchant for naive hope even in the face of unrelenting circumstances.

Footsteps circled the barn. A pounding on the battered, broken wall in the back jolted her. She crumpled down on a hay bale, needing to catch her breath even if it was her last. He didn’t rest though, standing at the ready with the gun in his hand, circling to the sound of footsteps as if he would save them. As if he could save them. She stared into the inky blackness, watching him prowl as the monster’s footsteps stomped about the perimeter of the barn. They were hostages in a circle of torture. 

Her breathing ragged, she stayed down, thinking of all those they’d lost. Flashes of her neighbors, of Amanda, of her beloved Great Dane played like a rippling movie of nightmarish terror. She squeezed her fists, wanting in some ways to live and in some ways for it all to be over. 

Footsteps circled. He circled. And then, a clattering of footsteps that faded quickly. All was quiet. She exhaled a breath she didn’t have. He waited a long moment before lowering the gun and his wariness. He walked over to her, taking a seat on the hay bale beside her as he scanned the barn for lurking danger.

They sat in silence like that for a while, just the two of them. Once, that sentiment would have been comforting. Now, it was a hideous nightmare worse than the world ending. She pulled her knees to her chest as he set the gun down for a moment beside him, resting his head in his hands, leaning on his knees and taking a breath. She let him have that peace, that moment to himself because there were few moments like this. Even he deserved that. 

But in the quiet, her mind always wandered to times she didn’t like to face. Sometimes, it was easier being on the run from the monsters than facing the truths in her mind. In a way, the end of the world had cradled her in its deafening embrace. Before the Arrival, she’d been alone in her crumbling world like a sickening, depressed ballad that played on repeat. Now, everyone was hanging by a thread, if at all. She thought it said a lot about her that she was comforted by that. Torture loves not company but other sufferers.

He sat back up then, rejuvenated from the few moments of quiet apparently. He glanced over at her, their eyes adjusted to the darkness. He spun the silver ring on his left hand, their wedding ring. She hadn’t asked when he’d put it back on, life too precarious for nonsensical discussions like rings and vows and the before. He looked at her then, deeply, his ring still spinning. The darkness was suffocation but smoother now.

“I didn’t love her. Not like you.” The words were the loudest he’d uttered in the past months, and she hated him for it.

“Let’s not do this,” she said, her voice cracking. Survival had to be their focus. She didn’t have capacity to reslash that wound, not with the monsters lurking.

“I came for you. When it fell apart, I came back for you. Doesn’t that say it all? Doesn’t it count for something?” he asked like a desperate puppy, begging for a chance to fetch once more.

She wanted it to be enough, if she were honest with herself. Underneath the shaking hands and trauma, she wished it could be enough, that they could walk into the forsaken landscape hand in hand. But it wasn’t. The burning rage in her chest told her that. Even in this place, under these circumstances, it hadn’t changed. At the end of the world, with just the two of them, she couldn’t forget how he had ended her world long before the Arrival. He’d stood in that mausoleum of a house and told her their marriage was over, that he loved someone else. That didn’t just dissipate when the world did, she’d come to understand.

The five years they’d been together were tarnished with that one sentence, that one confession, that had smacked her innocent face and gutted her, innards spilling onto that once spotless floor as she crawled deep inside herself and prayed to bleed out.

She would have paid money in those early days for him to come back, for him to beg to fetch her. There was a time, she wasn’t proud to say, she would’ve welcomed him back like the prodigal son, like the second half of her heart. But not now. Not after all the time. He walked through fire and hell to get back to her when the arrival happened, yet somehow, she was different now. Somehow, it wasn’t enough.

A violent wail echoed outside of the barn, and every hair on her body came to attention. She bit her lip, her breathing intensifying as he also came to attention, the gun snatched from the hay bale as he leaped to his feet. They snapped back to the present, where frivolous topics like matters of the heart no longer had a place. He didn’t have to tell her to be still, to be quiet, for she was frozen in fear.

The footsteps banged outside, and then there was a pounding against the siding of the barn. The wail continued, an agony-riddled wail that suggested death, but it wasn’t the creature’s death it warned off. It was their imminent end the wailing foreshadowed.

She stood to her feet, trembling. They were trapped, no way out that mattered. And just as he’d turned to her to say something—what, she didn’t hear—the back wall of the barn came crashing down. He shot off a couple rounds from the revolver, but it was no use. The monster was upon them then before they could even run, the length of the barn child’s play when it wanted to devour.

She shrieked as she watched it grab him with one of its disgusting paws, the long claws digging into Sean as it picked him up, staring at him with its hideous face and open jaw. The gun fell to the ground beneath his feet. He screamed out in pain, blood dripping from his body. 

She scrambled to the gun, the monster still toying with Sean in its grip as it wailed and screamed. She got her shaking hands on the revolver and pointed it up toward the creature. Sean’s wails reverberated, singing to her heart and grappling with everything that had happened in her mind.

She could run for the barn door, try to get away. But she heard his agony, and knew what she had to do.

He’d saved her. He’d also ruined her. And so, she held the gun up and aimed. 

She shot him as he looked at her, his dark, familiar eyes horrified but recognizing the truth now. His wailing stopped, and the beast devoured him, turning its sights to her as she slowly backed away.

They were one in the same perhaps. In the end, they were all monsters of deranged varieties. 

She watched it shred his flesh, the man she once loved long ago. Her back finally reached the barn wall. Her back smooched against it, she locked eyes with the creature. Her chest didn’t heave, and her hands were steady as she dropped the gun by her side.

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Enjoyed this read? Be sure to check out my popular creature horror The Flayed One! It's available in audio (and translation rights for Italian have been purchased).

The opportunity to teach a high school, undergraduate, or extracurricular creative writing class can be both thrilling and terrifying. If you're like I was in my first year of teaching the course, you may be wondering:

• What should you teach in a creative writing course?
• How should you assess students?
• How can you make writing fun, even for reluctant learners?
• Is it possible to teach students to be creative?
• What should the structure of your class look like?

In my first year of teaching the course, I found few resources that were helpful on these subjects. Most were solely focused on fun activities or how to be a writer, not on how to structure a class and actually teach it.

This book is the product of my own frustrations in my first year and the experience I've gained from trial and error over the past eight years of teaching the course. In that time frame, I also managed to develop a Creative Writing Level II course and a Novel Writing course from scratch. I also earned my USA Today Bestseller's title, which has allowed me to understand what skills are sought in the professional industry.

In this book, I will share with you tried-and-true tactics for starting your own successful writing program or just infusing your English classroom with a positive outlook on creative writing. I'll cover the skills that are most in demand in the creative writing field so you can set your students up for success in high school but also beyond.

This book covers:

• How to create a positive environment for creativity
• The best ways to assess students in creative writing
• Activities and key topics to cover in order to encourage success
• Tips for helping students combat writer's block
• Ways to enhance critique circles to actually be meaningful
• How your mindset as a teacher can impact the type of writing your students create
• And much more

When done well, your creative writing class can become a safe haven not only for your students to learn how to express themselves, but for you to be the kind of teacher I think we all want to be.

It might not feel like it now. You might be feeling overwhelmed and like vomiting. But I promise, if you read this book and make the ideas your own (which is the key, as we'll discuss), you’ll shine.

Whether you're teaching a creative writing course for the first time, writing curriculum for it, or a veteran creative writing teacher looking to enhance your writing atmosphere, this is the resource with you in mind. Written for a busy teacher, it takes my best, most practical advice and condenses it into a book that will get you inspired to open your students' eyes to the beautiful, magical world of creative writing.

Grab your copy here!

Are you an author looking for inspiration? Is writer's block attacking again? Are you just getting started with writing and don't know where to begin?

I've got you covered! Below, find some writing exercises that can help you polish your manuscript if you're just not feeling like writing today but still want to get some work done. PLUS, I've included 18 writing prompts that you can work on today if you're just out of ideas. The key? Do something that moves you forward with your writing every single day. I've found that the days I don't want to write but do anyway turn out to be the BEST days...and I'm convinced that winning on those days leads to big wins.

Writing Exercises:

1. Do a search (CTRL+F) for the word “that” in your manuscript. Eliminate as many as you can.
   
2. Do a search (CTRL+F) for the word “very” and try to enhance the verb in order to eliminate “very.” Pinterest is a great place to find help for this/charts!
   
3. Write a paragraph describing your antagonist from your protagonist’s perspective. Then, do the opposite. This will help you finetune your characters’ worldviews and depth.
   
4. Reexamine your first three lines of your manuscript. Can you make the words have stronger connotations? More punch? More of an emotional connection?
   
5. Choose a page at random and pay attention to your sentence structure. Do a lot of your sentences start the same way (Many new authors tend to use the same structures repeatedly without realizing it. Try to mix it up to keep it interesting!)
   

Prompts:

1. Write a page about the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to you…using only one-syllable words.
   
2. Describe the ocean incorporating all five senses into your description. However, you cannot describe any colors.
   
3. Explore the definition of loneliness in poetic form. Incorporate at least five similes, five metaphors, and two examples of personification.
   
4. Take a scene from your most recent story or book and rewrite it from a minor character’s perspective.
   
5. Describe yourself from one of your enemy’s perspectives.
   
6. Describe yourself from one of your closest friend’s perspectives.
   
7. Describe who you are now to the childhood version of you.
   
8. Find a famous painting online. Describe it so vividly, someone could redo it just from your description.
   
9. Take the funniest thing that’s ever happened to you and retell it in a way that makes it sad in tone.
   
10. Take a typically sad event and write it in a way that infuses it with humor. 
    
11. Write a letter to your favorite author explaining why you love their writing style. Really dig into the complexities and specifics of their writing.
    
12. Take a page from your favorite book and do a write-like; try to mimic the style, tone, or plot in your own way (Do not publish this anywhere! It’s just for fun and practice).
    
13. Write an alternative ending for your favorite book, movie, or story.
    
14. Describe the perfect cup of coffee. Be sure to use at least two examples of personification.
    
15. Write ten analogies about the feeling of being cold. Try to move beyond the basics or expected!
    
16. Write a paragraph of “How to Spot a Red Flag in a Relationship.”
    
17. Create a monologue from the perspective of a toaster. Yes, seriously. Just do it.
    

The blinking cursor taunts you as you wonder where it all went wrong. Or maybe it’s a blank page, your pen frozen midline as you come to the conclusion that’s every writer’s worst nightmare–your story is stuck. For a long minute, you consider setting the whole thing on fire or, less dramatically, putting it in the trash can. Unlike Stephen King’s Carrie, though, you don’t think anyone will rescue it from the refuse pile. Your manuscript is stranded at sea, not a single breeze blowing to catch the sails of your writing muse. Bland, boring, blah, the thing is dead in the water–and you don’t know how to resurrect it.

We’ve all been in the dreaded “stuck manuscript” ordeal at some point in our writing careers. No matter how many books I write or how much I advance my craft, it’s inevitable that sometimes a manuscript stops flowing. When that happens, I usually talk myself out of the trash can solution pretty quickly–and then ask myself what to do next. Let’s face it: a stuck manuscript is never an easy fix. Or is it?

The Question to Dislodge Your Work

Over my eight years in the business and countless stuck stories, novels, and articles, I've learned there is one effective question you can ask when facing a stalled manuscript: What’s at stake?

At first glance, this question seems simultaneously too simple and ineffective. After all, if your manuscript is stuck, shouldn’t you be examining the plot? Isn’t that why you can’t figure out what comes next? However, I’ve found that in most of my situations where a block stops my writing, the problem isn’t actually in the scene itself at all. The problem arises because I haven’t sufficiently answered this question or I’ve lost sight of the answer.

If you’re writing an effective story that engages and offers the reader a true journey, there has to be something for the character to lose. If there’s nothing risked, then there really is nothing gained by the reader. What’s the fun in a story if there isn’t anything at stake?

Each genre and each trope has its own basic-level answer to this question, of course. In horror, the character’s life is at stake. In romance, it’s their heart. In historical fiction, it could be that life as they know it is at stake because of a major event. But in order to have a deep, complex work, the challenge is that you have to go deeper than surface-level tropes. You have to dig into the character’s life, motivations, fears, and challenges to sort out what else is at stake. Then, once you have that figured out, the key is that you have to leave a breadcrumb trail in every element of the book for your reader to follow.

If you look at all the literary masters, you’ll find there’s a well-founded, intriguing set of stakes that permeates their works. In William Golding’s Lord of the Flies, survival is inarguably at stake for the boys on the island. As you read, though, you understand their boyhood innocence and perception of mankind is also what’s at stake; at the allegorical level, Golding seems to argue that humanity’s pureness of heart is at risk as well. It’s no surprise he had such a daunting view considering the post-WWII era he wrote in.

Additionally, there’s Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. This juxtaposition of poetic beauty and an apocalyptic, dusty wasteland again touts the stakes of survival in the harshest of climates. However, McCarthy showcases a more emotional set of stakes as well; will there be a world worth leaving behind for the boy, and will the price of survival come at humanity’s core values? These stakes run through the opening scene to the famous Coca-Cola scene seamlessly, keeping the flow of the book and the tension going.

In my own books, I’ve found the prized value of the question: What’s at stake? My USA Today Bestseller with HarperCollins UK, The Widow Next Door, features a lonely widow who has a lot of secrets. When new neighbors move in, it becomes unclear which character can be trusted. With the horror undertones, it’s clear that lives are at stake. But mid-way through writing, I knew there needed to be a stronger sense of risk for the widow especially. Morbidly, she knew she was near the end of her life anyway. What else could I risk for her? What would make the reader feel that sense of urgent danger?

Thus, I introduced the mysterious kitchen door in chapter one. It becomes clear through the scenes that it isn’t only her life she’s afraid of losing–it’s her reputation. There is some sinister secret hidden behind that door she will protect at all costs (and I do mean at all costs). 

This solution also works in romance novels as well. I was writing my romantic drama Remember When and realized I was stuck at about 20,000 words. The book follows a married couple who is stranded in a blizzard in their car. The book is about survival–but when the book was as frozen as the setting, I realized the problem. I’d lost track of what was really at stake for the main couple. It wasn’t just about surviving…it was about living. My characters were terrified because they felt like they had left life pass them by. The real answer to the question was that my characters were terrified of not leaving a solid legacy behind–and if they died, they wouldn’t get to fix it.

From Stakes to Unstuck

Stuck in the middle of your manuscript, you’re sold on asking the question: What’s at stake? In fairness, let’s face it. You’ll try just about anything at this point to bring the magic back. But how do you go from the question to the words flowing again?

When you ask the question about what’s at stake, you’ll come to one of the following conclusions:

1. You know what’s at stake, but the scene isn’t contributing to it.
2. You never really figured out what’s at stake.

The first answer is arguably the easiest to swallow. In this case, you still have to make a choice: you can either cut the scene because it’s not adding to the plot or you can sort out how to connect the scene to what’s at stake. Typically, just by changing my vantage point from the plot happening to the plot revealing the stakes, I can spot the problem with my flow. If I can’t, though, then I force myself to face the facts; no matter how much I want to write that cool scene, it might be bringing my manuscript to a halt because it doesn’t actually belong. 

What if you realize at 20,000 or 40,000 words that you never sorted out what was at stake? Well, step one is to stay calm. Trust me, it’s better to sort this out now. You can’t have a proper climax to your novel if you don’t know what’s at stake–and worse yet, if your readers don’t. This is the time, I would argue, to really sort out what your character is risking. If they aren’t risking anything, figure out what they could be risking. What could they lose? Can you take that loss up another level? How can you make that loss so intriguing and terrifying, your reader can’t help but stay glued to the story?

Once you have an idea, then you can go back and revisit your story from that vantage point. By rereading and rewriting from a perspective of what your character has to lose, it becomes so much easier to infuse interest, tension, and suspense into even the flattest work.

It’s never easy admitting your manuscript isn’t living up to the hype you felt when you started writing. However, by asking this one simple question of your characters and delivering on the reveal to your reader, you’ll guarantee that your book shines with intrigue. So gather that manuscript from the trash can. Stop fearing the blinking cursor. Take a deep breath, writer, and know that you’ve got the right question to ask now. 

​My potentially ill-fitting ballet shoes from Amazon on my feet and my all-black outfit strategically selected to blend in, I skidded across the glossy dance floor, nervously eyeing the other women already sitting in a circle. I was a few minutes late and flustered, not the attention-inciting entrance I wanted to make on my first class. In truth, I wanted nothing more than to run for the door, leaving my water bottle behind along with my momentary faux bravado. I looked at the barre and the mirrors and thought to myself—why were you such a fool to assume you could even try this?
 
The instructor welcomed me in, though, so I told myself to breathe and be brave, clinging to the mantra and reminding myself if it went poorly, at least it would make for a good blog post. As the women talked about why they were taking the adult ballet class, though, I calmed down. My worst fears leading up to the moment were assuaged; no one introduced themselves as a former Rockette, and once we got started with the actual class, I realized the description of the class was accurate. It really was for beginners like me, someone who had never taken a single ounce of dance class in her life. And for the next hour, I not only survived—but I was awakened to a passion I hadn’t felt in a long, long time thanks to the pressures of adult life most of us know too well.
 
Trying something new in your thirties?
 
At the age of thirty-six, I did something that scared the life out of me: I signed up for my first ballet class. Why? A lot of reasons, I think. Dance was something I always wished I had learned but assumed I’d missed the boat on. I didn’t grow up in a dance kind of family, and it felt like something you did from the time you could talk—or you didn’t at all. Affirming my misconceptions, the only beginner classes in my area were for toddlers. No one was giving thirty-somethings a chance to put on a tutu and give it a try. I shoved the dream aside like so many of us do.
 
But a few weeks before Christmas, I saw an ad on Facebook that changed everything. It was for an adult beginner ballet class at a local college in the new year. I told myself it was my sign to try something new and to go after my childhood dreams. Emboldened by my dedication to adventure for the coming new year, I got out my credit card and paid the tuition fee without giving myself a chance to back down.
 
I don’t think I just signed up for the class because of childhood dreams. For me, it was about breaking up the monotony of life. A few years earlier, I had left my teaching job of ten years for a new career after I’d lost my zest for teaching. Since that move, I’ve realized life isn’t lived in humdrum monotony; changing jobs opened possibility in my life, something I’ve been seeking ever since. I want to learn, to grow, to explore, to adventure, and ballet class felt like a great way to keep that mantra going into the new year because, quite frankly, it scared me to death.
 
It all sounds lofty and inspiring, right? Case closed, do a fancy pirouette, right? Except after I clicked “Register,” a big problem cropped up. My lack of confidence.
 
Uncovering Passion in Ineptitude
 
To understand why taking a ballet class was such a monumental thing for me, you have to know a little bit about my athletic history. It basically doesn’t exist. I was the straight-A student who got a ‘B’ in gym class because her mile was too slow and she couldn’t touch her toes. I was the girl who was always getting hurt in gym class, the one whose mother signed her up for soccer in third grade—which led her to scoring two goals for the other team in the championship. In short, athleticism, coordination, flexibility—these have never been areas I feel confident in. To put on dance shoes and even try to showcase the athleticism it takes to do ballet was so far out of my comfort zone, I thought I might back out on that first class.
 
I’d like to tell you this article is about how I uncovered that I’m a ballet prodigy, that I’m on my way to the Rockettes after six months of class. I’d like to tell you I was a natural, that I was able to perfect all the fancy techniques in just a few weeks of hard work. But this isn’t a fairy tale or a cutesy movie. This is real life—and the truth is, I’m not perfect at ballet. Not at all.
 
I’m pretty sure there are times my very sweet and very talented instructor feels deep pain inside at what is probably an egregious error in my posture. There have been two classes now where I’ve pulled a muscle … on the warm-up stretches (Of course, I keep the ballet smile on my face because even if it’s dangerous, I’m not going to be the one to admit I pulled a groin muscle on a simple stretch). And I know the “toes pointed” reminders are usually for me. My highest leg extension is embarrassingly low to the ground, and I have to constantly remind myself to keep my back straight so I don’t accidentally twerk in class (which yes, is something that happened even though I’m pretty sure I can’t even twerk). I’m not a prodigy or good at ballet, in truth. Not at all. But do you know what I am?
 
Impassioned. Awakened. Alive.
 
And that’s worthy of any possible embarrassments in my book.
 
You Should Try Something New
 
The thing is, taking my first ballet class was never actually about the dancing. It was about learning confidence in myself by trying something brand new and terrifying. I can feel myself growing more sure of myself in all areas of my life because I know I can do things that scare me and not only survive—but thrive. When I walk out of the dance studio, I always have the biggest smile on my face and a new sense of excitement for life that a 40-hour week job in a cubicle sometimes destroys.
 
I can’t explain it, but dancing for an hour every week brings such peace to my soul. When I’m on that dance floor, I’m not thinking about to-do lists or failures or what I should be doing. I’m thinking only about the moment, about my body, and about trying to keep up. Some of it is because I’m so bad that I have to put all my energy into focusing. Regardless, the peace that comes in a crazy world from that hour a week is nothing short of a miracle for someone like me.
 
The other change I’ve noticed? I’m less critical of my body, my weight, and my appearance. I know that sounds crazy. I’m in tighter clothes and all sorts of positions staring at myself in the mirror, but I’m telling you that I no longer look at myself with disdain. I’m not eyeing up the pudgy stomach rolls or cellulite on my thighs or arms that I usually think look too big in pictures. I look at my body now as a strong foundation for movement. I study the lines and curves and postures to get them just right. Ballet has taught me a more objective eye for my body, something that I didn’t realize would be so empowering. I stand taller now. I’m kinder to my body.
 
But the biggest benefit of taking ballet—or anything new, I think—is that it reminded me it’s okay to love something you’re bad at. I’m a recovering perfectionist, something that creeps into all aspects of my life. I hold myself to ridiculous standards at work, with my dreams, with everything. But ballet has never been about trying to get to Swan Lake productions or dancing on Broadway. It’s about doing something that scares me, learning something new—and finding a new passion, which I have.
 
Sign Up for the Class that Scares You
 
I don't know where my ballet story will end. I plan to keep going and practicing. I've been dancing with a kitchen chair as my barre every night and found a Youtube channel that’s helping me learn even more. I love it, and I’m so thankful that our instructor has kept the class going. I’m six months in now, and still learning and growing. I can’t believe how far I’ve come from night one.
 
Despite all of my impassioned practice, I doubt I'll make it to Swan Lake or pointe shoes … but that's okay. Because it's already about so much more than that. 
 
Ballet gave me back a confidence I didn't know I needed, and a peace in my soul I didn't think was possible.
 
Most of all, what it’s taught me, and I hope it’s taught you from my story? It’s never too late to learn Swan Lake … or whatever that thing is you’re interested in.
 
It’s never too late to try something new that excites you, that moves you, that makes you feel alive. Because isn’t that what this whole life should be about?

“You’re past your prime.”

Looking in the mirror, this seems to be the story the fine lines, the wrinkles, the less-than-glowy skin seems to support. I stare at the lines that have shown up around my smile, the crinkles by my eyes, and I wonder if maybe it’s true. My best years are gone.

Ever since losing weight this year, my face has changed…and with it, the wrinkles, fine lines, and imperfections that used to be less noticeable have come to the surface. And I’d like to say it doesn’t bother me at all. That I swipe on the lipstick and laugh about the laugh lines. That I see beyond those marks of a well-lived life and still feel beautiful. But that’s not always the case. Society force feeds us a narrative that your youthful glow is to be protected at all costs…and sometimes it’s hard to silence that story, no matter who you are.

It’s tempting to spend money and time trying to paint back on the mask of youth. To go for treatments and buy expensive products and try to fake my way back to my 20s, when my skin always glowed and fine lines weren’t visible. 

But looking in the mirror, after the voice in my head criticizes the lines and tells me I’m on a downward slope now…I appreciate the fact that no, I’m not in my 20s. But I’m thankful for that.

Because that girl in her 20s, sure she had effortlessly glowing skin…but she also had a lot of weight she carried from the opinions of others. She was in a hustle mindset trying to impress, to be who she should be, to chase a life of meaning for everyone but herself. She might have had perfect skin…but she didn’t think so. She still noticed that mole that was annoying or the freckle by her eye she wished would go away. Even then, she didn’t feel beautiful.

So even though society tells us that your prime years are when your skin is flawless or your hair isn’t gray or your body is tight or…fill in the blank….I’m refusing to buy into it. I swipe on my lipstick and recognize that being in your prime isn’t related to how many wrinkles you have or don’t have. It’s about walking through this world, head high, confidence sparkling, because you know you’re living a life that’s completely yours.

It’s, in the words of the Rachel Hollis podcast I listened to the other morning, when you feel “astonishingly alive.” It’s when you realize that the truly beautiful glow comes when you appreciate the woman looking back at you for who she is in this moment.

So I look past the wrinkles in the photo. I look instead at the smile coming from the 30-something who has found a peace that 20-something never had. I turn from the mirror and walk out into the world, knowing that aging is a privilege, and the reward? An inner wisdom that is unshakeable. 

L.A. Detwiler is the USA Today and International bestselling author of numerous titles, including The Widow Next Door with HarperCollins UK. Learn more about her books here.

Don’t tell me you’re okay when you’re not. 
Don’t paint on the fake smile that hurts the crevices of your mouth when you feel like you can barely hold it together.
Don’t nod and say you agree when you don’t. 
Don’t try to point out the glitter when really, your deep-rooted wounds are bleeding.
Don’t feel like you have to tell me you’re okay when you’re not.

So many times, society demands us to put on a mask, to hide the dark truths of ourselves and of humanity. We smile for the camera. We put the rosy update on social media. We paint on the smile and take our voice up an octave in the professional setting because that’s what we have to do. That’s what nice girls do…they never make someone uncomfortable with realities or truths that might be less than beautiful. They tuck away the dark colored paints and only display the sunshine landscape.

But I’m here to say….don’t tell me you’re okay when you’re not. Because I’m a safe space to lean when things feel shitty. I’m a listening ear when your world is falling apart or you’re barely holding it together. I don’t need you to pretend you’re okay when you’re not. I don’t need you to smile through the pain.

I need you to be real, to be honest, even when it’s hard. I want you to cry if you need to. I want you to tell me you’re horrible when you are. Because I think there are too many women out there who propagate this ridiculous lie that women always have to be just fine. 

Life is hard, and, in truth, we’re always just seeing a tiny glimpse of who someone else is. But I think, especially as women, if we can bust up the ridiculous notion we must always smile, must always say we’re okay even when we’re not, must put on the high heels and just muscle through…if we can say no to that facade and, instead, be courageous enough to be honest…well, that’s when we can change things. That’s when we can save things. Because I think so many of us, behind the scenes, are breaking, unhappy, struggling BECAUSE we’re forced to lie about how we are.

So don’t tell me you’re okay or great or fine if you’re not. Tell me you’re shitty. Tell me you’re tired. Tell me you’re breaking. Tell me you need a minute to cry or tell me you don’t want to talk because life is too hard. Tell me the truth…and I think if we can all vow to do just that, we’ll find a realer world, where no one is under the impression that they’re alone in their struggles.

So don’t tell me you’re okay if you’re not. And I’ll do the same.

​