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A intro to who I am and a cute little game to pass on to a few other. |
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Good morning everyone I’ve officially been tagged by Jack Of Diamonds to share 6 things about myself. It’s always a bit daunting to sum up a life in 6 points, but here is a glimpse into my journey: 1. The Spark: My writing journey started in 6th grade. My language Arts teacher gave me my first “writer’s high” when she told me I had genuine talent. She believed that with a little work, I could make it as a professional, and I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since. 2. Small Town Roots: I grew up in a small community in Eastern Kentucky. There’s something unique about the pace of life there that stays with you, no matter where you go. 3. High- Flying Ambitions: Back in school, I was always active- I played volleyball, was on the flag team, and joined the Air Force Jr. ROTC. At one point, my dream was to be a jet fighter pilot!! 4. A Mother’s Heart: I am the proud mother of four amazing children. One of my children was born with Hypo-plastic Left Heart Syndrome (HLHS). Navigating that journey taught me a level of strength and resilience I never knew I possessed. 5. Overcoming the Odds: Life hasn’t always been easy. I’ve faced the heavy loss of my father and fought the hard battle of overcoming addiction. These experiences have shaped who I am and give me a deep well of emotion to draw from in my writing. 6. New Beginnings: I’m here to keep honing that talent my 6th-grade teacher saw in me. Writing is my way of processing the world and sharing the lessons Ive learned along the way. Now, to keep the “infection” going, I’m passing the baton! I’m tagging these three members to share their own six things: @TeeGateM @Magoo @Wolfkingdom |
Who’s Really Writing My Poems? I write poetry from the fire in my chest—from heartbreak, obsession, longing. Every line begins inside me, with a pulse I can’t ignore. Lately, I’ve been thinking about the questions writers often face: when someone helps shape your words, where does your voice end, and someone else’s influence begin? The Role of Guidance Sometimes we get help—feedback, suggestions, or guidance. That can be amazing for clarity, rhythm, or flow. But the key is this: the ideas, the emotion, the pulse—they start with you. The guidance should never override your vision, never dilute the fire that made the poem yours in the first place. I make every choice about what stays, what goes, and how it reads. If a line doesn’t feel like me, it’s gone. The poem only lives if it still feels raw, jagged, and human—like the heartbeat that started it. Editors: Another Kind of Influence Editors can do incredible work—helping polish structure or shape a piece for readers—but they inevitably bring their perspective. Their suggestions may shift the work, even subtly, toward their voice. That’s why it’s so important to know where your boundaries are and make sure the final piece still reflects your chest, your fire, your scars. The Difference That Matters The difference isn’t in the help you receive—it’s in who owns the emotion, the imagery, and the ideas. If the piece still feels like you in every line, it belongs to you. If it starts feeling like someone else’s vision, it’s no longer fully yours. Questions for Other Writers • Where do you draw the line between help and intrusion? • How do you preserve your voice when someone else shapes your work? • How do you know a poem is truly yours at the end of the process? For me, the answer is simple: every idea, every pulse, every line is mine. Guidance or editing can help me hear my own voice clearer, sharper, and stronger—but the fire, the obsession, the longing—they are mine and mine alone. |
| I spent a long time trying to be the right volume for people who only knew how to listen to silence. In my poetry, I’ve written about feeling like a question mark—bent and uncertain—but I’m learning that my light wasn’t the problem; the room was. If I am "too much," it’s because I have finally stopped trying to fit into the small spaces others built for me. Today, I’m not watering shadows. I’m standing in the sun I created for myself. |
| Maybe My Happily Ever After Looks Different I don’t think I’ll ever get my happily ever after. Not the fairytale kind, anyway. The kind where everything lines up neatly, where love stays, where the past doesn’t keep tapping you on the shoulder like it has unfinished business. I haven’t lived a life of a saint. I’ve been an addict. I’ve made drastic mistakes—choices I can’t undo, moments I wish I could rewind just to breathe differently. I’ve hurt people. I’ve hurt myself. And sometimes it feels like those things are stamped permanently onto me, like they’re the first thing the world sees when it looks my way. I was born a poor, white girl in Eastern Kentucky. And I ask myself all the time if that alone wrote the outline of my life before I ever got a chance to hold the pen. If my ending was decided somewhere between generational poverty, limited opportunity, and a system that doesn’t exactly leave room for detours or redemption arcs. Does where you come from get to decide how far you go? Does who you used to be cancel out who you’re trying so hard to become? I try to do good now. I really do. I love deeply. I show up when I can. I feel things intensely, maybe too intensely, but I don’t know how to be halfway about anything that matters. Still, there’s this quiet fear that no matter how much good I stack on top of the bad, the scale will never tip far enough in my favor. Like I’ve already used up my chances. Like happiness is something other people inherit, not something I earn. Sometimes I wonder if “happily ever after” is just another privilege—something reserved for people who started life with a softer landing. People who didn’t have to claw their way out of survival mode before they could even think about dreaming. And yet… I’m still here. Still hoping, even when I pretend I’m not. Still believing, on my bravest days, that maybe my life isn’t a punishment—it’s a process. Maybe happily ever after doesn’t come wrapped in perfection. Maybe it doesn’t look like stability that never shakes or love that never leaves. Maybe it looks like waking up sober. Like choosing growth when it would be easier to stay bitter. Like learning to forgive yourself even when the world doesn’t. I don’t know if I’ll get the ending I once imagined. But I know this: I deserve peace. I deserve love that doesn’t feel like a test. I deserve a life that isn’t defined solely by where I came from or who I was at my worst. And maybe that’s my rebellion— believing I’m worthy anyway. |
| Lately, I’ve been thinking about how much pressure we put on life to be remarkable. Big moments. Big progress. Big proof that we’re doing something right. But the truth is, the days that feel the most grounding rarely come with announcements. They arrive softly. My favorite part of the day has become the ten minutes before everything else begins—the first sip of coffee, the quiet hum of the house, the feeling that time hasn’t started chasing me yet. It’s nothing special on paper, and somehow it’s everything. Those small pauses are where my mind loosens, where ideas breathe, where I remember I’m a person before I’m a producer. We’re quick to overlook these moments because they don’t sparkle. But creativity doesn’t live in fireworks—it lives in glimmers. The way sunlight drifts across a desk in the afternoon. The unexpected joy of a pen that moves like it understands you. The calm satisfaction of being present without needing a reason. I’m learning that these “boring” details are what actually hold a life together. They don’t demand attention, but they deserve it. So I’ll ask you what I’m asking myself today: What small, ordinary thing gave you a quiet smile—just for a moment? ~Emberly Gray~ |
If you looked at my high school journals, they were filled with the roar of jet engines. Back in my Air Force Jr. ROTC days, the only dream I had was becoming a fighter pilot. I wanted the high-altitude views and the prestige of that flight suit. That dream didn’t come true. Instead of a cockpit, I found myself in hospital rooms for my child’s HLHS journey, and instead of soaring above the clouds, I had to learn how to crawl out of the darkness of addiction. For a long time, I viewed these "un-met" dreams as failures. But lately, I’ve realized that when one door closed on the life I thought I wanted, it forced me to build a home in the life I needed. • The Reality: I didn't get the "fighter pilot" wings, but I developed a fighter’s heart. • The Silver Lining: If I were up in the sky, I might have missed the "writer’s high" that I’m rediscovering right now. • The Lesson: Some dreams don't come true so that better stories can be written. I’m still chasing that talent my 6th-grade teacher saw in me. It turns out, I don't need a jet to feel like I’m flying; I just need a blank page. |
I used to think being a fighter meant wearing a flight suit and sitting in the cockpit of a jet. That was the dream back in my Jr. ROTC days—clear goals, physical challenges, and a visible uniform. But life decided to give me a different kind of combat training. I’ve traded the ambition of a fighter pilot for the daily resilience of a mother and a survivor. There’s a specific kind of "fighter" spirit you develop when you're navigating a child's HLHS journey or facing down the shadows of addiction. You don't get a medal for these battles, and the uniform is usually just a tired pair of jeans and a heart that refuses to quit. What I’ve realized about fighting on the ground: • The Best Weapons are Words: Writing is how I process the "rock bottom" moments and turn them into something useful. • Scars are Just Maps: Every loss and every struggle, like losing my father, has mapped out the person I am today. • Victory is Quiet: Sometimes the biggest win isn't a "writer's high"—it's just showing up to the page when things are hard. I may not be flying jets, but I’m still fighting every day to honor that talent my 6th-grade teacher saw in me. |
| They say it’s the little things that make up a life, and lately, I’ve been leaning into that. Today, I realized that my favorite part of the day isn't a big milestone or a finished project—it's that first quiet ten minutes with a cup of coffee before the rest of the world starts making noise. It made me think: how often do we rush past the small "glimmers" because we're waiting for the "fireworks"? Whether it’s the way the light hits my desk in the afternoon or finding the perfect pen that actually glides across the paper, these tiny moments are what actually keep the creative gears turning. What’s one small, "boring" thing that made you smile today? ~Emberly Gray~ |
I’ve been thinking a lot about the dirt roads and rolling hills of my home in Eastern Kentucky. When I was a girl in 6th grade—back when that first "writer's high" hit—I used to think that to tell a great story, I had to write about far-off cities or high-flying jets. I thought my small town was too quiet for the "professional" talent my teacher saw in me. But as I look at my four children today, especially as I reflect on the resilience we’ve gained through my child’s HLHS journey, I realize that the best stories aren't found in the destination—they are found in the roots. What I’ve Learned Since the "Spark" • The Power of Quiet: In a small community, you learn to listen to the silence. That silence is where my best ideas for Short Stories usually hide, often while I’m doing the laundry or trying to catch a few hours of sleep. • Grit is a Heritage: Overcoming addiction and facing the loss of my father taught me that "resilience" isn't just a buzzword; it’s a survival skill I learned from the people back home. • The Fighter & The Dreamer: I may not have become a jet fighter pilot, but I fight every day on the page. Writing is how I navigate the "rock bottom" moments and turn them into something beautiful. A Question for the Community I’m still working on filling all six spots in my Six Interesting Things book. It’s a process of rediscovery. Does your hometown still influence the "vibe" of your writing, or have you left those roots behind to create something entirely new? ~Emberly Gray~ ~Emberly Gray~ |
| I was thinking today about how many "lives" I’ve lived in just 41 years. There was the 6th grader chasing a writer’s high, the small-town girl from Eastern Kentucky, and even the teenager in Jr. ROTC dreaming of being a fighter pilot. Sometimes it feels like those versions of me belong to different people. But lately, I’ve realized they all show up in my writing: • The Fighter: The part of me that navigated my child’s HLHS journey and fought through addiction. This version gives my words their grit and resilience. • The Dreamer: The girl who looks at a Mirror Tree and sees a story instead of just bark. • The Mother: The heart that bleeds in ink for her mighty children. Writing is the thread that ties all those "Emberlys" together. It’s how I make sense of the rock bottom moments and the high-flying ambitions. What about you? Is there a "past version" of yourself that still shows up in your work today? |
| Title: The First of Six: A Little Bit of Context Welcome to my new journal! I decided to start this space as a way to share parts of my life that don't always make it into my other writing. They say everyone has at least six stories worth telling, so I’m using this book to dive into mine. For my very first "interesting thing," I wanted to share why I write. For me, writing isn't just a hobby—it's how I process the world. Whether I'm working on a Short Story or just jotting down My Thoughts, putting pen to paper (or fingers to keys) helps me find clarity. A few quick facts to kick things off: • The Inspiration: I find a lot of my ideas while I'm supposed to be doing other things—like laundry or sleeping. • The Goal: To fill all six spots in this book with something that makes you laugh, think, or say "I didn't know that!" • The Vibe: Honest, a little bit random, and hopefully, relatable. I’m looking forward to sharing the next five things with you all. Thanks for stopping by my Portfolio to read! ~Emberly Gray~ ~Emberly Gray~ |
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