I will no longer talk politics on social media. There. I said it. You may be thinking, "So what? This chick probably isn't very politically minded anyways." Wrong. I'm a musician, and to be honest, I rarely know the top hits of the day because my radio is always tuned into news talk stations. I'm extremely well-informed. My kids are almost as well informed as I am. I keep my thumb on the political pulse of our world every day. No, that's not why I'm giving up talking politics on social media. "But, Tara," my friends say, "the stakes have…

"Runt." "He'll never live." "He's so scrawny." I don't know what I did wrong. I was born, I guess. While all my brothers and sisters were cute, wriggly little pups, I was the outcast. Never expected to do much. To be much. At the pet store, the chubby, groping fingers of girls and boys would rove over all of our heads, scratching our ears, picking us up and snuggling their cheeks next to ours. Such happy feelings filled me, I couldn't help but lick their giggling faces with big swipes of my tongue. But eventually those happy feelings died as…

by Tara Johnson I was recently asked to give an aspiring writer my best piece of writing advice. I could have told her to study the craft, which is extremely important, or given her a list of blog and books to follow. Also important. Or I could have given her a checklist of a thousand other steps to pursue her dream, but after much thought, I gave her my best piece of advice: write from your scars. Let me explain. Not long ago, my two year old son fell outside on the driveway and scraped up his hand. At the…

Our little family was recently reminiscing over funny memories from way back when. You know, when the girls were three and six, instead of the mature ten and thirteen year olds they are now. Especially in light of this coming Father's Day weekend, my oldest daughter remembered something very sweet about her daddy.  "Dad, remember how I was never scared of monsters in my closet, but I was always terrified of monsters coming down the hall?" He laughed. "I remember." She grinned. "But instead of getting mad at me for worrying about monsters coming through my bedroom door, you would…

Y'all, this writing gig is hard. I recently saw a pic that summed up the process perfectly. "You read a scene and think, 'That was nice.' Time it took you to read the scene? Five minutes. Time it took the author to write the scene? Five bazillion hours." Okay, so maybe that's an exaggeration but you get the idea. It's hard work. More than I ever dreamed possible. And just when I think the sleepless nights, the outpouring of creativity, the frazzled nerves will pay off, I get word that more revisions are needed. So it's back to work. Again.…

I sprinted behind my son, attempting to wrap his dripping hair in a towel. Wrestling him out of the bath had worn me out. Wrestling him into pajamas was even more difficult. Now he had broken free and was running down the hall. He squealed in delight as I huffed, "Boy, when I get a hold of you..." We rounded the corner and I stopped short, blinking in surprise. My husband stood in the living room, a big grin on his face. His hands gripped a beautiful violin and bow. The irritation with my wayward son melted away.  My breath…