Is This Thing On? is a newsletter about life’s big questions, small victories, and why I still think I should’ve been “Dark Angel.” Welcome. I’m so glad you’re here. XO, Sabrina
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It’s bedtime, but my Kindergartener wants to play with shadows cast by the flashlight I’ve turned on.
Lately, weeknights have turned parts of our home orbital—a glowing screen with my “older boys” (now 11 and 9) circling, lobbying hard for West-Coast playoff games.
On school nights, an 8:30 p.m. tip-off buys them a single quarter, maybe two.
If it’s a close game, negotiations begin with their kid-safe watches pinging me from another room around halftime.
(I’m the Internet and screentime gatekeeper around here, and I like it that way).
I’m (a little more) generous on Friday nights and weekends, but by 9:30 p.m., my flashlight burns like a runway light for their climb to bed around 10 p.m.; a bedtime that still feels like a stretch.
My youngest, already coaxed upstairs, resists sleep. His consolation is our time alone—just him and Mama.
He turns the flashlight into entertainment, stretching a silver Slinky between his hands until a perfect circle blooms on the wall.
He points to the largest opening like it’s a magic portal. I lean closer and show him the smaller shadows, the tight spirals nested inside the rim.
But perspective is stubborn.
He sees possibility.
I see the complexities he doesn’t yet notice.
I watch him in awe of the shadows that morph into a Spirograph—hypnotic, looping lines from childhood that draw themselves onto the wall.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about who gets to call themselves a writer.
Is this title reserved for those who have a byline in a glossy magazine?
Or for those with a bookshelf lined with their own hardcovers?
As a former journalist, I suppose my definition of a writer has always been someone who makes a living off their craft.
Something I’ve spent the majority of my adult life trying to do.
I stepped away from newsrooms, late nights, deadlines, and AP Style years ago to enter into the blogosphere (as it was called so long ago), to pursue freelancing, and raise a family.
Back then my days were snacks and spills, playdates and library time, sleep regressions and nightly wake ups.
In many ways my life still looks like that. But with even larger (and stinker) loads of laundry to keep up with.
I’ve spent money I didn’t have on workshops, craft seminars, and manuscript edits chasing that elusive clarity.
In one seminar, the homework assignment forced us to read and critique our own work in a way I had not done before.
I hated my pages so much, I stopped writing for an entire year.
This journey of trying to excavate my path to authorhood and writership, has forced me to reckon with where I’ve rested my growth over the last two decades (I know, lucky me).
I trace the lineage of my disdain like a family tree. I think of how often I mistook stillness for security.
In this period of reflection, I’ve learned that writing, people, and the Slinky in my son’s hands—they are all the same: giant circles that break open and reveal their helix.
There’s a file on my computer called Document 10. No real name, just a number, auto-generated .
I slip in and out of it between Lego avalanches, flipping pancakes, coordinating carpools, and listening to my kids’ business ideas (some better than others).
It holds half-formed essays, abandoned newsletters, angry paragraphs.
Document 10 is where I scream, rejoice, release.
Sometimes, it’s six pages of something almost alive. Other times, just fragments—thoughts, ideas, false starts.
It’s where I draft twenty different “About the Author” blurbs and a whole “Acknowledgments” page for a someday that has yet to arrive.
It’s where I edit people and places I can’t edit in real life.
In some ways I feel comforted by Document 10’s existence because it’s a place where I can stretch my legs.
But I also resent it for watching me mourn the ghost of who I thought I’d be by now.
The title Writer feels slippery in my hands.
When the basketball game ends, my kids tumble upstairs.
“It was kind of boring,” my son concedes.
No comeback, no buzzer-beater.
My Kindergartner tucks his Slinky under his pillow.
“It might bend,” I say.
“No, it won’t,” he replies immediately, confident.
I know better, but he’ll learn with experience.
Once everyone is tucked in, I turn off the flashlight.
The shadowy spiral that clung to the wall moments ago dissolves, and the faint glow from a streetlight outside settles in its place.
Thanks for being here. If this writing resonated with you, please follow, share and subscribe to receive new posts and support my work. XO, Sabrina
I love your voice! 🥰
I already hear your voice when I read your newsletters, but I loved actually hearing where you added inflection and a little more drama. ❤️