Category: Writing

Please Enjoy My 2026 Holiday Card

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Exactly on Time

Beach-themed illustrated title card for "Please Enjoy My 2026 Holiday Card." Subtitle: "Exactly on Time." By Jackie Pick.

Hello. It is June and this is my holiday card. Why? Because I did it last year and now I’m trapped by my own nonsense.

Besides, December is overloaded with holidays and various observances. It is the junk drawer of months. June has capacity for dumb stuff like this new tradition of mine.

Many traditions are just questionable decisions that gain momentum. This is how icebreakers, Elf on the Shelf, and Rob Schneider’s career got started.

Anyway. Greetings. Happy Asteroid Day, Outfit-of-the-Day Day, Frozen Yogurt Month, and Accordion Awareness Month however you celebrate.

(Is anyone unaware of accordions?)

Dearly Beloved,

We gather here today to squint at the smoldering crater where the first half of 2026 used to be and see if we can identify any remains.

Rest was once again on my 2026 to-do list. Are you familiar with Rest? People always recommend it. “Get some Rest,” as though Rest is something I should pick up next time I’m out running errands. Wonderful. Where is it? Is there a form? Does it come in bulk? Send me the link.

Thus far in 2026, I have acquired no new hobbies. I’d like to thank myself for that. I also did not renovate any part of my house, body, or mind. Nor did I write the Great American Novel (or the Terrible American Novel.) This is either existentialism or executive dysfunction.

Back in April, I accidentally did a squat.

Spring made a brief cameo appearance here in the Midwest before being escorted off the premises by eighty-seven consecutive weather emergencies. There were tornado warnings, air quality alerts, severe thunderstorms, tentative thunderstorms, and at least one day when outside felt like the inside of a crockpot. (Meteorologists are encouraged to fact-check me in their own annual holiday card, which I assume is called “Warm Fronts.” )

Yes, I consult the weather app frequently. I don’t know why. The weather app has never once improved the weather.

Unfortunately, the world is still producing horrific headlines at a rate normally associated with cocaine usage, and we’re still expected to keep up with household chores and careers and Duolingo and figuring out whether consciousness is emergent or fundamental.

Human beings were not designed for this. Human beings were designed to get excited when we spot a delicious non-lethal berry in the wild.

Still, we persist. Perhaps humanity’s greatest tradition is committing to ridiculous things.

From the Office of Glorious Offspring, my children continue their relentless campaign to grow up. I support this in theory, while also distinctly remembering teaching them things like “this is how to use a spoon” and “don’t lick shopping carts” and “that’s not how pants work.” It’s beautiful. I hate it. I am thrilled. I am devastated. I am proud. I am confused. I am excited. I am worried. These are not opposite things.

I am handling this magnificently, obviously.

The dog also persists. His monthly tradition is to shed enough fur to create an emergency backup dog. He is the household’s resident barbarian king, and we love him.

Clearly, love is just deciding that someone’s nonsense and fuzz is worth celebrating.

Surprisingly (and against mounting evidence) I continue to write. Writing is strange because much of it looks exactly like not writing. Then, somehow, words appear. Occasionally I gather with insanely talented and profoundly kind writers, which is fortunate because writers require regular contact with other writers. Left unattended, we wander into the woods and become lichen.

Writing is my nonsense and fuzz.

As is customary in holiday cards, I shall now announce resolutions that have absolutely no chance of surviving until Labor Day. There are but three:

  1. Learn to distinguish between “This is interesting” and “I now own three turnip-specific kitchen gadgets.”
  2. Avoid arguing with fools unless the audience is exceptional.
  3. Be punctual with holiday-related blog posts. I’m already drafting my Arbor Day piece. The jokes do not write themselves.

Traditions are the nonsense we decide to keep. Some are inherited and some are accidental. Few make much sense and most make life better.

And so, I present to you THIS BERRY for your excitement …

Close-up of a ripe wild strawberry.

…and some thematic music for the rest of your Asteroid Day.

May we continue to commit to the bit.

Origin Story

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Who, PhD

This is the piece that began my writing life. It started as a Facebook Note, written in the wee hours during the first week of my daughter’s life.

I submitted the piece to Scary Mommy (polished version here). Some readers shellacked me online because, when it first ran, I wrote “Dr. Who” instead of “Doctor Who” and, mortifyingly, “pass times” instead of “pastimes.”

Totally fair, I was wrong. Fortunately, the editors jumped in and fixed it. I love editors.

I also gave (and give) myself grace. I was caring for a newborn and twin toddlers, recovering from a C-section, writing random thoughts while running on approximately four minutes of sleep. Besides, making dumb mistakes is my brand. May I make smarter ones someday.

The piece below is the original Facebook Note (with the two errors above corrected). Some lines I’d rework or remove completely now, but it’s a good snapshot of that moment.

The baby in question is now in middle school. She’s remarkable, as are her brothers. I won’t say the worry was for nothing. Honestly, a lot of my worry is well-placed — or at least well-aimed. (See: the world.)

Notes To My Daughter

I worry. I worry about the low expectations, the frilly expectations, the just-so-far-and-that’s-fine expectations for you.

“Smile!” will be begged of you by strangers on the street and friends alike. I give you permission to scowl, growl, reflect, cry, muse, sing, smile, wince all you want. It’s your face showing your heart. You do not owe the world a phony grin because we only want our girls to be happy.

Learning you were a girl brought on sighs of shopping for pink frills by well-wishers. I was assured of being thrilled. You were, according to some, a balance for your brothers. According to others, “girls rule, boys drool.” I cringe, as you might if you have sons someday…or daughters.

I hope you mix your Hermione Granger with some Judy Blume and a whole lot of Kurt Vonnegut. I hope you watch Doctor Who and Star Wars and Murphy Brown. Please cast a wary eye at the Kardashians and Twilight books and Real Housewives of Where Ever.

Women are funny. You can be more than the nurse, the wife, the exotic dancer in your scenes, if you want. You can even be more than that mythical “Brilliant Hooker.” Be the surgeon, be the husband, be the strip club owner, be the President.

You can be the ingénue, you can be the side kick, you can be Tree Number Seven.

There’s a lot to be said for being an alto. There’s a lot to be said for a cappella. Don’t be afraid of a solo.

I hope you learn to spike, field, kick, bat, dribble, run, if you want.

Pink isn’t bad, but pink isn’t all. Pink softens and dazzles. Pink is fine. Sequins are usually not.

Shout Holy Yeses as much as you can. The scary things teach and (if you’re lucky) inspire awe.

Don’t be afraid not to be liked. Be afraid of those who excuse rudeness.

Jump. Jump high.

From the moment you were born, the usual comments have been about your looks. Yes, you are beautiful, especially to your mama and daddy. Aspire to receive feedback about talents you honed, earned, and sweated for. Be dazzling. Be brilliant. Work hard. It’s not enough for you to be pretty. May being pretty matter less and less as life presents you with more interesting pastimes. Strive for brilliance, curiosity, devotion, passion, truth, humor, skill. There will still be room for pretty. The beautiful package (and it is beautiful) will be that much more precious if it’s filled with many unique gifts.

Have energy. Know when to stop.

Math isn’t hard. Math takes time for some people. Invest that time. It’s ok that there are right and wrong answers in math. There are right and wrong answers in the world sometimes.

Learn languages. Learn public transit. Learn to say no, thank you.

Be careful about using the word “bitch,” and please avoid the c-word. Other women are not your default enemy.

Learning to be concise is a gift to you and others. Listening is a greater gift.

The word “cute” really stops being a compliment after a certain age.

Worry about your health and feeling good. Indulge sometimes.

Savor.

Laugh.

Apologize.

Forgive.

Raise an eyebrow or two.

Stay my baby for a little longer and know that I would keep you wrapped up in my arms forever if I thought that would make you a better person…it wouldn’t, but it would sure feel good.

Whoever you turn out to be, whatever advice you do or don’t take…

I love you.

— Mama, on the occasion of your first week.

Spines, NyQuil, and Staring At the Ceiling

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What I Read February 2026

For a few days in February, my God-installed, non-award-winning back and intercostal muscles decided to spasm up and shut down operations. I was horizontal against my will, which is the least fun way to be horizontal. I did not enjoy this real-world lesson in what intercostals are, but I did get to spend a not-insignificant amount of time staring at the ceiling like it’s a limited series.

Just as my spine stopped trying to yeet my head down the hallway like a bowling ball, I got sick. Just like the rest of the family, only they all got it before I did.

So now I have this painful, unproductive cough, which my back is like NO, DO NOT. (You may insert your own “your writing is also painful and unproductive…NO, DO NOT” joke here. First prize is one underwhelmed “Good One, Mild Heckler” from me. Don’t spend it all in one place.)

Because of all that, this intro section is clearly going to be a bit of a wild ride, plus or minus one Mr. Toad. Whatever. It’s fine. If the intro licks a doorknob, just pretend you didn’t see it.

ANYWAY. A couple fingers of NyQuil in, and after my fourth attempt to roll over without sounding like a two-pack-a-day rusty door hinge, I started thinking about whether there might be some clever thread tying together the books I read this month. At the same time I was bellyaching about my back — *insert celestial music*

This month’s reading stack is about spines. Spines let us move through the world without collapsing into a soupy mess.

Look, I’m sticking with this premise, even if I have to force it a bit (consider it artistic chiropractic).

A man tries to stand upright in a world determined not to see him. A woman wonders what remains when cultural and personal scaffolding falls away. In another story, women hold lineage like vertebrae across generations. And in a craft book, writers are reminded that stories need structural, thematic, and other spines, and are shown how to build them.

These books also address questions of dislocation, power structures, self-determination, appearance versus reality, and the social codes that buoy and bruise us.

Which is all just to say, here are the books I enjoyed enough to finish this month:

  • Once I Was Cool: Personal Essays by Megan Stielstra
  • Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison
  • The Song of the Blue Bird by Esther Goldenberg
  • The Architecture of Story: A Technical Guide for the Dramatic Writer by Will Dunne

Note: For sanity and scale (mine, yours, and the internet’s), what follows are the openings of each review. Full versions are linked below.

Once I Was Cool: Personal Essays by Megan Stielstra

Once I Was Cool: Personal Essays

Cool is elusive and requires a certain indifference to what other people think. That’s extremely difficult to achieve for people like me who spend a certain amount of time thinking about what other people think. (Perils of the job.)

Which is to say: I am not cool. And, unlike Megan Stielstra, I may never have been.

Once I Was Cool lives in that gap between who we thought we were and who we are now…

(continued here)

Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison

Invisible Man (Edition 2) by Ellison, Ralph [Paperback(1995£©]

We tell ourselves stories about who we are. We tell ourselves that effort will be seen, that talent will be recognized, that identity is something we build and then present to the world.

Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison dismantles that.

The novel follows an unnamed young Black man trying to find his place in a society determined not to see him as an individual…

(continued here)

The Song of the Blue Bird by Esther Goldenberg

The Song of the Blue Bird: The Desert Songs Trilogy, Book 3

History is usually sung in the key of men: their journeys, their covenants, their departures and returns. The women, if they appear at all, are often relegated to the margins, tending the hearth.

The Song of the Blue Bird by Esther Goldenberg shifts the lens and begins where the women have always been: at the heart of survival and the center of the story. These women are far too busy living, enduring, scheming, loving, and adapting to remain marginalia in someone else’s story…

(continued here)

The Architecture of Story: A Technical Guide for the Dramatic Writer by Will Dunne

The Architecture of Story: A Technical Guide for the Dramatic Writer (Chicago Guides to Writing, Editing, and Publishing)

I picked up Will Dunne’s The Architecture of Story while working on my novel and trying very hard to ignore the inner voice that had begun scream-whispering, “You don’t know what you’re doing!”

I was stuck. I had reached Chapter Twelve with the creeping suspicion that Chapters One through Eleven were not only slightly disconnected from Twelve, they might also be slightly disconnected from each other and possibly from any version of “good…”

(continued here)

And there be the February reads. As always, I welcome any recommendations! Read any good books lately?