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writing samples

Whether ‘copywriter’ was in my job title or not, writing has always been the undercurrent of my career.

In addition to authoring corporate whitepapers, case studies, marketing materials, ads, and video scripts, I also enjoy writing personal short stories, digital and print magazine articles, blogs, and novels. Here are a few personal writing samples. 

 
 

7.8.16

less is much more than more

There was a while there when I forgot what I wanted—and didn't want. I forgot what I needed—and didn't need. And I forgot who I wanted to be—and didn't want to be. It's easy to do, and we've all done it.

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3.6.16

creative entrepreneurship

A lot can happen in one year. For me, 2015 included quitting my corporate job at ExactTarget (ten years!), finalizing plans to relocate to Bozeman, Montana, and starting a virtual marketing agency called Creative Quarterback ("CQB") that's 100% powered by freelance talent.

Read on LinkedIn

 

 

3.2.16

(im)perfect motherhood

Babies and new businesses? They have more in common than unsuspecting entrepreneurs like me realized when I started Creative Quarterback a year and a half ago. Here are just a few similarities about starting a new business.

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5.5.15

chicken soup for the soul: time to thrive

I stared at the blinking cursor and took a slow, deep breath. “To Whom It May Concern,” I typed. “I hereby tender my resignation.” After finishing the letter, I returned to the date field and typed April 6, 2015—exactly one year in the future. 

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3.2.16

the career path less traveled

The other day, I heard a story that made me stop and think—think about what we're told we should want vs. what we actually want.

When describing her ideal lifestyle to a co-worker, a friend heard the equivalent of: "Your goals aren't grand enough. You should be working toward a big, expensive house!" 

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9.5.14

chicken soup for the soul: reboot your life

Touretta Lynn’s School of Hard Knocks was no joke. My hands trembled as I double-knotted the laces on my white roller skates and tightened the throatlatch on my helmet. I raised my eyes to the dozen or so heavily-inked women gliding around the cement track. Though no two women were dressed exactly the same, there was a semblance of a uniform—ripped t-shirts, black fishnet stockings, and spandex shorts so tiny they’d make marathon runners blush. 

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