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Writer of Fiction and a spattering of personal articles. Mom, Wife, Book Lover, and Escapist.

Introducing Jennifer Brewer and a list of her work

Created by Jennifer Brewer via Canva

I have been writing “officially” for approximately three years now. Before I started writing, I worked as an Advanced Medical Support Assistant in the Mental Health Clinic for the Department of Veterans Affairs, which is a fancy way of saying I was administrative support staff to the Mental Health Clinic.

I enjoyed my eight-year career there serving those who have given so much of themselves for the comfort, safety, and freedoms we have in America.

Then I got married, became an instant mom to two wonderful boys and a few years later we had a daughter of our own. I…

I would survive, but it wouldn’t be pretty

Photo by Jonathan Borba on Unsplash. Altered by Jennifer Brewer via Canva.

I am a bit late for the party!

Danielle Loewen challenged me to write this list of 10 Things I Can’t Live Without and I’ll be damned if I am going to ignore it. Life just got in the way for a little while.

Plus, it’s a fantastic idea!

This list was difficult to put together. I am a lover of electronics and things I think will make my life easier, even if they don’t.


Without my planner, I would be lost. Time would be irrelevant, I would miss all my appointments, and nothing would get done.

When I was…

Find what works for you

Photo by Jennifer Brewer. Altered by Jennifer Brewer via Canva.

The word clean follows me through every room. Laundry, in little piles or in baskets, is everywhere I turn. Every day. Clutter from those who don’t stay in the house 24/7 piles up throughout the house. Dishes overflow from the sink and food is all over the counters.

The anxiety rises. The overwhelm hits. I’m frozen, with no idea where to start.

I open my screen to write; the page is clean and empty, but I have to fill it with words. Then organize it to make it make sense. Even here, things need to be clean. It’s never-ending.


A long goodbye

Photo by DoraLovey on DeviantArt.

You called me today.

My fingers itched and my heart raced, I wanted to answer.

I didn’t.

It has been months since we spoke last. You left some obscure nastygram on my personal Facebook feed about an invitation you didn’t get to my child’s birthday. You thought everyone could see. They couldn’t and I ignored it because what you spoke were lies, intending to provoke, and pull me out into the open for ridicule and embarrassment.

It was our eighteenth friend aversary last year. You painted and pasted some nice words and accolades for the book of faces to see…

How to enjoy an orange.

Image by Giulia Marotta from Pixabay. Altered by Jennifer Brewer via Canva.

Opening her mouth, she let out a shrill squeal of laughter. She ran, feet hitting the smooth, cool wooden floor on the way to the kitchen. Stretching up on tippy-toes, she reached her tiny hand into the fruit bowl and grabbed a small cutie, squishing it on the way back down.

She dug her fingernails into the soft flesh of the bright orange skin. Citrus filled the air, and her mouth watered while she finished ripping it away. Her hands, sticky from juice flowing, tore it in half and pulled a half-moon slice away. …

After a long day at work, Meghan heads to her car, where something sinister waits for her.

Photo by Rhett Wesley on Unsplash. Altered by Jennifer Brewer via Canva.

Keys clicked beneath Meghan’s swift fingers as she finished the note on her previous patient. She was expecting a new patient today. A Reta Brown. She lifted her head from the notes at a soft knock on the door. There a woman stood. Her arms covered her chest and her eyes were downcast.

To avoid startling the woman, she kept her voice light. “Reta, is it?”

The woman nodded and stepped into the office.

Meghan engaged her power, pulling it up from her core and out. Bright red light radiated and snapped from the woman. Spikes of electricity moved over…

Living In The Dark

Photo by Ivan Aleksic on Unsplash. Altered by Jennifer Brewer via Canva.

I sit on a cot. Wrists shackled, they hang heavy, clamped to a chain which is attached to a wall made of damp, musty rock. I walk ten steps and it pulls tight.

The scent of damp earth and excrement fills my nose with every breath.

There is squeaking and scratching from above. My skin crawls. The hairs on my arms rise.

It is pitch black.

My idea of time is skewed. The darkness swallows me, except for a tiny light that flows through the keyhole below a knob.

It is a beacon of hope, tempting me to believe there…

For my daughter

As I was watching my littlest play on the floor, these words flew through my mind. Thankfully, I could catch them before they were gone.

Image from writer’s private collection

There is a girl.

Rosy cheeks smile the biggest smile from the littlest of mouths.

Eyes bright with excitement and a touch of mischief.


She spins, spins, spins, tumbling down to giggle on the floor, rolling, little feet swinging in the air.

Now she’s up!

Curly wisps of blonde hair fly like sparks of fire as she runs, arms wide, little legs stomp, stomp, stomping into the arms of love.

Love so big, so…

A little tip I learned in college

Image Created In Canva by Jennifer Brewer

The last year and a half has been difficult for everyone and we are all doing our best to manage, one day at a time.

For me, as a writer and a parent to three school-age children who are doing school at home, this has meant a shorter window for being able to write and a higher level of stress. I find when I am overwhelmed and stressed it is difficult for me to concentrate, leading to writer’s block.

This may not be the same for everyone, but for me, this is my biggest roadblock to moving forward with a…

From a Stay at Home Mom, Homeschool Mom, and Writer Mom

Background Photo by Kaitlyn Baker on Unsplash. Photo’s by Jennifer Brewer and altered via Canva.

I have been struggling to keep up with all the things there is to do as a Writer Mom. I have the hard and wonderful distractions of all of my children being home 24/7, because of a pandemic. I spend most days making sure they get their schoolwork done, answering the many questions of a five-year-old who is discovering the world in fresh ways every day, and household chores that never get all the way done.

Somewhere in the middle of all those things are moments, literally minutes, I can try to write.

I have spent more time taking care…

Jennifer Brewer

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