One of the strangest parts of being a writer is this: We carry compliments like secret lanterns… and we carry criticism like splinters — even when it’s true. So let’s talk about both. Not to self-doubt… but to grow. What’s the best compliment you’ve ever received on your work? (What line, comment, or reaction stayed with you?) What’s the most accurate criticism you’ve ever received? (The kind that stung… because it was right.) 💬 Drop your answers below — and if you want, tell us what it changed in your writing afterward. This is a safe space. No egos. Just craft. 🖤

What’s a book that made you fall in love with language for the first time? Not the one you were assigned. Not the one you skimmed for a test. The one that made you pause mid-sentence and think, oh… words can do that. Maybe it was a line you reread three times. Maybe it felt like someone reached into your chest and named something you’d never said out loud. 📖 What was it? And if you remember—how old were you when it found you? (There’s no wrong answer here. Just stories wearing book covers.)

I’ve been a little MIA lately — between the holidays and being sick, I’ve been moving slower than usual (and surviving off tea and stubbornness 😮‍💨☕). But coming back in and seeing this space flourishing? Seeing you all sharing work, encouraging each other, showing up with your voices and your bravery? It genuinely makes my heart swell. So first — WELCOME to all of our new members. 🖤 I’m so happy you’re here, and I’m so excited to see what you bring into this Parlor. Now… because we’re writers and we heal by bleeding ink: 🗝️ Writing Prompt: Write a poem that includes these three things: a key a shadow a promise It can be literal or symbolic. It can be tender, eerie, romantic, furious, soft, or haunting. It can be the key to freedom… or the key to a door you should’ve never opened. Drop your responses in the comments or post them in the Community Share when you’re ready. ✨ I’ll be reading. — M. Allshouse 🖋️🖤

“Graham! Come inside, please! It’s getting dark and dinner’s almost ready!” his mother called out into the deepening twilight. Graham sighed and groaned as his attention was abruptly jerked away from the sound of the rushes dancing in the wind, their roots straining between the rocks in the gravelly creek bed, and the song of the water accompanying them. He had almost heard the rhythm that tied it all together, and his mother had to go and ruin it again. He knew it was futile to try to go back to listening, as she would keep yelling for him if he didn’t get inside soon. “I will be back tomorrow, “ he whispered to the creek, the gravel, the rushes, and the wind. “Swishahh, swishasheshewwww,” they replied, wrapping tendrils of sound around his mind and heart, almost drawing him back into reverie for a lingering moment, and then “Bam!” The door slammed as his mother went inside, shocking him back into her agenda. With another groan, Graham pressed himself up from a deep squat and trailed his hand along the fluffy tops of the rushes as he started walking, then skipping, then running towards the house. After he emerged from the reeds, the wind kept the rhythm of the waves of motion, lifting his outstretched arms, whistling through his hair. His heart, his breath, his foot falls playing the drum beats for the wind’s flutes. He could almost hear the recipe for flying, and would have taken off if it weren’t for his dad stepping in front of him and plucking him out of his rhythm, out of the wind, and twirling him back into his orbit. “Not so fast, young man. You didn’t finish your chores. I will let your mother know you will be in for dinner right after you finish spreading the pile of gravel onto the garden path. And don’t make an art project of it. Just spread it out and come in for dinner. Do you hear me?” he insisted, holding Graham’s shoulders firmly, demanding that he comply. “Yes, sir,” Graham replied, and slumped to the gravel pile he had abandoned earlier to answer the call of the wind in the reeds. It was all he could do to resist the urge to make music out of the sounds the rake made flowing through the gravel. “Just get the job done or they will start yelling again,” he told himself, over and over, ignoring the vibrations flowing up the handle of the rake, each piece of gravel calling to him with the voice of a long lost friend.

Our Hearts are Closest to Our Minds … Taking the Healing Paths Back2 Self … PeaceFully Potential Storms of CalmNess … Infinite Blessingz of TranQuil Neutralities … Centering Autonomous Embodiment … Wolf