Writing Samples
The writing samples below are my own original work and are protected under copyright. All rights reserved. I don’t share client work or use AI to generate content.
Memoir Sample 1
The following is an excerpt from my upcoming memoir, Grace Gets the Last Word on Love.
After a couple of months, I was ready to start dating again. The dates I went on were disasters, but at least they gave me some good stories.
There was a guy who would call me and talk nonstop. I could barely get a word in. One night, I got so tired of being on the phone with him that I walked over to my front door, knocked on it, and said I had to go because someone was at the door. I still agreed to go out to dinner with him, though. Don’t ask me why.
During dinner he asked if I wanted to see a picture of his pride and joy. I said sure, thinking he meant his dog. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a little photo of a bottle of Pride dish soap next to a bottle of Joy dish soap. Later, when the waitress brought the check, he asked her the same thing.
As we were walking back to the car after dinner, he laughed, tapped me on the back and said, “what’s this?”
I had bought a new blouse and forgot to take the tag off. It wasn’t a small tag either. It was a big, round one and it was now dangling down the middle of my back.
When we got back, I asked him to drop me off at the apartment complex next to mine, saying I was visiting a friend. That part was true. I did have a friend there, but I mostly did it to avoid any awkwardness. Part of me was afraid he might want to come inside, and I had no intention of letting him. As soon as he drove away, I quietly walked back to my apartment and locked the door behind me.
I went to the back room and sat down at the computer. Five minutes later, I heard a knock at the door. I started to get up, but as I reached the doorway, I felt strongly in my spirit that I should stop. I froze.
The knocking turned to pounding. The doorknob rattled. Then came banging on the window. There was no yelling, just noise. I stood there shaking, whispering prayers. And then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
I should have called the police or at least apartment security, but the phone was in the front room, and by the time I had worked up the courage to move, whoever it was had already gone.
I don’t know for sure who it was. Maybe it was him. Maybe it wasn’t. But the timing still makes me wonder. What I do know is this: I believe God protected me that night, not just from whoever was at the door, but from the emotional vulnerability I still carried.
A few weeks later, I went on another date. It was just a casual lunch, but it didn’t take long to realize, once again, that there was no connection. No spark. No chemistry. It wasn’t his fault. We were simply two people who weren’t meant for each other. The whole thing felt awkward and emotionally draining.
After we said goodbye, I walked to my car with a heaviness I couldn’t shake. As I drove home, the weight of everything, the disappointment, the weariness, the ache, hit me like a wave. Tears welled up and spilled down my cheeks. I wasn’t crying because the date didn’t work out. I was crying because I was tired. Tired of the uncertainty. Tired of feeling vulnerable. Tired of trying to navigate it all on my own.
As I drove in the quiet, tear-filled car, something shifted. In that moment, just like years earlier when I surrendered my plans to God while driving home from the community college, I found myself at another crossroads. This time, I surrendered my love life. Right there, driving down I-35 in Dallas, I handed it all over to Him: the hope, the longing, the ache, the desire to be chosen and loved. I gave it to the only One who knew the full story, the ending, and everything in between.
Next time, it would be the right one. The one God chose for me. The one He promised me years earlier. I would trust God to show me when that was. Until then, I was done.
Memoir Sample 2
The following is a memoir sample written in the voice of a fictional client. The purpose is to demonstrate my writing skills and is not reflective of any real client stories.
In August 1985, when I was seven years old, my mother and I took a trip to my grandparent’s house in Dallas. As we drove down I-35 in her green Toyota Celica, I sensed something different about this visit. Mom didn’t say much, just tapped her fingers against the steering wheel while Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A. played on the radio.
The air was hot and heavy because the air conditioner hadn’t worked all summer. I grabbed the handle to roll the window down.
“Roll that back up, Julia.”
“But it’s hot.”
“You’ll be fine. We’ll be there soon. I don’t want the wind to mess up my hair.”
When we got to the house, Grandma had cookies cooling on the kitchen counter. She hugged me, handed me two, and told me to go sit with Grandpa, who was in his recliner watching an old western on TV.
“Hi, Peanut,” he said when I walked in.
I plopped down on the couch beside him, pretending to watch. Voices rose in the kitchen, Grandma saying something about responsibility, Mom saying something about chasing her dreams. Then I heard the bathroom door close, followed by the hiss of hairspray.
A moment later she came out, kissed me on the head, and said, “Be a good girl, okay?” Then she was gone.
I watched from the window as the green Toyota disappeared down the road. I wouldn’t see her again for ten years.
It took a while for the truth to sink in. My grandparents became my anchor in a world that had been unsteady since I was born. They enrolled me in school, came to every recital and every game, and taught me right from wrong. I never once heard them speak harshly of my mother. When I said, “I hate her,” Grandma looked at me with pain in her eyes and whispered, “No, Julia. You must never say such things.”
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