(by Barbara Treick)

Let me tell you about a spiritual experience I had in the Johannesburg airport.

No, not enlightenment.
Not a vision.
Not a message from the ancestors.

I discovered Lay’s Sweet & Smoky American BBQ chips — except the South African version, which is apparently made by angels, grill masters, and possibly a very gifted cow.

I’m not exaggerating when I say these chips changed my life.

Here’s the truth:
American BBQ chips are aggressive.
They attack your tongue like they’re trying to settle a personal score.
One handful and your taste buds file a complaint.

But South African BBQ chips?

Oh, my friends.

They are glorious.

They taste like actual beef from an actual grill — smoky, mellow, flavorful without the “blowtorch to the tongue” energy we somehow decided was patriotic in the US.

Eating them felt like someone handed me a tiny bag of braai-flavored joy.

Every chip was like,
“Hello, we would like to offer you a pleasant flavor experience.”
Not:
“PREPARE TO BE ASSAULTED BY VINEGAR, SUGAR, AND REGRET.”

I devoured an entire bag before boarding and was dangerously close to turning around and buying a suitcase full.

Honestly?
I should have.

These chips were a gift.
A revelation.
A crunchy, smoky reminder that sometimes the smallest travel discoveries become the most unforgettable ones.
A much-needed diversion during a seven-hour layover.

So here it is — my official statement:

American BBQ chips are chaos.
South African BBQ chips are poetry.

And I stand by that.

(by Barbara Treick)

This is a photo I took during a writing session — and no, it wasn’t staged.
This is what I look like when a character’s fear becomes my own.

In this moment, I was writing Joan’s slow realization that something inside her is changing. That she can’t trust her memory the way she once did. That the little slips she tried to laugh off are becoming harder to explain. Harder to hide. Harder to outrun.

And while Joan is fictional, the emotion was very, very real.

I felt her fear settle into my shoulders.
I felt that tightness behind the eyes — the one that comes when you’re trying not to admit something that terrifies you.
I felt the question she couldn’t bring herself to speak:

“What if I don’t get to stay myself?”

That line, that feeling, stopped me cold.

I’ve written emotional scenes before. I’ve stepped into the shoes of characters facing loss, danger, love, wonder. But Joan’s fog… that was different. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was subtle, creeping, the kind of fear people carry alone until they can’t anymore.

And writing that meant admit that I have asked myself the same question. Are these normal memory lapses or the begining of something worse.

This photo was taken right after I took my fingers off the keyboard.
Eyes wet. Jaw tight. Breath caught somewhere in my chest.
No acting, no performance just the raw truth of stepping fully into a character’s shoes.

I didn’t share this to show sadness.
I shared it because this is what writing honestly looks like.

Joan’s journey matters to me.
Her fear matters to me.
Her dignity matters to me.

If I’m going to tell her story, I have to let myself walk beside her — even through the fog.

And sometimes… that means crying at my desk.

Or, in this case, in my chair with my computer and a scene that asked me to go deeper than I expected.

Thanks for walking this journey with me — the emotional, messy, beautiful parts of bringing The Leopard’s Mouth stories to life.

If someone had told me a year ago that the next few months would feel like a slow-motion rocket launch, I would’ve laughed.
I mean — a rocket? Me?
I’m more of a “snail with an espresso shot” kind of woman. Although I don’t drink coffee. I like the metaphor.

And yet… here I am, looking back at the last seven weeks and thinking:

What just happened?

September 23, 2025 — I Fulfilled a 40-Year Dream

I went to South Africa.
Not “watched a documentary” went.
Not “added photos to a vision board” went.

I was there.
Walking the red earth.
Hearing lions in the distance.
Watching elephants appear from the trees like living memories.

Forty years of longing, saving, hoping—and suddenly, I was living it.

October 2025 — A Studio of My Own

As soon as I got home, another milestone clicked into place:
I finally have a functioning art and fashion studio.

Paint. Fabric. Collage. Sewing.
A creative storm center with my name on it.

It took longer than I expected, but it came together exactly when I needed it.

Late October — Back on PST… But Not Really

My body returned to Pacific Standard Time.
My mind?
Still firmly on “Write until 2am because you’re on Novel Time now” mode.

Honestly?
I’m not even mad.
There’s magic in those late-night hours.

November 11, 2025 — South Africa Round Two Is Booked

Confirmation arrived for my June 2026 return trip.
I opened that email and immediately felt the universe wink.

Some journeys aren’t done with you after one visit.

November 14, 2025 — A Ten-Year Story Finally Reaches “The End”

A decade ago, a single idea walked into my mind.
This week, I wrote the final sentence.

Ten years of notes, sketches, rewrites, tears, doubt, transformation—and then suddenly, the story was whole.

I cannot describe the feeling except:
I did it.

November 15, 2025 — Beta Readers & Book Cover Conversations Begin

Three beta readers now have their copies.
My stomach is doing Olympic-level gymnastics, but in a good way.

AND…
I’ve begun talking with an incredible artist about designing the book cover.

It’s happening.
It’s all happening.

November 15, 2025 — A Mock-Up by the End of the Year?!

This realization hit me like a lightning bolt: I might have a physical mock-up of my book in my hands before 2025 ends.

A dream I once whispered is now stepping into form.

So… How Does It Get Better Than This?

I honestly don’t know.

But I do know this: I’m excited to find out.

One step, one leap, one page, one brushstroke at a time, this creative life is unfolding in ways I never imagined possible.

And to everyone walking alongside me on this journey, Thank you.

Hold tight.
The best chapters are just beginning.

ps. The picture is of my writing a scene where the main protagonist faces her mortality. Hit me in the feels. 

At the bank today, while arranging another international wire for my next trip to South Africa, I found myself sharing stories with the same representative who helped me before — and a new employee being trained. Our conversation wandered, as good ones do: from wildlife and people to the kind of unexpected details that stay with you long after the trip ends.

We ended up talking about sunsets.
Everyone says Africa has the most spectacular ones — those skies that set the world on fire. I’d read about them, seen the photographs, waited for them. But in person? I’ll admit, I was underwhelmed. Maybe it was the wrong season, or maybe I’d already witnessed enough dramatic light from the wildfire skies here in Washington to be harder to impress.

It sent me spiraling back to the 1970s, when I was a teenager living about thirty miles south of Seattle. We had just earned our driver’s licenses — that first taste of freedom — and loved the idea of heading to “the big city.” But before we went, we’d always glance north to see if Seattle was wearing its “smog hat.” If it was, the trip was off. Most days, it was. So we stayed home and found our own kind of mischief.

Maybe my next South Africa trip will change my mind about those famous sunsets. But it also made me realize something about writing. I’m taking the literal sun out of my books — or at least stepping it back — and focusing instead on the emotions that live within those moments. The weight of quiet, the in-between light, the pulse of what’s shifting inside us as one day folds into another.

Because the real beauty of a sunrise or sunset isn’t in the color — it’s in what it awakens.

Excerpt from a writer between worlds — Africa, memory, and meaning.