Writing it Down

I responded gingerly to that question without reservation. Life is everywhere. If we consider the act of movement and intelligence as signs of life, then life is everywhere and in everything. My dad, Thomas Pomeleo, Jr. many years ago said to me that for anything to exist, it has to be in constant motion. Nothing in existence is void or stagnant; it cannot nor could it exist if it is stagnant or void!

5 tips for writing a devotional that inspires the reader.

The ball mill is a horizontal rotating device transmitted by the outer gear. The materials are transferred to the grinding chamber through the quill shaft uniformly.

Travel writing is a competitive genre. Here is the ultimate guide to preparing a travel diary.

Better life are subtle and hard to spot. For instance, it may be that last year at this time you were returning cans and bottles to buy groceries, but now your refrigerator is always stocked

I tried to be self-descriptive about myself in this piece of writing. Even I don't know why I did this.

what are dreams?the supreme realisation of one's aspirations. compromise is as good as the sacrifice that we make in our day-to-day life.

The Bible says that: And the wild-oxen shall come down with them, and the bullocks with the bulls: and their dust will be soaked with fat, gorged with fat and made fat with fatness. This declaration is not mentioned therein in the entire Quran.

My new job has lots of numbers. It's hard for a letters girl to enjoy numbers, but as the boss says, "the analysis runs the business." (Funny, I thought we did.) I'm supposed to be creative, yet I struggle daily - often project-to-project, meeting-to-meeting. There's freedom - but it seems to be confined to a strict box. Like prisoners who get freedom by getting to walk around a yard.

The grass is at its prime in Central Park – just having drunk three days worth of spring showers. Like a fresh haircut, the blades dance in the wind, glints of sun, like glitter, are sprinkled throughout the Great Lawn. Overdressed in my late winter parka, I walk amongst the athletes, the tourists, the private high school kids in phys ed. Children run one step in front of the nannies – yet one step behind the mommies on the Blackberries.

I never called myself a writer. I never thought I was good enough – clearly limiting myself only by my own battle with perfectionism. I pursued 12-year career in advertising where writing was the PS – rather not the body – of my life. Finally, they fired me and I found myself in a moment of mental liberation. I was forced into a crossroads of low risk and nothing to lose. With fear eliminated from the equation, I took a chance. I decided that yes I was going to define myself as a writer.

Human Resources is a lovely discipline occupied by thousands of wonderfully insightful intelligent people. Formally, the field is referred to as Industrial/Organizational Psychology (or the name on your degree). The science behind Human Resources aims to make organizations more productive while ensuring productive and healthy lives for its workers. Translation: workers happy, company thrives. They even used to call it PERSONnel!

Love begins with a heart balloon.

9/11 as a number, when spoken out loud, has become redefined. For most Americans, visually 9-1-1 has always symbolized emergency. After September 11th, 2001, 9/11 represented a day that surpassed emergency. It became a day I wouldn’t forget as it happened in real time. Soon it evolved into my generation’s JFK question: “Where were you on 9/11?”

I was walking near Lincoln Center about a week after I got fired. The weather was glorious and I felt like every breath I took brought me higher and higher. I wanted to hug everyone harder and harder. I had a glow. I was in love with every morsel of life and I finally had time to taste every bite. My six-year-old son and I were skipping down the Upper West Side when I noticed a familiar face walking beside me. It was Mr. G, a seasoned weatherman (couldn’t resist the pun). I don’t watch the weat

"How old are you mommy,” my six-year-old asked me recently. I’ve told him before but it must have been in another context. He’s asking for another reason. I’m not sure why. “34,” I answer. “That’s old,” he says.