Let’s get in touch . . .

Email me at heatherklanier@gmail.com

Follow me on social media. I promise never to share a post-workout selfie, although if you do, I’ll totally cheer you on!













Literary Agent
Anna Knutson Geller
Write View
info@writeview.agency
















Join my mailing list! 





Each month, I send updates on writing, parenting, and the strange beauty of being human.














	

		

			

				
			

									
			

							


			
		

		
			

				Processing…			

			

				Success! You're on the list.			

			

			

	

























Instagrammies



		

					
				If you listen to some scientists, we’re just machines. Our hearts are pumps. And there’s nothing mystical about us. But even the science tells us otherwise.  Come visit “The Heart Wing” with me, my latest essay meditating on mortality, the sacred mystery of existence, and the heart — the very real muscle, and its also-real emotional projection — that dwells within us all. (Link in bio)
			
					
				Current pothos situation. I don’t believe in intervening in the plants’ lives, but maybe it’s time to rethink that belief. 
			
					
				There were no rooms at the inn, the story goes, which sounds quaint because we’ve sung it, and inn suggests a village, and aren’t we all safe in a place called a village? Isn’t that what it takes to raise each of us? But you know what it really meant? You probably do, because Truth likely dawns on you sooner than me: No rooms at the inn meant a woman, on the edge of giving birth, along with her possibly very unprepared attendant of a husband, had nowhere to live. Were rendered homeless in the very hours that she was supposed to… and this is the kicker… birth God into this world.
			
					
				My publishing thoughts for the day. 
			
					
				I belong to an obscure religion whose teacher requires only two things: Love God. Love your neighbor. It’s not an easy charge in any month, let alone election season, and I’m wildly imperfect at it. Still, that’s the work. ❤️
			
					
				As a writing teacher, I tell my students that I’m not their audience. Their goal isn’t to please me. They are not writing for me. They’re writing for themselves, and for the readers they want to reach. I’m just their guide along their way. I’m like their midwife, helping them birth their creations. Just like the baby isn’t for the midwife, the poem or essay or story isn’t for the writing teacher. It’s for the larger world. 
			
					
				Dear parent of a newborn with something rare: Your child is beautiful and beloved. Nothing has changed that fact. No chromosome test, no symptoms, no markers—nothing can change this essential truth. Your baby is a vital part of this world, a one-of-a-kind in the tally of 8 billion people on this planet. 
			
					
				There’s a lot of striving in this world. Goal-setting. Reaching. And I don’t knock any of that. It can be useful and fun to name an aim and try for it…. But it can also be really tiring.
			
					
				There’s an MSNBC video going viral, where a representative of Moms For Liberty—an organization trying to ban LGBTQ literature from public schools (among other things)—argues that kids who are gay should be educated separately, like kids with autism and Down Syndrome. The representative says that, in the same way that (in her words) autism is shameful and wouldn’t be discussed publicly in a classroom, being gay is also shameful, so gay kids should get separate educations.