Carol Guscott

As 2025 turned to 2026, I found myself in a season of deep reflection—not just about the year behind, but about the work still ahead. Since late November, I’ve been steadily working on my manuscript after receiving it back from line editing. Every holiday passed with me at my desk,

Dear Friends, A few weeks ago, something small happened that opened something big inside me. Each month, a friend gives me a ride. Her car always welcomes me with the most beautiful music—mostly Christian songs, sometimes classical or instrumental. But it’s more than the song choice—it’s the sound. Her Tesla’s

I hadn’t planned anything special for my birthday this year. In fact, I’d hoped for a quiet day—just me, God, and the kind of stillness that lets gratitude speak louder than noise. I’ve learned that some of life’s most meaningful days come without fanfare. But I wasn’t prepared for the

Autumn arrives, and with it a whisper: much of life’s beauty unfolds in the quiet. My work on the first book is deep in editing, and I’m steadily shaping the second. Some days, progress feels invisible. But I’ve come to see that those quiet, hidden steps matter more than we

This fall, I found myself in a classroom again—surrounded by glowing screens and talk of databases. My professor compared the course to building a spaceship. I smiled, quietly wondering what I had gotten myself into. I’m the only blind student in the class. I’m also his first. There are moments

A student came home from school one afternoon and was asked how his day had gone. Rather than mentioning his struggle in chemistry class or the pressures of school life, he shared something unexpected: the sunset he had seen on his walk home. That was the highlight of his day—a

I want to share something that has humbled me—and, in its way, inspired me to keep going. A while ago, I submitted my manuscript to a printer. I thought I was finally at the finish line. But when I tried to upload the files, the bell kept ringing: Error! Error!

One early morning, I found her beneath the hibiscus—a dove, limp and frightened, one wing folded unnaturally against her side. I could tell she’d fallen or had been struck, but there was no blood, only trembling. I scooped her into my hands, as softly as I could, and carried her

“A story is something you made up from something that might have happened. Only you didn’t tell it like it was, you told it like you think it should have been.” The Kind of Truth That Lives in Fiction That quote has always stayed with me. It holds something quiet