If You Write It, They Will Read Stories Built from Stardust

Lauren Nixon Matney • October 14, 2025
If You Write It, They Will Read Stories Built from Stardust

Field of Dreams


I was curled up in our giant beanbag, blankets tangled around me, Max nestled against my side. Our living room was dim, the television’s glow casting soft shadows against the walls. The beanbag itself was part of my parents’ unorthodox approach to home furnishing (hippie pragmatism at its best). My mom had decided one day that we needed a new couch, got rid of the old one, and assumed my dad would replace it. He didn’t. Instead, he got us the world’s biggest beanbag and a couple of recliners, and that was that. We loved it.


That’s where I first saw Field of Dreams curled into that beanbag, transfixed. I was young, maybe Karen’s age, when I first watched it, but I remember being completely drawn in. It wasn’t just a baseball movie. It was something bigger, something that spoke to me in a way I didn’t yet have the words for. I remember my mom loved the film. I sat still, watching it with unwavering focus.


I didn’t understand everything then, but I felt it. The rhythm of the story, the way Kevin Costner narrated with a quiet reverence, the poetry of it all. And then there was Terrence Mann. There was something about him, about the way he carried words like they were sacred, about the way he saw things beyond the surface. He wasn’t just a character to me he was an idea, a spark, a quiet voice in the back of my mind whispering, you could be a writer.


By the time the credits rolled, I knew. I wanted to write. I wanted to tell stories that reached into people’s chests and held their hearts the way this movie held mine. Someday, I wanted to write something powerful, something that helped someone... that inspired them to believe in something bigger than themselves.


Baseball was everywhere when I was a kid. Maybe it was just the time, maybe it was our tiny Texas town, but it felt like a constant, woven into the fabric of our days. My mom had this way of turning boredom into adventure she’d grab our baseball gear, round up my brother and me, and then set off on foot through the neighborhood, collecting kids like a one woman baseball recruiter. “Who wants to play?” she’d call out, and before long, we’d have a whole field of kids gathered at the park. It felt like something out of The Sandlot, like we were part of some great, unspoken tradition of childhood summers.


I wasn’t just tagging along. I played. I wanted to be just as tough, just as good as the boys around me my brother Bobby, the Greer boys, Trey, Billy, Tommy. Most of my mom’s friends had sons, and they were all like brothers to me. I had to keep up. I had to be cool. Playing alongside them, I learned to be tough, to hold my own, and to push through challenges, lessons that stayed with me beyond the game.


One game stands out in my memory. I was on second base when David Greer stepped up to bat. He swung, connected, and the ball rocketed straight into my knee. Pain flared up my leg, a sharp, breath stealing jolt, but I swallowed it down. I could have fallen. I could have cried. But the part of me that was still just a little girl (the one who wanted so badly to impress the boys) refused to. Instead, I ran. I pushed through the pain, rounded third, and made it home. Trey cheered the loudest, grinning as he called me hardcore, telling me how awesome that was. And in that moment, the pain didn’t matter. I had done it.


Field of Dreams isn’t just a movie about baseball. It’s about belief, about trusting in something even when the world tells you it’s crazy. It’s about faith—the kind that pushes you forward when everything inside you screams to turn back.


James Earl Jones’ speech still gives me chills. The way he talks about baseball as something timeless, something that connects generations that resonates with me, but it’s the deeper meaning that truly sticks.


Baseball, like music, has this unshakable way of threading through time, binding people together across years, across lifetimes. A song, like a game, can transport you. Suddenly you’re not just in the present, you’re everywhere you’ve ever heard that melody, everywhere you’ve ever stood beneath stadium lights, the hum of the crowd mixing with the echoes of something unspoken yet deeply felt. Both are more than just pastime or entertainment; they are inheritance, passed from one heart to another, uniting people who may have never met, yet somehow share the same story.

When Karen speaks up and says, Don’t sell the farm, that’s the heart of it. It’s not just about the land; it’s about not giving up, not letting fear make your choices for you. It’s about holding onto the things that matter even when everything feels uncertain.


I don’t think I fully understood that as a child. But as an adult, when I hear his words, I feel them differently. They bring comfort. They remind me to stay the course, to keep writing, to keep believing, even when it feels impossible. To keep searching for stars.


I think back to that little girl on the beanbag, wide-eyed and still, taking it all in. Maybe she didn’t fully understand why she felt what she felt. Maybe she didn’t need to. Because she knew, deep down, that she was supposed to be paying attention. That this story mattered. And that one day, she would tell her own.

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Good, Strong Words That Mean Something: A Letter of Light Through Pixelated Waves (for Heidi Clements)

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • July 5, 2026
My favorite literary phrase of all time is spoken by Josephine March, written by Louisa May Alcott in Little Women. “I like good, strong words that mean something.” You, my dear, you say good, strong words that mean something. You put good, strong words that mean something into the world, and I thank you so very sincerely for that. You have made such an incredible impact on my life, and on my outlook on beauty and aging. ⸻ I stumbled across your incredible fashion sense on Instagram and was completely hooked on your vibe. I absolutely love fashion. I always have. I’ve definitely had my own kind of zany style over the years. So when I saw you, I was like, OK, yes, she is amazing. I love this energy. ⸻ The way you put things together, the confidence, the energy, it makes you wanna get up, go into your closet, and actually enjoy getting dressed again. And for a woman approaching 40, who’s had three children and has had many of her own struggles with who am I, what’s my fashion, what’s my energy, or what’s my style, You just felt so damn refreshing and inspiring. So I hung around, but what really hooked me wasn’t just the style, it was you, the essence of you. The way you talk, the honesty, the fact that you just say things straight, no fluff, no sugarcoating, no trying to be anything other than exactly who you are.. and somehow that makes everything you say sound even more profound. ⸻ The impact your message was having in my life became undeniable. It wasn’t just something I watched for enjoyment anymore, it was something I actually began feeling, and carrying with me. I grew up in a time where it felt like there was an expiration date on women. Like if you didn’t fit into a certain mold, or size, or type… your worth somehow became less. And then life happens. You grow up. You age. Maybe have kids. Your body changes. Your priorities change. Somewhere in the middle of all of that, you can kind of lose your sense of… who am I now? What’s my style? Who am I supposed to become? Am I too late for something? What even feels like me anymore? So for a while, I think I actually bought into that idea without even realizing it. The idiodic notion that maybe I had passed some invisible point where things were supposed to quiet down. Tone down. Fit into something more “acceptable.” Or the grand illusion that I was out of time to follow my passions! But watching you… that narrative just started to fall apart. The way you show up, the way you speak, the way you move through the world so fully as yourself… it made me realize that aging isn’t something to fear or shrink from. If anything, it’s where things start to get really good. It’s where you get bolder. More comfortable. More you. More beautiful. ⸻ What you’re doing matters so much. The way you show up, the way you speak, the way you fully own who you are, it doesn’t just stay on a screen. It carries through pixelated waves. It reaches people like me, in real life, in real moments, and shifts something quietly but powerfully within us. So I just wanted to say thank you. For your honesty, your energy, your style, your voice… all of it. You have inspired me, Searching for Stars, and undoubtedly countless women all over the world more than words can truly translate. Thank you, for being you!

Getting Your Pink Back: Answered Prayers, Quiet Signs, Bluebirds and a Business Professional Poodle (A Letter of Light for Lindsey Gurk)

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • May 6, 2026
Okay, so I asked God for a sign this week… and I didn’t make it easy on Him. I had just seen this video about asking for a sign, about how God answers, about how He delights in it… and something in me just… recognized that. Like, oh. I’ve felt that before. Lindsey, it was your video. And the second I heard it, I remembered something. I remembered a time, years ago, back in that early, foggy, pinkless season of motherhood, when I had asked for a sign too. I had prayed, really specifically… really honestly… “God, just show me I’m okay. Show me I’m on the right path.” And I asked for a blue butterfly. I didn’t see it right away. I waited. I wondered if I had imagined the whole idea in the first place. And then, not long after, life moved us somewhere new. A new place, new energy… the kind of move that feels exciting and terrifying all at once. They handed us the keys… and right there on them… was a blue butterfly. And I remember feeling that same quiet recognition. Like… okay. And then, a couple months after that, with prayers inside us building for a second child, we went to a park. One of those ordinary days that turns into something you don’t forget. And there were butterflies everywhere. Hundreds of them. Yellow, filling the air, lifting all at once like something out of a dream. And right in the middle of it… one blue butterfly. I just stood there, overwhelmed, because I knew. I knew I had been heard. Nearly one year to the day later, our second child was born. And then… life kept moving. Time passed. Things got busy. Full. Loud. Beautiful… but a little hazy, too. Somewhere along the way, I think I stopped asking like that. Fast forward. I’m sitting with my kids on New Year’s Eve, going into 2025, talking about goals and dreams. The kind of things you say out loud but don’t always fully claim. “I’ve always wanted to write.” And my daughter, so sure, so certain, just looked at me and said, “Then make it your New Year’s resolution.” And something about the way she said it… she didn’t question it. she didn’t overthink it. She just… believed it was possible. So I did. I started building something I’ve carried in pieces since I was in high school. Old notebooks, scattered thoughts, songs, memories… things I’ve never really known how to explain out loud. And for the first time, it felt like someone actually got it. So I got to work. Writing with a baby asleep on my chest… voice notes, typed drafts, music playing in the background… piecing together old memories with new ones. And I love it. I really do. But if I’m being honest… I started to wonder. Is this meaningful? Is this worth the time? Is this something good… or just something I want? And more than anything… I wanted to know if it was something God saw as good. Not just something that looked meaningful… but something that was. So I sat down, quietly, and I prayed. And I said, “God, if this is something I’m supposed to keep building… if I’m on the right path… if this is your will for me… please just show me. Give me a sign.” And I paused… because I knew I couldn’t ask for something easy. I had asked for butterflies before and blue jays have been unusually common in our backyard lately. I needed something specific. Something I wouldn’t just brush off. I looked over… and saw this little pink and white poodle sitting on my daughter’s shelf. And I laughed a little and said, “Okay God… show me a poodle.” almost sarcastically thinking… well, this one’s going to take a little more effort. But of course… Not even 48 hours later, we ran into Burlington. We were just there to grab socks and shoes for my toddler, her sandals were bothering her. Quick in, quick out. We ended up wandering a little. We’re headed to checkout… and my husband steps down an aisle, picks something up, and goes, “Okay, I know this is ridiculous… but we need this for the office.” And he had no idea. Nothing about my prayer. Nothing about the poodle. I’m barely paying attention yet. And then he turns it around. It’s a painting. Of a poodle. Not just a poodle… a poodle in a full business suit… sitting at a desk… reading a newspaper. I just… stopped. A business professional poodle, for the office we’re building together, a space where I can write. Like everything in me went quiet for a second. Because of all the things in the world I could have asked for… of all the ways that prayer could have been answered… it was that. I remember thinking, smiling, fighting back tears of joy… of course it is. Because I had asked for something specific. And apparently… He has a sense of humor. Also, just to make sure I didn’t miss it… because let’s be real, God definitely knows how to show out… the very next place we went… was Petco. And there was this real poodle. Then again. And again. Every aisle I turned… I kept running into it. And that feeling came back. The same one from before. Quiet. Certain. seen. beloved. Lindsey… Thank you so much, you reminded me to ask. You reminded me that God doesn’t just hear us… He answers. Not always in big, overwhelming ways… but in ways we’ll recognize. In ways that feel personal. Specific. Sometimes even funny… like they were meant just for us. And Lindsey… I just want you to know how much I appreciate all of what you’re doing. Your energy, your humor, the way you show up so fully as yourself… it matters more than you probably realize. You make people laugh, you make motherhood feel seen, and you bring light into spaces that can feel heavy sometimes. But there is also so much more than that… God really radiates through you. In the way you speak, in the way you encourage, in the way you remind people to keep going and to keep believing. It’s powerful. And it’s beautiful to witness. What you’ve created with “get your pink back”… that message, that reminder… it’s reaching people. It’s lifting people. It’s giving something back to women who feel like they’ve poured everything out. And that matters. It really does. I’m so grateful I came across your video when I did. And I’m really looking forward to everything you create next… especially your writing. You’re doing something good here. Keep going. Please never stop casting your light into the world… it really does break through the darkness.
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