Perspective: It's a funny thing.

Sometimes a clarinet falls off a bookshelf, lands on your head, and forces you to hit the pause button on life.

Just such an event happened to me this week. I was minding my own business, while I was putting away a multitude of books I'd pulled down to ogle, when from out of nowhere - BAM - I took a clarinet to the head.

Now, I know what you're thinking:

What the heck?! 

How did this happen?! 

Both are valid questions, but not the purpose of these ramblings. Just know I'm me, and I can always find a way to hit my head. Daily. Painfully. Always.

We're off topic. This post is not about the clarinet or the concussion that I'm currently managing (did you know your face and hands can tingle when you're concussed!?! It's a THING.).

No. It's obvious this random, out of the blue post - the first post I've been inspired to write in goodness only knows how long - would not be merely about a ninja clarinet jumping out of the sky and attacking a helpless human. Nope.

And it's not about how unpredictable life is or how we have to deal with the unexpected and not allow ourselves to give up in the face of adversity. Nope. Not that one either. So what the heck is this post about?!

It's about perspective.

Let me explain.

See, the clarinet whacked me on the head, and I immediately sat down on the ground, put my head in my hands, and thought: Good gravy, that's a thing that just happened.

Then I got to thinking as the dizziness set in and vomit started to rise in my throat: You know, Ang, compared to publishing a book this is WAY worse. 

While I'm on the mend and feeling exponentially better, this whole incident could've been disastrous. I know disastrous. I've seen it first hand. We all have. One moment life's just plodding along and we're all "ho-da-hum" when BAM - life halts us in our tracks. Most the time, we think about persevering. Most the time, we're so busy experiencing the moment that we can't take a step back and compare and contrast. However, this time I did. This time I sat down and processed the moment. 

I thought about the knot of apprehension and anxiety that's been plaguing me the last few months. The constant worry and feelings of inadequacy I've been lugging around on my back. How I've been suffering from daily panic attacks complete with my heart try to escape my chest and my lungs forgetting how to breathe. And why have I been feeling this way? Why have I been on the verge of a mental breakdown? Over publishing a book. 

Perspective. 

It's important. 

The clarinet could've killed me or damaged my brain. That might sound dramatic, but it could have. Publishing a book? It wouldn't kill me. I mean, it's going to shave a few years off my life. It's going to leave me feeling weak and lacking. Hell, I'm already feeling all those things plus some. But it will not kill me. If anything, it will make me stronger. 

So what if it fails?

So what if you all hate it?

So what if I'm not worthy?

So what if I make a fool of myself?

I'm alive. I took a chance. And for the first time in my life, I'll get to hold a book with my name on the cover. How cool is that? 

Perspective.

It's a funny thing.

And sometimes you've got to take a clarinet to the head to find it.

What if ... I told you I was self publishing?

Four years ago I started writing my third novel.

Three years ago I decided it *might* be the one.

Two years ago I started researching publishing while revising/editing.

One year ago I decided I would self-publish.

Today

I'm proudly,

ecstatically,

nervously,

anxiously,

joyously 

announcing 

I am going to self-publish!

I know there are questions.

What socks are you wearing?*

What's your favorite pie?**
How much wood would a woodchuck chuck?***

Maybe even, oh I don't know:

What's the title of the book?
When will it come out?

What's it even about?

All valid questions.

And it totally makes sense that I would answer them now.

But when have I ever done anything that makes sense?****
Instead

let's have a dance party,

shall we?!

Nooooow,

if y'all will excuse me,

Imma gonna go vom-a-scream.

Peace out.

*Um... that's kind of a creepy question. Maybe stop being a stalker?

**Are you trying to break my brain-brain!?! How could I POSSIBLE pick just one?! 

***ALL OF IT. Duh.

****Never. The answer is never. 

Is This Thing On?

Sooooo... 

Long boring story short:

Let's travel back in time. 

Allllll the way to February.

A time when I was young and naive and full of vinegar.

Or was I just bitter? 

Hm...

Ang: Dearest MoveFather*, 

Why do you want me to pay three times the monies to host my website?

MoveFather: Because.

Ang: Then I shall leave you and go elsewhere!!!

What do you think about THAT?!

MoveFather:

Ang: Dear aSheet*, I hear tell you are amazing.
Are you compatible with Blogger?

aSheet: YES!
WE ARE AMAZING.
WE WANT TO HELP YOU.
WE CAN DO ALL THE THINGS.

Ang: YES!

Sign. Me. Up.

Wait...

Why my site no work?

aSheet: Hmmm... 

Don't know.

Ang: How do we fix it?
aSheet: Try these things?

Ang: Things did not work.

aSheet: Interesting.

How about these things?

Ang: Still nothing.

aSheet: *insert elevator music*
Ang: Hello? Help?
aSheet: Hello.
Who are you?
Oh yeah.
Um... things?

Ang: Do you even care?

aSheet:

Ang:

Annnnnd scene.

There ya have it, folks.

Roughly six months later, 

the problem remains and

I'm moving on.

For now, I'll be using my good ole Blogger address.

I'm going back to my roots.
Sort. Of. Perfect.

As the queen of typos, awkward sign-offs, pointless posts,

and logic that don't never make no sense, 

let's close this out with a song, shall we?!

See y'all on the flip-side!

PEACE.

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent.
**It's possible I've watched this video on repeat for hours at a time. This is a thing that might be happening right now. I regret nothing.
***I know it's vigor. Not vinegar. I'm funny. And clever. Ya dig? Or is it vinegar? Hm... Did I mention I'm clever?
bestie note: you're too nice. i wouldn't change their names cause they're stupid. ::coughiPagecoughGoDaddycough::

If J.K. Rowling Cares About Writing, She Should Keep Doing It

This morning, I read an article. To say the article offended me is putting it lightly. It not only targeted me as a reader, writer, and parent, but embarrassed me as a professional. It is Ms. Shepherd's right to express her opinion and I respect that right. If she wanted to garner herself attention, she has done it. If she wanted to create a stir, she has succeed. Yet, a byproduct of this article is she has successfully dug a deeper hole for all us "desperate" writers she claims to care about.

I am nothing when compared to Ms. Shepherd. I am an untested writer. I am a Community College graduate with a two year degree in Creative Writing. I cannot boast that I'm a writer for a big name publication or add copyeditor to my byline. In fact, it's more than likely there will be a typo in this post. Furthermore, not only do I read young adult novels, but I'm a huge fan of the middle grade genre and I obsessively read comic books. Added to that, I write YA contemporary coming of age romance. You know, the genre even self-respecting young adult fans find too fluffy.

However, maybe these credentials make me better qualified to speak to the issues Ms. Shepherd raises in her article. Maybe as a nobody, who can't even imagine the joys of selling a mere 1,500 books let alone getting an agent to consider representing me, I have the right to raise my hand and humbly say, I completely and respectfully disagree. 

Here's why:

1. Nobody has the right to dictate what I can and cannot read.

For me, this is a no-brainer. Yet, time and time again, I've been told I should not read a novel because I'm an adult. I don't judge others for their reading habits. I read for enjoyment, not to impress others, not to show off how smart or well read I am. I read because I love to read. Anyone who has a problem with that, anyone who wants to judge me for that needs to evaluate why they feel so threatened by someone else's reading habits. 

2. I am not threatened by J.K. Rowling.

She is a person who wrote a series I heartily enjoyed. With all her money, with all her fame, I do not envy her. And I do not wish her to stop writing so I can get in on her action. In fact, I hope she continues to write. Her personal story is inspirational. Her generosity toward the community and her fans is noteworthy. I respect her as a fellow human being and wish her well. 

3. If I could, I'd buy all the books in the world.

The main point in the article seems to be: Go back to your Potter fiction, Ms. Rowling, so us real fiction writers can sell some books. 

To this I say, huh? 

As an avid reader, who boasts a reading habit of no less than a hundred books a year, there has never been a moment when I've thought:

"Whelp, I'm booked out. No more book shopping for me!" 

In fact, normally I'll like an author, read all their books obsessively then seek out other books that are similar in nature. It's like a downward spiral into madness that bleeds my pockets dry and leaves me rocking in a corner, surrounded by books, while begging for mercy. 

Why bemoan that a popular, well-loved, respected author has decided to give your specific genre a whirl when you could embrace her in your community? 

4. I'm not writing to be famous and neither should you.

Call me naive. I. Don't. Care. If you are writing to be famous, if you're treating this like some sort of race, then you will end up writing bitter articles that not only alienate and offend readers, but pigeonhole you as a whiner who is jealous of those more successful than yourself. It works the same way when popular authors target untested writers as unimportant and make jokes about them on social media. Or published authors mock self-published authors and call them fake. Or, on the other hand, when self-published authors call agented authors sellouts. Or worse, when unpublished/un-agented writers send nasty tweets to authors. It's all disgusting. It all smacks of jealousy and discord. 

5. This is not a race. It's writing.

And there it is, the simplest truth of all. So, I'm going to say it one more time in bold:

This is not a race. It's writing. 

I'm going to be frank, when I started out two years ago as an innocent long time lover of books with a freshly minted associates in Creative Writing and a newly finished manuscript in my hot little hands, the cattiness within the writing community made me sick.

I've been a reader since I was a kid. Before Twitter and GoodReads and Facebook and widespread author signings and BEA and book blogs, I was in awe of writers. I wanted to be one. I wanted to connect with readers. I wanted to share in the conversation. I wanted to be apart of that magical world in which words were used to express a person's heart and soul. I never thought to hate a writer. I never thought to envy another person's words. 

It wasn't until I step out of my bubble that I realized there were some writers who felt this was a race. Writer who perceived the successes of others as a hinderance to their own career. Writers who only wrote to be famous. Writers who laughed and mocked others. Writers who felt better than their fellow writers. 

And there was a moment when I asked myself, do I really want to be apart of this? Do I really want to be apart of someone else's pointless race?

And that's when I decided not to play the game. That's when I decided to rejoice in the successes of others, embrace my journey as my own, and not be afraid of failure. But most importantly, to never compare myself to others.

See, when we point fingers, when we play the "I'm better than you card," we hurt our community. We alienate our readers. And we all become laughingstocks. 

Here's my plead to Ms. Shepherd:

I understand you believe you are helping all us little guys. I know you feel justified in asking a millionaire to step aside and stop hogging the limelight. I get that you feel adults who read young adult and middle grade novels aren't stimulating their mind and, by extension, are possibly dumber than adults who read more (in your opinion) challenging books. But what I don't think you understand is you don't have the right to judge me as a person based on what I read. You don't have the right to assume you know what's best for writers in general. You don't have the right to ask a writer, no matter how terrible you perceive their book to be, to step aside. And you should listen to your friends when they say, "that is a terrible idea." Because, as good as it feels to stick it to the man, you'll always end up with sour grapes all over your face. 

Ang Reads: The January Edition

Whelp.
January is over, folks.
Just. Like. That.

Every year, I attempt to write an end of the year bookish review.
Yet, every December, I can't remember what the heck I even read.
Too many books.
Not enough brain cells.
Thus, THE PLAN was formed.
(But really, what's life without PLANS.)
Each month I'll post what I've read.
Tell you what I loved the most.
And by the end of the year,
 I *might* actually be able
to pick a favorite.
Ideals of grandeur?
Ain't no doubt,
but let's roll with it.
Without further ado, I give you, my January reads.
(a * denotes it's a reread)

1. The Red Pyramid*
2. The Throne of Fire
3. The Serpent's Shadow
4. The Son of Sobek

5. I've Got Your Number

6. The Fault in Our Stars
(click here for a review)

7. Fables Vol. 1

8. Essential English Grammar*

9. Miss Peregrine's Home For Peculiar Children*
10. Hollow City (Miss P sequel)
11. Of Beast & Beauty
12. This Is What Happy Looks Like
13. Hard Luck
14. Glitches* 

Ain't they purdy?

Now.
Since you're forcing me to play favorites,
I'd have to pick:

 Oh. My. Gosh.
But really.
This book had me rolling on the floor
and swooning left and right
and overall I LOVED this book.
LOVED IT.
If you like yourself some chick lit,
don't walk, RUN to the store,
and pick up this wonderment.
You shall not regret this choice.
Pinky promise.

IF, however, chick lit ain't your thang then
*maybe* you're looking for a supernatural
adventure story with a creepy twist!
If so, look no further than:

Hollow City is the sequel to
Miss. Peregrine's Home For Peculiar Children.
I adored the first book.
In fact, back in 2011,
 I wrote the epic fangirl of fangirling reviews.
Let me put this out there,
I'm a standalone kind of gal.
I'm not very patient with on going series
that take five billion years to read.
Normally, it's tough to sell me on the positives of a second book.
I get ragey & cranky & start screaming
about the integrity of the story &
will they please stop trying to bleed me of all my money
& blah blah blah blah... boooooring.
Having said that,
Hollow City is not only an amazing book
but it is BETTER THAN it's predecessor in all aspect.
And it's got me so excited about the third book
I want to stab myself in the eyeball.

Annnnd,
on that note,
ENOUGH about me.

What have you read so far this year?
And recommendations?
Did you read any of these books?
TELL ME ALL THE THINGS.
You know you wanna.

Of Wannabes & Real Deals

I'm a writer; I'm tired of defending this simple fact to myself and to others. I'm tired of tweets and blog posts and snark about how there are so-called legitimate writers and then the rest of us poor schmucks who aren't worthy of the title. I'm tired of clamming up every single time someone asks me what I do. The instant, overwhelming shame I feel as I choke on three seemingly simple words: I'm a writer.

To answer a few of your implied questions:

I do not have a swanky office.
I do not have an agent.
I do not have a degree from a prestigious college.
I do not get paid to write in any capacity.

Yet, still, I am a writer.

A writer isn't defined by money or deals or popularity. When you look up writer in the dictionary, it doesn't say a person whose written words are published. A writer is defined simply as one who writes.

I don't have to write in a fancy office or have an agent or be rich and popular to be a writer. I simply have to write. And, to boil it down even further, I don't even have to be good at writing.

My favorite definition goes a little something like: a writer is a person who writes.

It doesn't even say a person qualified to write or a person who went to a fancy college and got a degree that says they are allowed to write. It says a person who writes. Period.

There are no wannabe writers. You either write or you don't. Just like there are no wannabe singers or doctors or mechanics. You either do these things or you don't.

There are good writers and terrible writers and okay writers. There are writers who work tirelessly to hone their craft and others who don't. There are writers seeking publication and writers on the best sellers list and even more with secret novels hidden in their closet. We come in all shapes and sizes. Some writers make money and some garner fame and some carry on writing without any accolades.

Thus, a writer is a person who writes. A person with a passion for words and a desire to put them down on paper. It's the act of creating a story, building a world, immersing oneself in a reality that belongs to no one else but you.

Maybe, if we all stopped trying to define writers by money and fame and book deals, we could weed out a little of the jealousy and hate being flung around between wannabes and the real deals and get down to being a community of people who geek out over things made of words.

For those who feel I'm being obtuse, that I'm oversimplifying what a writer is, understand I do know the difference between an author (a writer with published works) and a writer (a person who writes). By definition these are two vastly different terms. One, I claim to be. One, I aspire to be.

Maybe the real issue is we all need to pull out our dictionaries and understand the subtle differences between these two words.

Better yet, maybe we all need to get over ourselves and realize no matter what stage of the game we happen to be in writing is hard, yo.

From fanfic to blogging, from published to self-published, and all those on the sidelines with big dreams, we writers are all just writers. For good or for bad, we've got to deal with this fact, show each other a little more grace and respect, and get on with writing and reading and dreaming.

It's for the greater good. I promise.

When All Else Flails Write A Blog Post?

Over the last five years (give or take), blogging has become therapeutic. When I struggled with being the mother of a newborn and three young children, I turned to the internet to fangirl and forget. When my love for books overwhelmed me, I turned to book blogging as a way of releasing all that pent up excitement. When I decided to come out of the writing closet, I started this wee blog to shared my hopes and dreams. And when my father passed away, I turned to blogging to express my grief and sorrow.

From silly to serious, brief to rambling, insane to boring, word vomiting online has provided a home for the things trapped within my brain-brain.

Is it narcissistic? Probably.

It most definitely walks a fine line between over sharing on the internet and being apart of a larger online community.

There are times when this whole blogging thing springs forth like a never ending fount of awesome. With each post, I feel more brilliant and closer to achieving the ultimate awesome. Every comment. Every blog hit. Every retweet. Pure magic.

In my heyday of blogging, (yes, there was a heyday of sorts, it was a short lived blasty blast) writing blog posts came as easy as breathing. Write 'em. Post 'em. Move on to the next big thing.

But for the most part (even mid-heyday), I've struggled with blogging, constantly doubting myself. What can I say that isn't already said? How can I be interesting? Should I ham it up, try for the laughs? Go for sappy and sickeningly sweet? Ranty and edgy? What if they don't like me? Am I too big of a dork? Shouldn't I be more professional? Is my poor grammar showing? blah. blah. blah. blah.

After five years and nearly five hundred posts (if you combined all my online endeavors), I still get nervous when I'm about to hit publish. I still feel a lump in my throat. A moment of doubt and embarrassment akin to the feeling of walking around with toilet paper stuck to the back of your pants (been there done that in high school, no less).

Looking back, my best bloggy moments have been when I didn't worry about being liked or if what I said would be popular or interesting or noteworthy or professional. When I didn't feel the glare of would be agents or publishers or professionals. When I stopped thinking about the end result and was simply me. When I've hung out with good friends and shared a few good laughs.

Blogging is like writing a novel. It's painful. It's personal. It's embarrassing. It's over thinking every step. It's living in your own little world. And it's best done along side others.

There are a multitude of motivations people have for blogging, from popularity to business to geeking out. I've seen the good, the bad, and the flat out disgusting. I've had friends come and go, some moved on to bigger and better things, others have simply disappeared.

After five years, a handful of bloggy endeavors, and a multitude of twitter handles, I can say with certainty I still don't know what I'm doing. But I know, I'm hooked.

THE PLAN

Last weekend, I decided it was time to get off me arse and get back on the try-to-get-published horse. 

Yup. That, my friends, is an accurate depiction of my first journey down the road to publication. As in, it ended before it even began. Now, I could wax poetic about all the reasons for the start-stall-fail journey I landed in, but I'm not one for agonizing over the past. I'm a clean slate kinda gal. Live and learn, my friends. Or more like flounce about like a loon until ya get it right, but whatevs.

 Blah blah blah.You're bored. I'm bored. Let's get to the point of all this rambling.

I HAVE COME UP WITH THE PLAN!! 

I know. You are wowed by my ingenious (some might even say diabolical) brain-brain. Bask in the wonderment of the brain-brain, ya'll. BASK I SAY!

Oh. I know. I know.

 Any-who. Back to THE PLAN.

I've decided on a three pronged approach. Let me 'splain.

Prong #1: Brush off the good ole MS & grow a pair.

The shameful truth is I haven't touched my lovely manuscript since October. October, y'all! When I realized it had been seven months since I'd even taken a peek, I was floored. 

However, I sorta see this as an opportunity to reread my lil story with a fresh pair of eyes. Furthermore, I have been bashfully seeking out the help of some old and new friends. Two of my BIGGEST failings as a writer are a. not asking my fellow writers/book-lovers for help due to fear and b. not being vocal about what I'm working on. 

In the last week, I've had the opportunity to reach out to some amazing people, both friends and strangers. Their guidance and knowledge is a blessing. I could NEVER thank them properly. From encouragement to pro-tips to critiques, this week has been both overwhelming and awesome.

Prong #2: Learn how to write a query.

For me writing a query is beyond intimidating. Writing the novel? Editing said novel? I sorta get that. Sorta. Please understand, I'm not saying I'm good at it, just that I can wrap my brain-brain around it. 

The query? Not so much. I sent out eight queries in October. Of the eight, I received one partial request, six rejections, and one non-response. Honestly? I know they aren't the best statistic, but that partial not only shocked me, but felt goooood. Let me have my n00b moment, people! 

I know the query needs to be reworked.  Most importantly, I know I need to man-up(*puts on big girl pants*), ask for help (*gulps*), and get to work(*stares at computer screen*). 

Easier said than done, no doubt. Hand holding is going to be key to surviving this. Funny, how ya have to ask for the hand holding, isn't it? *winks*

Prong #3: Look into self-publishing.

This is a new venture for me, because frankly, I've always focused on traditional publishing. Why? Maybe the better question is, why start thinking about it now? This could open up a huge can of worms, so I will keep this as short and sweet as possible.

My reason for wanting to publish traditionally is simple: it's what you do, right? I mean, you write a book, you search for an agent, you get a publishing house to back you, and you're an author. Since I was a kid that's been my secret goal in life. It's not about money or fame or any of that other stuff. If I'm honest, part of it is about proving I'm good enough to get published, that there is someone out there willing to take a chance on lil ole me. Not sure what that says about me, but it is what it is.

Over the last year, I've had the opportunity to meet some amazing authors, the vast majority self-published, who are creating and producing high quality products that wow me. From start to finish, the buck stops at their doorstep, cover art, deadlines, you name it. My respect for them grows with each passing day. 

Financially, I have always believed self-publishing was beyond my reach. Honestly? It still is.Yet, I've decided to put the money thing aside and really give self-publishing a look-see as an option equal to traditional publishing. I mean, why not?

Because after all this musing and plotting and planning, one simple truth has revealed itself to me.

See, I don't want to be a published author for money or fame. No really. I wouldn't turn down the money, but I'm just looking for enough to buy socks. And even though it would be nice to prove myself, truthfully, who gives a damn? The real goal is to connect with someone through my stories. Just like all my favorite authors have reached out to me, I long to connect with someone, to have them fall in love with my characters-- to cry and laugh and maybe, just maybe, be a better person for it.

So, if that's the goal. 

If that's where I'm heading.

 Who cares HOW it happens? 

Just that it happens.

Right?

Reset With Lizzie Bennet

Whelp. The post I started writing this morning was depressing, to say the least.

Imagine more snot and less plaid.

Thus, I feel for karma and sparkles and sprinkles and all things good for the soul, I must hit the reset button and blog something fun, silly, and completely pointless, which is pretty much my bloggy motto, but whatevs.

Let us begin:

For the last month or so, our computer (William the Bloody, for those of you wondering) has been a douche-canoe-- restarting mid writing, refusing to connect to the webernet, being slower than a slug, and, in general, being a jerkface. We needed a new 'puter like last year, but four kids and the desire to own our very own building to call home makes buying or building a new computer not the brightest of ideas. The mister worked his voodoo magic in an effort to make The Bloody last a wee bit longer, but unfortunately, our Word Docs disk has decided it wants to play hide and seek. And it's winning.

Long story short, I have no way to write nor can I access the stories I was writing. I KNOW! The circus story of ridiculousness is crying out to be finished, not to mention, Of Lies & Zombies need be started, and lest we not forget, the never ending clean up of Fluff & Nonsense!!

What's a girl to do when her fingers itch to write, yet she has no outlet?! How, oh HOW, can she survive?!?!?! *llama drama moment*

Welllll, I have been reading a weeeee bit. Okay, maybe more than a wee bit. And there are crafts and laundry and, ya know, general boring life stuff. However is that enough to take the edge off? HECK NO!

Never fear, my friends, the best, she done took care of me. How? She distracted my inner-teen with a shiny new obsession! I shall explain with a picture, but of course.

swa-ooooon

All right, I know this pic (not really a pic more of a gif) makes no sense to some of you. I meant to use another one, but alas the siren call of the afore-posted wonderment was too much to resist. Let's try this again.

Nope. Mayhaps one more time? 

Fourth times a charm?

There we go! That's right, my friends! Pride & Prejudice has been turned into a web series. And it is kick-arse. The best has been fan-girling about it for months and shame on me (!!) for not ditching my life sooner to catch up on this awesomeness. I have not only watched all 85 episodes plus caught up on the Twitter shenanigans and Lydia's videos and the new Pemberley Digital videos and started lurking on Tumlbr looking at all the amazingness, but I have started rewatching the episodes from the beginning (after watching a few favorites, but of course).

I could try to review this series, but I know I'd fail. I could go on and on about supporting indie artist of all shapes and sizes, but I'm not the preachy type. I could wax poetic about the creativity of the show and how they have nailed (in my humble opinion) making P & P modern while still maintaining the original story, but you don't want to read that. And I could go on for a year about the talented actresses and actors who have brought this series to life, not to mention, the writers, producers, and director, but I ain't no film critic.

However, what I will say is this, for those of you who are P & P fans or who've always wanted to read the book but just haven't found the time, I say cease and desist what you are doing right now, click here, and bask in the wonderment. 

But be warned!

 

No. No they don't.

The Middle of the Ride

Mood music provided by Kim aka the bestie.

I've been a tad bit overwhelmed, a wee bit anxious, and overall freaking out. Simply a pleasure to live with, I tell ya! I'm an enthusiastic person and I try my best to remain positive, but please understand I'm a realist. I've done my homework and I know the depressing statistics. The probability of me getting published (in the traditional sorta way) is slim to none. However, it's far easier to deal with that stark reality when you're in the thick of writing a story. At least, it was for me.

I was so busy daydreaming and plotting and scheming and swooning and crying that I didn't have time to worry about queries and summaries and pitches and log-lines and cover letters and  line-edits and agents and markets and... *brain explodes*

All of it came crashing down on me last week. I couldn't sleep. I could hardly eat. My brain was a skipping record and the phrase on repeat-- you can't do this. you can't do this. you can't do this.

Drama. Drama. Drama.

I'm much better now. The best and the mister took turns slapping me, told me to get a hold of myself, and reminded me to take a deep breath, stop all the fretting, and get back to work. (I have no clue what I'd do without them.)

And that's exactly what I've been doing. I'm trying to focus on the things I can control. I can control the quality of my manuscript. I can control who I query and the quality of the letters I send out. I can control my attitude by maintaining a realistic yet hopeful mindset. Most importantly, I can keep myself in control, slow down, focus on taking one small step at a time, and not write myself off just yet.

I've been reminding myself how much I love to write and that I've been writing for years without worrying about impressing others, but for the pure joy of the experience. And most importantly, I've been focusing on one plain and simple truth-- the world will not end if my book doesn't get picked up by an agent.

Robert Frost said:

In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life. It goes on.

Just another simple, yet undeniable truth.

How do you maintain a positive attitude in the face of such insurmountable odds?

Now This Is All Me

Excuse me whilst I put on a lil mood music.

*dances*  *sings along with song::   lights turn on and dark turns outside,
blindside, dream big, you're next in line, it's plain
now this is all me, now this is all me*
Well, hey there. I bet you're asking yourself, Self, what's Ang up to?
And why the dance party?

Truth be told,  every day is a dance party 'round here, however,  on this day,  I have a most excellent reason for  flailing about like a loon. I have officially finished my third draft of Fluff & Nonsense. Lines have been edited, characters have been straightened out, plot holes ain't so holey, adverbs have been cut ruthlessly, dialogue tags are respectable saids & askeds, in general, it be a book.   What's up next?
Well, good ole Ang here, (and you always know someone means  bizness when they break out in the third person speak) needs to put on her big girl pants, write a few query letters, and *gulps* send them out to agents.
I know I'm heading toward rejection. Shhhhh...  Don't take that statement the wrong way. It's a fact. I will be rejected. I'm actually looking forward to it. I'm ready to earn my battle scars. Ready to see if I'm one crap-shoot away from winning big. 
I also know my wee lil story isn't perfect. More edits will be made. More of my soul, time, and energy shall be poured into it. But I think after a year of writing, a year filled with the good, the bad, and the ugly, it's time to take a leap of faith  and see if we can cap this year off with a bang. *crosses fingers*   For now, please excuse me whilst I dance. And feel free to join me! *tosses sprinkles & sparkles in the air* *twirls*  

Simple Truths

Life is full of simple truths. The kind of truths we really don't want to face. Some we try to run from. Others are easier to embrace. There are those that can be ignored. And a few we can lie to ourselves about. But truth is truth, no matter how hard it is to swallow and face it we must.

I've been dealing with an overwhelming amount of truths of late. Truths about myself as a person. Truths about the people around me, my friends, my family. Truths about my goals and all the things I'd love to accomplish before I die.

It's not as emo as it sounds. In fact, if I were honest, it's been quite refreshing. Sorta an airing out of the good ole brain-brain. A refresher course in Hey, you’re just a human being, and you should stop fretting and stressing and grieving and simply live, because this is your life. The one and only.  So what are you going to do with it? What are you going to leave behind?

And then it hit me last night as I laid in bed while reading a good book and listening to rhythm of my sleeping mister's steady breathing--

If I want to live my life to the fullest and be the best me, I cannot do all the things. I cannot be everything and so I must decide what I can live with and what I can live without.

The deeper question, the simple question, the undeniable truth:

If today, I were lying on my deathbed, what would I regret? What would I miss the most? What reasons would I have to fight to stay alive?

I've been cleaning house of late, both literally and figuratively-- trimming the commitments I've made, cultivating my dreams, taking a moment to stop and breathe.

It makes me feel a tad bit guilty. I'm the type of person who's always put others first, their problems, their feelings, their needs. But lately, I've been putting my needs first. It’s a strange and wonderful thing. I always thought it would make me more selfish, but in many ways, it’s made me more aware of the people around me.

Made me aware of just how badly I want to spend my life with my husband, hold onto my kids in the here and now, spend time with my best of friends, share a few thoughts here and there with you, and write. I long to write.

I cannot do all the things. I cannot be everything to everyone. And that’s okay. But I can be the best me, the me who daydreams, the me who hates cellphones, the me who twirls, the me who is shy, the me who wears her heart on her sleeve where its more prone to get hurt.

These are not earth shattering revelations. They will not change the world. But they will change me. Or better yet, they will allow me to be me.