Of Pomegranate Seeds And Blood Clots: The Evolution Of A Blog Post

Over the last five months I have rewritten this blog post a billion times.

Okay. More like fifteen. But it feels like a billion.

Back in December it was a simple: Hi. This life thing is hard sometimes, isn’t it? I hope y’all are doing okay. What’s everyone reading?!

However, in January the post took a dramatic shift in tone morphing into: A terrible thing just happened to our family. So I am digging myself a hole, and I’ll be living in it now. Hope we’re still cool when I (maybe, eventually) crawl out of it. Hugs all around!

Then another emergency joined the party, and the post became this clunky disaster. Not knowing how to clean it up, I left it hanging over my head—an ominous cloud I didn’t want to face.

That’s when a global pandemic hit (as they do). The post transitioned into a rally cry for healthcare workers and staying at home to save the most vulnerable among us. It felt preachy but important.

Yet the very day I declared the post good enough, we found out my grandmother passed away. So I took a million deep breaths and crawled back into my cozy, quiet hole—the post postponed again.

Embracing being quiet is challenging. I’m attacked daily by guilt.

Shouldn’t I be doing more? Reaching out to others: seeing how they’re doing, helping them out? Shouldn’t I care about my career as an author—write daily, market?

However, what could I possibly give right now?

I am bone dry—used up, worn out.

Enter Stephenie Meyer publishing Midnight Sun after twelve years.

Twelve. Years.

In the time it took Meyer to finish Midnight Sun: our youngest daughter grew from a newborn to a middle schooler; my father and both my grandmas passed away; I earned my Creative Writing Degree; two of our kids turned eighteen; we bought our first house; I wrote four books and published two; a global pandemic sprang up—and the list goes on.

A lot of life happened during those twelve years, some of it stretching me to a breaking point. Yet I remained in one piece. And when the dust settled, the people who love me best were right beside me holding my hand.

Maybe I’m a tad bit more tired than I was twelve years ago. But I am still me.

Funny how something so random and seemingly meaningless can knock a world of sense into a person.

Soooo…I think it’s time to share the thing that happened to our family four months ago. The thing that makes me want to vomit every time I talk/type/think about it.

On Friday, January 3, 2020, my husband had a heart attack. Not just any heart attack—the widowmaker. A blood clot blocked 99% of his left anterior descending artery.

It should have killed him.

That’s not hyperbole. My husband should be dead. Doctors and nurses tell us nonstop it’s a miracle he survived.

I almost watched my best friend die in a crowded ER hallway while he held my hand.

He spent seven days in an ICU. Seven days during which I barely ate or slept. Seven days during which every time I looked at our kids I wondered how I could manage without my best friend. Seven days of terror and doubt and so so so much pain.

He was in the same ICU my dad died in. The knowledge my husband might die there too bludgeoned me.

However, he is not dead.

My husband is very much alive. He is healthy—his quick recovery baffling doctors.

And I think it’s time I take this Frankenstein’s monster of a post and let it go.

I don’t know what this means moving forward. Currently, I am not writing at all; I have no desire to market; I can’t be on social media without feeling overwhelmed; and the thought of doing anything outside of being a mom, wife, and human being is simply exhausting.

One thing I know: I’m going to fangirl hard over Midnight Sun—pull out my old Twilight shirts, listen to the movies’ soundtracks, maybe hunt down some old fanfic.

Because why not?

Why not embrace a little crazy and let my fangirl flag fly high? Why not buy a long-awaited book with a pomegranate dripping blood on the cover and squeeeeeee with my friends over a sparkling vampire falling in love with a high school girl?

Who knows what the future holds—where we’ll be twelve years from now?

Hopefully, then as now, I’ll still find joy in books and music—or just the simple act of breathing.

In the last year, life beat me up pretty badly. But I’m still here. And I still love Twilight.

So come at me, life! I’ll be right here in my quiet, cozy hole reading books and dreaming up my own stories.

And someday soon I’ll crawl out of this hole and get back into the swing of things.

Maybe. Eventually.

Who knows when?

For once, I’m in no rush.

October: Things A Broken Tooth Will Teach You

My tooth broke in August.

How broken is my tooth? Well, there’s a hole in my tooth where a filling used to be, a crack that goes into my gum-line, and a piece of my tooth flaps (which, for the record, is not a thing a tooth should do). Plus, there’s a sharp piece that stabs my tongue every thirty minutes like clockwork.

In my non-professional opinion I would call my wonky tooth broken-broken. My dentist agrees.

How did I break my tooth? The simple answer: a French fry.

Having a broken tooth is fascinating. There are so many things we take for granted. One of them simply being able to eat. With a broken tooth snacking holds no appeal. And certain foods that I normally adore (e.g. baby carrots) are a hard pass.

Eating in public is a no since I have to fish food out from the hole in my tooth the moment I’m done eating. Sometimes even mid-bite. And there’s nothing like biting down and feeling your tooth push out of place. It’s an experience, to say the least.

For the most part it’s not too painful. Though there have been moments when I’ll breathe in and wish I never had to breathe again. Or a piece of pepper will get stuck in the hole in my tooth and the nerves in my face will yell: WHY DID YOU DO THAT, DUMMY?!

Having shared all this, I am not down about my tooth. In fact, I hesitate to even bring it up. Yet, with all the drama, heartache, broken things, and overwhelming adulting this year has brought our family’s way, my broken tooth has brought things into a clearer perspective. It’s made me thankful for things like eating and breathing without pain, having the means to get my tooth fixed (next week!), and for a family that understands when I need a moment to disappear to pluck food out of my tooth or just be sad that my tooth is freaking broken.

A broken tooth will teach you who truly cares about you. A broken tooth will show you what’s a real priority versus a manufactured crisis. A broken tooth will force you to slow down, make better eating choices, and chew your food carefully.

This month I applied these lessons to more than just my tooth. This month I took a deep breath, a step back, and took a hard look at my priorities and goals. Which has oddly made me grateful for my broken tooth.

Life is such a weirdo. 

September: A Month Of Good Things

Autumn is upon us.

For some it’s a harbinger of doom. A time to dread, autumn snatches away the golden days of summer, offering nothing but cold, dreary days without joy. To others it’s a time to celebrate scarves and pumpkin spice, boots and rom-coms, cooler weather and holiday goodness to come.

To me, autumn has always been about family. A time when—despite the hustle of life—we have opportunities to slow down and be together: carving pumpkins, baking pies, watching movies. As the desert attempts to free itself of hot nights and even hotter days, autumn offers hope.

Last year around this time I did not embrace hope. I allowed myself to drown in a sea of self-doubt and despair. Focusing on all the wrong things, I was controlled by every single one of my negative feelings and thoughts—my autumn joy stolen.

If there’s one thing life has taught me it's that hope is fragile.

Being a positive person might appear easy to those standing outside looking in. But let me assure you, it is not. Every second must be a driving force toward seeking the positives in life. No matter how small and fragile they may feel.

At times, it feels like a foolish endeavor—backhanded comments people make can leave you feeling silly, impractical, lacking. In these moments I am learning to accept others' opinions of me as just that: opinions. Their assumptions of what they *think* it means to be a positive person. Not reality.

This September I struggled with doubts and fears. Just as I did last year. The difference is I embraced my positives without shame, tuning out the misconceptions.

Instead, I talked about the books I love and acknowledged that while there are some who think my bookish taste is childish and silly, that’s their problem not mine. I revised Magic Story Of Magic and accepted the fact that it’s a love story—plain and simple. It won’t change the world and some might think it’s ridiculous. That’s okay. It’s mine and I love it. I slowed down and ignored the comments about how great it must be to be a stay-at-home mom with so much free time on my hands. My family knows how hard I work and I know how hard I work too. That’s all that matters. I embraced my love of mismatched socks and young adult books and didn’t feel the need to hide the fact that I still long to be Rainbow Brite. My age has never dictated what I do, say, or love. So why start now?

But mostly I took a step back and thought about what is important to me: being honest or being what everyone thinks I should be?

September was a good month filled with doubts and struggles and fears. It taught me once again that life isn’t perfect and it isn’t fair, but it is good. And the good you have to fight for. A lesson I learned long ago from my friend Ashley Morgan. It’s a lesson I’ll continue to learn day in and day out.

Happy autumn, friends. I hope it brings you joy. No matter how big or small that joy might be, I hope it gets you through the cold dreary days ahead filled with pumpkin spice everything and all the holiday hustle and bustle life brings your way.

July: A Month Of Defeats

Everyone struggles in life. It’s just a fact. Maya Angelou warned that “you may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated.” She said “in fact, it may be necessary to encounter the defeats, so you can know who you are, what you can rise from, how you can still come out of it.”

This year one of my goals is to face my defeats, learn from them, and walk away stronger. Part of that path forward includes being honest when I’m struggling and not hiding.

So here’s the truth:

This month I did not meet two important deadlines.

This month I wanted to make a big announcement
but I chickened out.

This month I dropped the ball on marketing.

This month I felt like a failure.

This month I felt like an imposture.

This month I believed what I do doesn’t matter.

This month life defeated me.

Why am I telling you this? Because we all struggle. Most of us silently. Posting happy pictures on Instagram and snarky comments on Twitter is easier than being real, being honest.

Ultimately, what I want to say to every person who drops by this blog is: We got you.

We got you during the good times.

We got you during the hard times.

We got you during the lonely times.

We got you during the hurricane.

We got you during the rainbow.
We got you when you’re defeated.

We. Got. You.

Here you can be honest. Here no one is pretending to be anything other than human. Here we make mistakes but we learn from them. Here we crawl forward. Here there is no judgement. Here there are no comparisons or snide remarks or ignoring each other's pain.

This month I felt defeated.
This month I failed a lot.

But that’s okay.
Because I will rise.
I will know who I am.

And my hope for you is that you too will rise from the ashes of your defeats and know better who you are and what you are capable of.

June: Where Did You Go, Boo?

Somehow it is the last week of June. Not sure how, but the calendar assures me it’s a fact.

Time is relentless. And as I sit here thinking back on the first six months of 2019, it’s all too easy to focus on what’s gone wrong and what I haven’t been able to achieve. So I hope you'll humor me while I look back on the last six months and twist these negative thoughts into positive ones.

1. Of Lies and Zombies turned one!

Topping the list is the book that made me an author times two. There have been moments in the past when I’ve allowed myself to believe only publishing two books over the last decade is some kind of failure. Lately I have been embracing the idea that not only is publishing one story (be it a short story or a fan fiction or a full-length novel) an amazing achievement but writing a story from start to finish is noteworthy too. Every writer who has achieved this goal should take a moment to pat themselves on the back and realize they’ve accomplished something big.

Wherever you are on your writing journey know what you’re working on is worthy and you have achieved so much. Keep moving forward. Write the words. Work toward the goal. You are awesome.

2. Blogging again is a joy.

Getting back into book blogging after years of floundering is so much stinking fun. Sharing my favorite books and talking about the authors I heart is something I have missed. Ultimately it doesn't matter if others think it's a waste of time or believe it's not what authors should be doing. I'm an author. It's what I'm doing. Making it a thing authors do. Fancy that.

3. It’s been a good bookish year (so far).

This year (so far) has been an awesome reading year. I have primarily been reading young adult novels. And why not? I’m a young adult author. The idea that I should be ashamed of my reading habits is so strange. The need to prove myself to other authors and readers (that I am not just writing fluffy, silly kid stories) is a pressure I put on myself and need to let go. I heart young adult novels. I do not think I’m too old for them. And I read and write young adult novels because I enjoy them. Case closed.

4. I haven’t told someone not to read my books in a long time.

If you’ve followed my publishing journey over the last three and a half years, you know I have this terrible habit of telling people not to read my books. Why? It's complicated.

But I can report that while the urge to slap my book out of a reader's hands is still a daily struggle, I am much more relaxed about it. And instead of telling people not to read my books, I simply say thank you when they mention it to me. Progress. Imagine that?

5. This is me. This is my struggle.

Welcome to the party.

I am not a fan of social media. Large group settings (even online) are exhausting. I dislike sharing my thoughts on social media and struggle to feel like what I say online is important or interesting.

This is me. This is what I struggle with. In the past, when these feelings have overwhelmed me, I have disappeared: no tweets, no Instagram posts, no book promotions, no blog posts, nothing. How it comes across I can venture to guess, but the reality is I hide because I am uncomfortable and unsure.

Some might think I’m making this up. Others might think I’m just quirky. The reality is everything I share online feels like a tiny piece of myself I am giving away. And don’t even get me started on publishing my books.

So why do it? Why does it matter? How do I turn this one into a positive?

Let's take these one at a time:

Why do I do this? Because I wrote two books. And I have so many more inside of me.

Why does it matter? Because I care.

How do I turn this into a positive? Keep moving forward despite my desire to give up and hide.

Because one day I will regret hiding. None of these things make me weak. None of these things make me broken. We all struggle. Even if we don’t want to admit it. And deep down we all hope someone will see us and tell us what we do matters.

But what if we decided we mattered to ourselves? What if we did the things not because someone else validated our work, but because we decided our work is important and good? What if we moved forward no matter the pressure of the status quo or our irrational thoughts?

These are my positives. These are the things I'm taking with me into the second half of this year. And I hope you too can believe that you matter, that your work matters, and that we all can and will do the things.

May: A Time Of Reflection And Moving Forward

Next month All The What Ifs will turn three and a half years old, making me a published author for just as long. While my journey down the path of publication hasn’t been picture perfect, I can say without hesitation the decision to publish All The What Ifs was one of the best decisions I have made. Along the way I have learned some things.

Here’s a few:

Publishing a book is not for the weak of heart.

Whether you’re self-published (like me) or traditionally published, committing to publishing a novel filled with little pieces of yourself for the world to judge is terrifying. From the naysayers who will tell you it’s too hard to the people who will avoid you, there will be moments you’ll feel like a fool for even trying. Dark moments when it feels like the only person who cares about your book being published is you and maybe that’s why you should just give up.

And here’s my advice to fellow writers who are struggling right now: Fight harder. You caring matters most. And it’s a worthy reason to work toward publishing a book. So tune out those naysayers, find your tribe, and hold tight to your dream. It’s worthy. You are worthy. Now work your ass off to achieve that goal.

You might want to hide and that doesn’t make you weak.

Being honest with the people in my life about publishing has been a difficult journey. From the people who doubted I could write a coherent sentence (and let me know), to family and friends who would flat-out ignore me when I talked about writing a book, to those who have judged me for my subject matters or the genre I’ve chosen to publish, my default has been to hide my head in the sand and never, ever discuss my books.

Which is a shame, since I love my characters and I’m proud of my books. So here’s more unsolicited advice to any fellow authors out there feeling the desire to hide: Don’t. Pull your head out of the sand, stand up tall and proud, and look the world straight in the face (even if your brain is screaming at you to shove your head back in the sand). Again: keep pushing forward.

You matter. Your book matters. Do the thing.

It’s that simple and that terrifying, my friends. Your book. Your passions. YOU matter. There’s no right or wrong book to publish. There’s no worthy or unworthy story. Twilight is as worthy as To Kill A Mockingbird. Don’t believe I know what I’m talking about? Then don’t take my word for it, here’s a few published authors who agree:

Sylvia Plath: And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.

Neil Gaiman: The one thing that you have that nobody else has is you. Your voice, your mind, your story, your vision. So write and draw and build and play and dance and live as only you can.

Madeleine L’Engle: You have to write the book that wants to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children.

So write, my friends. Write because you love it. Write because you care. Write because only you can tell your story. Don’t worry about the rules. Don’t worry about what people will think or say. Shove aside the voices in your head and all the people around you making you doubt your goals and create a book you are proud of. Then publish the damn thing, one way or another.

Remember: Be you. Warts and all. The world is a better place for it. And your dream is oh-so-very-worthy.

February: A Complicated Month in Review

This month has been a weirdo and writing a review is a tad difficult.

Let me explain.

On the first day of the month I was battling a cold. The cold had been kicking my butt for a week, no matter how hard I tried to ignore it. Continuing my mission to embrace my too nice, too positive, too cute ways (more on that at a later date) I posted about our adorable coffee calendar on social media. It was Friday (I mused at the time) and come what may, I’d be thankful.

Adorable coffee calendar gets me.

Not long after posting, my mom called with news that someone in our family had committed suicide. I shared a little on Instagram. However, I still believe the most respectful thing I can do on social media for those directly involved is keep my loved one’s name and relationship private. After a loved one dies, dealing with the emotional wreckage left in its wake is challenging. After multiple suicides in my husband and I’s extended family we’ve learned that keeping things private for the sake of those most harmed is the best path forward.

If you or someone you know is struggling with depression
please get professional help. Go here.

Yes, this is not the first time someone in our extended family committed suicide. And no, hearing the news, processing the news, telling our kids never gets easier.

With a cold that would not quit and news of a loved one passing, we (as a family) did our best to embrace moving forward.

Three days later, the flu knocked me out and stayed for an extended visit.

For the next seven days, I had a high fever, a painful cough, a headache that would not quit, and more. I do not remember three whole days of my life. My family took care of me and everything else. I won’t bore you with all the details. But will share this, I still have the damn cough from the flu and I’m over being sick.

Enter a week until my husband and I’s twentieth wedding anniversary—a time of celebration and joy. Yet neither of us was feeling much joy, let alone had the energy to celebrate.

Still stupid sick and with the awful news hanging over our family, I realized I had two choices: embrace the unfairness of life or give in and give up.

Cue a good friend saying something I took to heart. It went a little something like this: “We all face challenges. We all have unfair things happen to us. We all hit speed bumps. That’s life. It’s not fair. But if something (or someone) is important to us, we’ll make it (or them) a priority. If not, it’s something we don’t care about. It’s something we don’t really want.”

Okay. Those weren’t her exact words. But you get the picture.

Those words sang to me. They opened my eyes to a lie I’ve lived. The lie: there are levels of unfairness and suffering. There are people who have a right to be overwhelmed and people (like me) who don’t.

See. Life sucks for all of us. It’s difficult.

But life is also good. So. Very. Good.

We MUST hold on to the good. But it’s a choice. We get to decide who we make priorities. What we make priorities. There’s no real right or wrong. It’s a simple choice.

With our anniversary looming and too much pain and sickness weighing me down, I let it go. Let the sickness run its course. Let my grief be. And let my heart feel joyful over twenty freaking years of marriage to my best friend in the whole world.

Life is complicated. This month didn’t differ from any month before it. And as March looms before me—the month of my dad’s birth and death—I know I have a choice. I can be bitter and angry and think I deserve more. Or I can understand life is messy for all of us and roll with its punches. I can spit in the face of life’s unfairness and choose joy.

And with all the strength I have plus this persistent cough, I am more determined than ever to choose joy.

See ya on the flip-side of March, my friends.
Let's show life we're stronger.

p.s. It snowed in the desert last week.
Which is not unheard of, but isn't normal either.
Tychus was not a fan. Shocker. ;)

silent no more

My kids are my everything. They are my heart and soul. They are the reason I stumble out of bed every morning. They give me hope for the future, joy that fills me, and love that I will never fully understand.

My kids are frightened. They woke up yesterday to a country that felt hostile. Their beloved schools are now places where kids talk openly about grabbing girls' private parts and others freely joke about lynching people who are different from them or hanging them or putting them in camps. A place where a child yelled in my eight year old's face that Hillary Clinton is a dirty liar who will soon rot in jail.

They are uncomfortable about expressing their political views. They have overheard thoughtless people call them shameful Christians. They are carelessly, unknowingly mocked for daring to believe Hillary Clinton isn't a crooked, opportunist liar and that President Obama is a good man.

My kids have been hurt and terrified. They fear for their friends. The bright future in front of them has warped. This is inexcusable. It is a wound that will not close.

And yet, there are millions of other kids who will go to sleep tonight with even more fear and uncertainty than mine. Kids afraid their families will be torn apart by a deportation force. Kids who are now openly and aggressively being called racist names and bullied for their religion or the color of their skin or the country their families come from by voices empowered by a man who will soon be the most power man in the world.

This is the America my family woke up to yesterday morning. The weight of this suffocates me. It has awaken a sleeping giant within me. It has convicted me in ways I never imagined. It has broken me in ways too deep to mend. It is a moment too big to define and far too powerful to deny.

I have promised my kids I will do everything I can for them and for every child in this country: to fight for them, to value them, to show them that the love and God we believe in is NOT this, would NEVER be this. He would deny this, refute it, cast it aside without a single thought.

What that looks like is beyond me now, but my conviction is strong, my determination is growing, and my belief in a Creator of love, kindness, and compassion who cherishes ALL people and gives them free will compels me not to stand silent in the face of such a time as this.

I love the United States of America. I respect the office of the president. I will do everything I can to be a voice of grace and hope. I want the United States of America to prosper. I am rooting for our country.

But I refuse to forget what has just taken place. I refuse to accept this old, poisonous reality is one we must quietly accept again. Deleting pages on a website and pretending horrible, terrifying, dangerous words said were nothing more than political rhetoric will not satisfy me. I cannot forget and it will be hard to forgive. And I refuse to stand idly by while my country stands on the brink of history. What we each do now will define us for generations to come.

My kids are the next generation. They are smart, compassionate, capable people with promise and hope and unending potential, just like so many other kids I know from different religions, cultures, races, and backgrounds. Kids with two moms or a single mom. Kids who believe in multiple gods or no gods. Kids who deserve to be loved and viewed as important by their country.

They ALL deserve a place in the United States of America—our beautiful, diverse home. They all deserve respect and to feel safe. And I will fight for them all to gain back that safety no matter what it takes.

on writing: why ya?

The other day I was talking with a friend. I shall not be sharing the name of said friend. In fact, being that I'm a storyteller, it's possible I am completely making up said friend in an effort to give validity to this blog post. Or maybe I was struggling with how to approach this topic and thought, 'hey, what about saying a friend asked me all these awkward questions verses a troubling amount of people have been asking me questions that are a wee bit worrisome?!' But I ain't tellin', thus you'll never know for sure.

Anywho.

Said friend -- having first picked their jaw up off the floor after finding out that the book I'd been talking about writing for five long years was in fact an actual book and had been published -- asked me some interesting questions.

And while I don't feel I need to defend myself or my writing, I do think there is some merit to discussing my friend's questions in a public forum. You see, since publishing, I've noticed a trend in the way people -- specifically adults -- react to my declaring I write YA contemporary coming-of-age. In fact, it's gotten to a place where I feel a little ... ashamed. Like it's some kind of dirty secret I should hide. Thus, in an effort to cleanse myself of this feeling, I've decided to air these questions out and hopefully put them to rest. Or open up a can of worms that's about to explode in my face. Only time will tell.

Question One: Why write YA? Isn't that cheating?
Right out of the gate my friend came out swinging. This question completely stumped me. I've never thought to question why a mystery writer pens mystery stories nor considered their choice of genre cheating. And it was in this moment that I realized something shocking and concerning, there are those who believe some genres aren't real or important. Thus to some if you tack YA onto a book suddenly it's not worth reading and could even be viewed as cheating. Instead of answering the question, I asked 'well, why not YA?' To which my friend stated, 'well, YA is for kids and it's not about real life.' Now, I'm not sure what my friend's childhood was like, but let me tell you, some of the most turbulent and heart-wrenching years of my life were spent between the ages of seven and eighteen. As I was too shocked to respond, they barreled on ahead with this next gem.

Question Two: And by writing YA aren't you limiting your audience? Don't you want adults to read your book?
Now as an avid and eclectic reader the thought of not reading a book based on genre or sub-genre or whatever other label is being thrown at a book has never crossed my mind. I know just as many adults who love reading the Percy Jackson series as I do kids. In fact, I started reading the Percy Jackson series based on two recommendations from adults and then I got a few more adults and a handful of kids hooked on them as well. But before I could shake myself out of my stupor and answer, my friend continued.

Question Three: You're just writing YA because it's so popular and marketable, aren't you? 
This was the part of the conversation during which I pondered why we were friends and how I could easily exit the conversation without maiming another human being. Not bothering to wait for a response, my friend plunged ahead.

Question Four: Not to mention, why such a boring sub-genre? Coming-of-age is run of the mill, everyday life, and uninteresting crap. Don't you want people to be entertained? 
Clearly not. Clearly by writing a YA contemporary coming-of-age novel, my main goal in life is to a. bore the hell out of people while b. writing a book in the most popular genre all while c. alienating all the adults on the planet thus d. limiting my audience and oh yeah e. cheating. Once again, I was gobsmacked. However, the next question woke me up.

Question Five: Why not write a different genre? Something worth writing?
Here I did speak up. And I'll share my answer.

I have in fact written other genres. I've written a story about a man in his late thirties who's a recovering drug addict and is struggling to put his life back together. I've written a fantasy novel set in a circus featuring a ghost, a murderer, and an old man with dark secrets. I've written a story about a woman whose possessed by an alien that makes her kill her husband. I've also written a story about a vengeance demon who goes around killing for the sport of it.

There are more, but Ashley's story was the first to ring true. All The What Ifs was the first time I thought, 'AH-HA. I've got something here!' And I didn't think about the genre or marketability or if I was cheating or who my audience would be. All I thought about was getting her story right and making it worthy of her. Everything that came after that was arbitrary.

And if there are those who don't want to read All The What Ifs based on the genre or the sub-genre or whatever personal feelings and opinions they bring to the table that's totally, completely, 100% right and good and valid and their prerogative. Not every book is for every person. It's just a fact.

But to say one genre is better than another or one story is worthier of telling than another ... well, that's a dangerous and slippery slope and it's what most concerns me about my conversation with my friend.

There's a quote I love and it goes a little something like this:

I'm not going to defend my book to my friend. I'm not going to defend my choice of genre or sub-genre or any of that jazz. But what I will defend is every writer's right to be treated with respect whether they write YA, erotica, political thrillers, fantasy, self-help, or whatever the case may be. Writing is hard enough without dictating to authors that there are better genres or more worthy stories. Writing is a place for hopeful and struggling dreamers. It's a place where all should feel welcomed and all should have the chance to give this crazy life a try. Once we start defining what stories are worth telling we limit the potential for greatness and possibility. And what a shame that would be.

So write, my friends. Write about mysteries and kissing. Write about heartache and first loves. Write about zombies and ghosts and faeries and axe-murderers. And don't let anyone tell you it's not worthwhile. It's all worthwhile. It's all welcome to the party. It's all a thing of beauty.

2015: An Experiment in Confidence

New Year resolutions have never been my thing. It's not that I don't think they're a good thing, it's that I'm lazy and also too much of a pessimist to make the effort. I know halfway through the first week of January I'm going to have cookies for breakfast despite the resolution to eat healthier. So why not call a spade a spade and eat cookies for breakfast without all the shame?

And if you've been following me on my blogging journey over the last however many years I've been at this, you'll know I also suck at summing years up. Every year, the clock chimes midnight and I'm left pondering, "what did this year mean to me? Why do I need to boil it down into year increments? And would anyone notice if I started drinking straight out of the wine bottle?"

Looking back on 2015--the year that was in too much of a hurry to end to stop and smell the roses--one theme doth emerge in my life. But I'm not sure it started this year. In fact, I'm pretty sure it started when I was a kid and that first spark of "what if i could..." ignited.

The key ingredient missing was always confidence. That fickle friend of mine that sputtered to life once in a blue moon and teased me with promises of dreams fulfilled. For so long, I believed confidence was a natural thing, an elusive character trait that was absent from yours truly. But in 2015, amidst the panic attacks, crippling self-doubt, and worrying about what others thought about me, a realization sucker punched me in the gut and things started to fall into place.

Confidence isn't about believing I'm better than everyone else. Confidence isn't getting things right the first, second, or even the millionth time. Confidence isn't about swagger or social status or popularity.

Confidence is committing to a plan of action, 

accepting when things go wrong, 

moving forward when everything feels too hard,

not worrying about what others think or comparing yourself to them, 

having the courage to stand your ground,

and most importantly believing in your abilities.

No success story starts with they waited around for someone to give them a hand out. In general it starts with they had the courage to believe they could and so they did. Which can be summed up in one word: confidence. Maybe the problem is I confused confidence with arrogance. Or maybe I was too afraid to believe in myself--too worried about others and their opinions to have faith in my ability.

Whatever the case may be, I know I'm not cured. This battle with self-confidence will rage on. However, it's a war I'm determined to win now that I understand confidence isn't about thinking I won't fail. On the contrary, it's about knowing it's highly likely I will fail and people will judge me but having the courage to move forward in the face of it. Because hope is stronger than fear and the "but what if I fly" is way more important than the "what if I fail."

Thus, it is my hope, we can all walk into 2016 with this in mind:

Ignorance--I've got down.
Confidence--I'm coming for you.
Happy New Year, y'all!

an absolute nobody

There's a quote by J. D. Salinger that I *heart* and it goes like this:

I'm sick of not having the courage to be 

an absolute nobody.

At first glance, this might feel like a negative. The idea of being a nobody seems like a bad thing. Aren't we all more? A child. A parent. A loved one. A someone.

But for me, this quote speaks to that inane human need we all have to be somebody - not just to the ones we love but to the world at large. We want to seem bigger and better than our circumstances: to hang out with the popular people, to be apart of the in crowd, to put our mark on the world. All these desires persist throughout our lives. They drive us to want to be bigger and brighter and better. And that's not a bad thing. But what if ...

... I was just me?

Me: the girl with no connections. Me: the girl without an important last name. Me: the girl without the fancy degree. Me: the girl with pimples and dandruff and hairy legs. Me: plain and simple.

It's hard when we're surrounded by the importance of other people. The places they go. The things they get. The people they know. With social media, we are bombarded with how special they are and how unimportant we are in the grand scheme of things.

But what Salinger is suggesting is revolutionary. A complete departure from the social norm. The idea of being sick of trying to one up everyone else. The idea of accepting that we're just us and just us is pretty freaking swell. 

Just me with my no connections is good. Just me without a fancy degree is worthy. Just me - pimples and all - is just right. And I'm making my mark, but in smaller ways. Little ways you can't always see. Tiny ways that appear to mean nothing. Unknown ways that are irreplaceable. 

It's hard not to compare ourselves to others. It's hard not to want what we don't have. It's human to feel jealous and bitter and compare our lowly status ...

... which makes embracing it courageous.

To have the courage to say, I'm a nobody. To embrace the extraordinary in the ordinary and find peace and contentment. That's what Salinger is talking about.

And can you imagine 

all the things we could get done

 if we stopped trying to be somebody

 and focused on being the best nobody

 the world has ever known?

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.

Know Thyself

Listen. I'm not going to tell you how to write. There is plenty of amazing (and not so amazing) advice floating around the internet. Lots of fish in the preverbal sea handing out helpful tips and sage guidance on the do's and don'ts of writing.

If I was to give writerly tips, they would be:

a. Metaphors are seductive. Learn how to say no to them.
b. Look up the definitions of mumble and mutter.
c. For the love of God, use ... sparingly.
d. Readers are your friends. Listen to them.
c. Never take writing advice from me.

What I do have in my back pocket to share is a little word to the wise. Advice that just might help you leapfrog years upon years of grueling indecisiveness as a writer. Hell, possibly as a person. 

What's this wellspring of knowledge I'm bringing to the party?

Here it comes. 

It's a doozy. 

You ready for it?

Okay.

KNOW THYSELF.

I could stop right here because y'all are like,
Yep, totally get it, Ang.
Know thyself.
I'll get on it right about now-ish.

The real question is:

Why bring up something so simple, something so cliche it's on every Hallmark card from here to Timbuktu (and I would know because I'm an ex-Hallmark employee)?

As simple as this may seem, as ridiculous as it might feel to bring it up, until a few months ago, I did not know myself as a writer. I didn't really know what it was I wanted out of this crazy joyride. I did not know what my expectations were or even my goals. I sort of adopted the status quo's mantra and got caught up in the whirlwind of social media.

It wasn't until I woke up from a serious bout of depression that I started asking myself what the hell I was even doing. This question helped me realize some important facts about myself.

1. I work at a slower pace than most writers.

Why? Well, it could be due to the five year old who, at this exact moment, is examining my ear for Purple Cauliflower People who are trying to eat my brain. Or maybe it's because I'm slightly OCD. And while I write at a neck breaking speed when inspiration smacks me in the face, for the most part, I'm slowly going the way of the buffalo. And you know what? That's okay. This isn't a race. It's writing. Oddly enough, there is a difference.

2. I really don't want to be popular.

Hey. I saw that eye roll. I know what you're thinking, everyone says that. But, I swear, it's the truth. The thought of doing an author signing gives me the heebie-jeebies. The whole time I would be wondering a. why people would want me to deface their books and b. which of these crazy bastards is going to eat my soul. Ladies and gents, I like my house. It's safe. It's climate controlled. And I can wear my pajama pants all day long without being judged. Why would I want to leave it?

3. I want to be patient as I seek publication.

I'm not just looking to be published. I'm not just looking for a quick ride to fame and fortune. I'm one of those ridiculous people who has something to say and wants to share it because they are oh. so. important. and everyone needs to listen to them. I'm a reader. I love books. I love connecting with characters. As a writer, I want to connect with my readers through my characters and make them cry and laugh and swoon. That is more important to me than money or fame or people wanting to rush off to see a movie based on my book. And OhMyGOSH, please understand, there is nothing wrong with fame and money and books to movies. I fully support it on a daily basis as I fangirl like a freak, throwing my money away on books and swag and midnight showings. I just don't care if it happens to me. Would I turn my nose at money and fame and all the jazz? I don't know. But I highly doubt I'll ever be faced with the decision so why focus on something that truly isn't important to me? Which leads to--

4. I'm not interested in money or popularity or fame and I've got plenty of time to strengthen my skillz of a writer, so why am I freaking out so much?

5. I just want to write a book worth publishing.

Plain and simple. If that's my goal, why worry about when it happens and instead work toward making it happen.

And just like that, I know myself.

I know who I am.
What I'm working toward.

I can throw out all the unnecessary pressure I've placed on myself.

I can focus on improving as a writer,

while taking steps toward publication at my own pace.

I can be happy for those around me who are finding success

and find hope and joy in their milestones verses stress and envy.
I realize this is not a race or a contest.

This is my job.

As a writer, I am guilty of looking to others to set my pace and goals. As a writer, I am guilty of feeling overwhelmed by the pressure to race toward a finish line I can't even see. As a writer, I have not taken the time to establish my own personal goals. As a writer, I have not known myself and this has hurt me. 

Know yourself, my friends. If you want to be a popular author who makes the big bucks, know that, embrace that, and tailor your goals to fit that desire accordingly. If you want to see your name on a book cover at all cost, know that about yourself and make it happen. Don't feel bad or shy or fearful or envious. Be honest. Be frank. Be fearless. 

In the words of Buddha:

The only real failure in life is not to be true to the best one knows.

Be true to yourself, my friends. Trust me on this. Life is too short to be dishonest with yourself.

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.

Another Year, Another Review... Sorta

Once again, a year has passed. And once again, I'm not gonna pretend I could quantify or wax poetic in a blog post about my experiences over the last twelve months.

However, I am gonna try this year for a loose resolution, something I've always resisted in the past. It's plain. It's simple. It makes me smile. And it feels pretty damn achievable so I'm fairly pleased with myself.

Wanna hear it? Well, here it goes:

Daily,

I will try to

read some,

write some,

and 

not feel like a disappointment.

The biggie is that last one. And it's what I'm focusing on today. 

Starting today:

I will stop feeling like a disappointment as a writer because I enjoy reading more than writing (THERE, I said it).

I will stop feeling like a disappointment because I don't social media well due to my real world responsibilities and I'll accept my limitations as the mother of four.

I will stop feeling like a disappointment because at the ripe age of thirty-four I'm still awkward as hell and unsure what I'm doing with my life as a professional anything.

I will stop feeling like a disappointment when I'm around people who make me feel unimportant because screw them. I'm pretty freaking awesome.

I will stop feeling like a disappointment because it's totes a downer and making my life far more complicated than it needs to be.

And starting today, I'm gonna focus on things that bring me joy, like my family and my friends and reading and writing and Y-O-U.

And maybe, just maybe, when 2015 rolls around, I'll be able to write an actual year in review post. 

Okay. Now I'm getting cocky.

Happy New Year, my friends!
I pray your year is filled with

 laughter to carry you through the sorrows,

peace to ease your troubles,

and love

because without it life just sucks.

Of Lil Blue Pills & Depression

Wanna here a story?
Well, here it goes.

About three months ago, I went to the doctor because I was having some *issues.* Under normal circumstances, I'm a baby about getting hurt or sick.

If I've stubbed my toe, I swear my nose is broken. 

If I get a paper cut, I've contracted the bubonic plague. 

I'm the kind of person who believes someone is going to poison my coffee. Any minor issues are life threatening. Add to that the sudden and shocking death of my father just shy of two years ago and I'm a mess.  Every little thing from an ache to a sneeze means I've got the big C (*whispers cancer*). I know it's dramatic. I know it's out of control. But there's this fear that plagues me that I or (worse) someone I love is going to die suddenly... again. Thusly, when I started noticing some funny things going on with my person, I decided I should head to the doctor immediately. 

After a nice little visit with the doctor and a few tests, she discovered all was well and I was experiencing the normal you're getting older and your body's gonna start falling apart right about now-ish stuff. She decided to prescribe me some lady medicine.

"I believe it'll be the perfect fit for you," she said. "And in no time at all you should be feeling much better."

To which I said, "Sign me up!"

With stars in my eyes and a bounce in my step, I headed to the local drug store that very afternoon and, upon arriving home, I took that first lil blue pill. 

The next morning, I woke up feeling a little off but nothing too bad. I chalked it up to my body getting use to the new meds. I was hopeful and determined to stay positive. 

A few days later, I was feeling decent if not  a little weepy but again I thought, "This has all got to be normal. Right?" 

But that's when I heard the first whisper:

"Nobody likes you, Angela," it said. "You're a joke and a loser and nobody cares about you."

To which I immediately said, "That is so not true. My husband and my kids and my family love me. And I've got friends. And they like me too. Plus, I'm a writer and I write things and people seem to like it."

"Is that so?" the whisper said.

"Yes," I said.

And, I know you'll think I'm being dramatic, but that's when the whisper started laughing at me. I won't get into specifics. The memories it brought up. The points it made. It would whisper names of friends and family, reasons why they didn't like me. It would point out how poorly I wrote or how dumb my ideas were. How I was in my thirties and had pimples and a hairy chin and how there were others who were so much more talented and smarter and brighter and better.

If I'm honest, these are all things I've always struggled with, but I've been able to manage these feelings. Anytime they'd cropped up, I'd look at my family and my close friends and think they love me and God made me and you know what thoughts you can go to hell. However, this was a constant bombardment, morning, noon, and night. Nonstop the whisper kept reminding me of all the reasons I was a failure. It started to change me, a little bit everyday. First, I stopped emailing and texting my friends. Then, I started making up reasons I should stay home. Then, every time I'd start to write or tweet or blog I'd realize how bad I was at it and I'd quit. Eventually, I stopped looking in the mirror because I couldn't stand to look at myself. 

And then, just this week, on Tuesday night, I was doing dishes and that's when a new thought hit me:

"Your husband and kids would be better off without you," the whisper said.

This whisper scared me more than all the others. This whisper stopped me cold. Because this attack was brand new. And the worst part was, for the tiniest of moments, I believed it was the truth.

That's when I knew something was terribly, horribly wrong. When I talked to my husband, he looked me straight in the eyes and told me how wrong I was to believe these thoughts and how much he and the kids loved me and then he just held me and I cried and cried and cried. 

Tuesday night, I took the last lil blue pill and I will never take another one again. Monday morning, bright and early, I'm going back to that doctor and I'm telling her how terrible the pills were and that I'd rather run around thinking I've got cancer than hate myself the way I've hated myself the last few months.

In the past, I've struggled with feelings of doubt or sadness, but never in my life have I ever thought that my kids would be better off without their mother. And shame on me! Because I know I'm far worse off without my dad and I'm a grown woman. I've lost loved ones to depression and I know the key is to talk, even when it's depressing, even when you feel no one will care, even when you're embarrassed and feeling stupid and like a failure. 

As little by little, I wake from this dream of sadness, I'm more grateful than ever for my family and friends. For those who are willing to listen to me and love me even when I'm at my worst. And I'm grateful for this lil blog and its faithful readers who I've come to think of as some of my dearest friends.

Thank you. 

Life Journaling: Derailment

Sometimes, you spend your whole week getting ready for a last minute trip to So. Cal. for a funeral and end up at home doing a three day juice fast instead. The hows and whys of your life's derailment are a big steamy pile of what the hell just happened.

You remember spending a mad forty-eight hours packing and ironing and running all the errands. You are not sure you ate, however you know beer was involved. Clearly, you remember packing up the car and shoving all four kids into it. You remember getting on the road and hitting up a gas station. But after that, things get dicey.

The battery light went off on the dashboard. The car died and was jump started, leading to a sweaty drive across town with the A/C off. Things get even more hazy as there was a tense discussion about what to do next. There is a vague memory of holding a flashlight so your husband could tighten a blot on your newly bought alternator and at one point you remember standing in an auto shop holding a dirty battery whilst wearing mix-matched socks and crazy eyes.

Then, there was thunder and lightening and a flash flood warning that reached across three States. Suddenly, you wake up. You are living out of a suitcase, but you are home. You are hungry and a bit confused and you decide the best thing to do is not eat for a few days.

Because that's what makes sense. Am I right?

As last weekend unraveled right before my eyes, I realized how similar it was to the last year of my life as a writer. As I have struggled to take myself seriously and find the diligence and fortitude needed to keep myself moving forward, I realized I have two options on this road to publication:

A. I can beat myself up over being derailed.

OR

B. I can accept it and move on.

For so long, I have been beating myself up. Unhappy with my pacing and focusing on the derailments, I have stalled. Life happens. It just does. There are many detours that will come along. But that does not mean we cannot continue forward, it just means we must be even more determined than before.

As this month of hard work and many a sleepless nights comes to an end, I am determined to keep my eyes focused forward, not on some obscure end result, but on the task at hand. One baby step at a time.

The task at hand, my friends, is to query. However, this time I realize the real challenge is going to be learning from the rejections, moving forward, and trying again.

Because in the indelible words of The Shins:

Life Journaling: Confidence

Confidence is a fickle friend. An overconfident person can be blinded by their brilliance. Unaware of their limitations, they are often lead astray by their ignorance of their own short comings. However, a lack of confidence can be more damaging, leaving a person stuck in an emo funk of nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I guess I'll go eat worms.

I'm honest enough to admit I'm one of the least confident people you'll meet. Now, this doesn't make me antisocial. Hell, I'll talk to a wall if it's interested in having a conversation. Please understand, I'm a somewhat health, socially functional member of society (for the most part).

What I am saying is when it comes to my life as a professional anything, I've got a case of the emos and I've got it bad. I downplay not only my strengths as a writer, but also as a individual. I assume I'm annoying and burdensome to others and tend to shy away from asking for help or offering help. All too often, I allow people to walk all over me taking without giving a single thing in return as they flush me down the toilet without a backward glance.

It ain't pretty. Frankly, I'm over it. The more I ponder the situation, the more I realize believing I'm the only person stuck in this never-ending cycle of self-loathing is cocky and ignorant. This belief that I am NOT alone and there are others out there dealing with this same lack of confidence only strengths my desire to get over myself.

To that end, I've been attempting to:

1. Acknowledge my negative attitude toward myself and create a positive one. 
This hasn't been done on my own, but with the help of the lovely Angie Richmond (aka life coach of amazeballzness). What appears to be a simple task has rocked my whole existence. For example:

Negative: I'm a burden to others and I shouldn't bother them. 
Positive: These are my friends and they genuinely want to help me.
Furthermore, by asking for their help, I am showing them I trust them.

Simple yet powerful.

2. Cultivate the healthy relationships in my life, while weeding out the diseased ones. 
This is easier said than done and it's taken me a long time to say no to unhealthy relationship. However, it's a MUST. These relationships are not only ones in the "real" world, but online as well. I don't want friends who puff me up with inflated praise. Yet, people who are only interested in using me for their own ends have got to go.

3. Stop over-saturating myself with the opinions of the professionals.
It is one thing to take the advice of well meaning and helpful professionals [and it's important, PLEASE don't get me wrong. Listen to the professionals!]. It is another thing to let it hold you hostage in a never-ending cycle of OH MY GAWD I'M DOING EVERYTHING WRONG. I have got to stop panicking every time I see a tweet from an agent talking about things they find annoying in their slush piles. Furthermore, I have to start trusting in my own opinion and the opinions of those around me.

4. I NEED to give credit to the opinions of those closest to me.
At some point, while looking up how to get publish online, someone will say to you: So you've written a novel and your best friend and your partner and your dog LOVE IT and think it's fan-freaking-tastic. That's great. It's not. Get back to work.

And I get it. Believe me, I do. However, I think it discredits the positive and constructive advice of those closest to you. Listen, my husband is my BIGGEST critic. He will tell me when something stinks and when he thinks something is good. Oh, the arguments we've had. To discredit his belief that my manuscript is good and publishable makes absolutely no sense. I should trust in him, first and foremost.

Which leads to the hardest of hards:

5. I MUST trust in myself and my ability.
Because this is what it ALL comes down to. At some point, I have to be comfortable with the thought that I believe I am a good enough writer to get published and that doesn't make me an egomaniac or insane or delusional. It makes me confident in my ability and confidence does not mean stuck up or proud or blind.

I do NOT believe I've written the next Pride and Prejudice. I do NOT believe I will be awarded a Noble Bell prize in Literature. However, I do believe I wrote a good book with an interesting plot and a lovely protagonist. I believe a lot of hard work and dedication will not only make it better but get it published.

In conclusion:

Writing is personal. It's challenging. The road to publication is filled with sinkholes and detours. At the end of the day, the one thing a writer needs to believe is that all this, the hair pulling and sleepless nights and aching wrists and self-doubt and panic, is worth it.

I'm confident it is.

Life Journaling: A Story About My Dad

I remember the day my step-mom called me and explained my dad needed to have a procedure done. They'd found a mass in his bladder. The doctor knew it was cancer without a single test. I went with them to the hospital. I held his hand. I hugged him. I told him he would get better or else I'd kick his ass.

We held onto hope. 

That was the last week of February 2012. Or was it the first week of March? I don't remember. It's a blur. On his birthday, March 12th, we got the news, it was cancer and it had likely spread. But we didn't know how badly. They'd have to rebuild his bladder. I told my mom. I told my brother and sisters. I told them our daddy had cancer, but his chances were good.

We held onto hope. 

He wasn't eating. My siblings and I got him a basket. We filled it with nuts and chocolate and dried fruit and juices and books on baseball. He had a catheter. He carried a bag of pee around with him. He was so thin. When I hugged him I thought he might break. He tried to eat, tried to laugh, tried to be normal.

We held onto hope.

I got the call. He'd gone to the ER. The pain was unbearable. His heart was palpitating. I rushed to the hospital. I sat with him. Alone. Me in a chair in the corner trying to stay out of the way of the nurses. Him in a bed, half asleep. Sometimes he'd wake up and looked at me. He'd say: I love you, Bonehead. And I'd say: I love you too, Daddy.

We held onto hope.

They moved my dad to the intensive care unit. The man in the room next door died that day. He looked so alone. The tests started. MRIs. X-rays.  Blood work. Fasting. Heart meds. Pain meds. The whites of my dad's eyes turned yellow. We had our favorite nurses. Our least favorite doctors. We took over the ICU. We hung pictures drawn by my kids and colored in coloring books. My nineteen year old sister wanted to sleep on the floor at night, she didn't want our father to wake up alone.

We held onto hope.

He had a good day. His eyes cleared and he promised he'd do everything he could to get better and we'd all go on a trip to see the Grand Canyon. He smiled and chuckled. He watched baseball and teased us.

We held onto hope.

We got the results. The cancer had spread. It was in his gallbladder, his lymph nodes, his lungs, his brain, and so many other places I can't remember them all. We called our extended family. We told them things had taken a turn.

We still held onto hope.

Tuesday evening. I went to visit my father after settling the kids. I had a few new pictures they'd drawn for their Poppa. The room had become familiar. Beeps. Flashing lights. Tubes. IV lines. But the man in the bed, he was different. He struggled to breathe. His skin like paper, eyes bulging.  I said, "Hey, Daddy. Bet you've missed me." He looked at me as if I were a stranger. I knew-- knew in my very soul...

There was no hope. 

He crashed that evening, alone in his room. They shoved a tube down his throat. Pumped him with meds. His eyes wouldn't close. His feet were ice cold. A machine breathed for him. Medications kept his heart pumping. We gathered around his bed. We had to decided what to do. I held my baby sister close to me and watched my fifteen year old brother clutch our dad's hand. My grandmother kissed my father's head, said she was the first woman to kiss him and by God she'd be his last. We prayed. We sang songs. We decided to let him go.

....

On March 28, 2012, my father died of cancer. It happened suddenly. One moment, he was running marathons and laughing louder than any other living soul and the next he was laying in a hospital bed dead. Before my very eyes, I watched my father take his last breath.

Why am I tell you this? Why have I decided to share this with *strangers* online?

I don't know.

Sometimes, I feel like the cancer that killed my father wormed its way inside me, craving out a little piece of me. Maybe if I let it go, release it into the wild, I can start to breathe again. Maybe I can let go of the guilt. The guilt of him not knowing about all of this. The guilt of living when he's not. The guilt involved with life having continued and it not being unbearable without him.

I naively thought there'd be a day when all this would be a distant memory and I'd have to force myself to remember. But the truth is, I will never forget. The real challenge is living with the memory and allowing myself to move forward without the guilt or the regret or the fear or the envy I have of those who get to share all this with their fathers when I don't.

And as I sit here and cry and type these words, it is my humblest prayer, that these mixed up, morose memories will find a place where they can rest and allow me to move forward. Because that's what my Dad would have wanted, but more importantly, it's what I want too.

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.