Author Therapy - YouTube Style

Being an author has been one of the most rewarding, but gut wrenching careers I've ever had. And I homeschool a teenager, so...

We bleed our souls onto our computers, hold our breaths, and give birth publish our stories. I knew going into it, not everyone would love my books. I took the bad with the good, however, when reviews hit below the belt, when they get personal. That's when I have a problem. 

After watching a video about YA authors reading their most negative reviews to the tune of sarcasm, I thought, what great therapy. I decided to do one of my own and afterward I felt a thousand times better. 

The one I chose, the reviewer became personal. The reviewer brought my son and homeschooling into it. I wasn't seeking reprieve from honest reviews, I was simply stating in a past blog post that reviewers should be mindful of what they write. Anyone can say anything behind their computers. For anyone (especially a person who doesn't know my family) to instruct me on how to school...well, as us southern belles say, "Bless your heart."

Please excuse my lion king hair. 

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The Day I Realized I Can't Do It All. And, I'm Damn Exhausted.

I hit the wall.

The wall has been hit.


I smacked my little head against the brick and mortar at 100 MPH.

4:30am, I'm wide awake. I have a third book to complete. I have curriculum to prepare. There is laundry in the dryer. The shower needs cleaning. My legs need shaving. The dog had an accident on the rug. Ortho appointment. Groomer. I have to fit in my exercises.  

Head meet wall.  

I admitted to myself this fine Tuesday morning that, I can't do it all. I just can't. 

I am asked quite often, "How do you do it all? How do you homeschool, write books, and clean the house?" I reply, "I don't know?" I'm not being modest or cute. I seriously don't know. I used to think I could or I was or I did. 

You know what happens when I write for two years? I don't eat, but when I do, it's not all that healthy. I drink wine to calm the voices that command me to keep typing. I gain weight and one day I look in the mirror and say, "What the hell happened?"

You know what happens when I homeschool Logan? I beam. I'm in my happy place. I'm watching my son evolve into an awesome young man filled with knowledge and respect for life and people. I stop and remember that I have to finish laundry, vacuum, clean, paint the guest bedroom, exercise the two years of wine and crap.

When I'm reading. I'm not writing. When I'm schooling. I'm not cleaning. When I'm exercising. I'm not writing. 

I don't ask for help. I hate asking my husband to do the dishes or put the laundry away. Not because he's a douchecanoe. Further from it, in fact, he gets upset when I don't ask. I have the mentality of, he's been working all day. I know I have as well, but it's my pride. My pride is a stubborn wench. But, she was punched in the throat today. 

Now what?

Well, I plan on going to bed early and, I'll wake up tomorrow and it will be the best day ever (Logan's motto). I will be awesome. I will be fabulous. And, I will fail. What I won't complete tomorrow, I have the next day, and the next day. And, God willing, I will continue to wake up each morning until I'm 100 years old. 

I can't do it all. But, I'm doing something. 

My son is watching me and Phil do something. We are contributing to--life

My brain is mush today, but I will super glue it back together, (after I take a damn nap), and I will succeed and fail teaching, writing, mothering, wifeing?, daughtering, cleaning...because I can't do it all. 

We can't do it all. 
And, that's OK!

It's OK to hit the wall.
Don't physically, I don't want a lawsuit. 

Being an author isn't some adorable hobby, I found meowing under my porch. It's my job. I work. Contrary to what some may think. Teaching my son is work. His educational success rests on my shoulders. No pressure. I flit through social media sites throughout the day, that doesn't mean I'm not doing something pertaining to my existence.

So, go do something...anything. Even if you crash into the wall and your pride crashes and burns. 
At least you are leaving your mark on the wall.

That's all you're getting for a metaphor. 



While wearing my tiara.

Tea Time and a Tease

I am deep into writing, Deadly Conviction. 

Deep as in, barely sleeping because Claire's voice is very loud inside of my head.

Deadly Conviction is Claire Monroe's story. Who she really is. You saw a glimpse of her in Deadly Revelation, but you truly don't know Claire. Sinister plots are being hatched by not only the cartel, but by her estranged husband, Brent. 

Here is Chapter One teaser *unedited and subject to change*

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been 27 days since my last confession. These are my sins.” Claire whispered inside the dark confessional. “I lied to my sister. I betrayed hershe won’t ever forgive me.”
“Forgiveness is in the heart of all, my child.” A deep voice said through the lattice screen.
“Not her heart and nor should it. She’s been hurt over and over again. I deserve whatever wrath comes to me.”

Incense lingered as Claire knelt before the priest. She heard murmurs scale the sanctuary walls beyond the small compartment, prayers being lifted to the heavens. Pleas for restoration of their souls or for a loved one, Claire had sunk down onto her knees many of times there.

“I absolve you of your sins.”
“I’m not done confessing, Father.” She paused and leaned in closer. “Carter Montgomery and Casey Adler are dead. Anne is the one with their blood on her hands.”
“Did Casey reveal to you his hiding place?”
“Yes. The Basilica will receive a large donation by tomorrow.”
“God bless you my child.” The priest had a pleased tone to his voice.

A slip of paper slid through a tiny crack under the lattice screen. Claire took the paper and glided in between the thin pages of her Bible.

“Go forth and continue God’s work.”
“Am I forgiven?”
“Always, my dear Claire. You’re part of heaven’s army.”

She nodded and rose from the knelt position. Claire tucked her Bible back into her bag and unlatched the confessional door. Father Jacob never abandoned her and she would never abandon him.    

Claire walked along the edge of the gothic carved pews. Her dark eyes remained forward, the arched door opened. Daybreak flooded the narthex and reflected of the marble pillars. Winter crept in, the cold bit Claire’s face and hands as she walked past a young woman holding a rosary.

Her lungs inhaled the cold air, cracking a cough through her chest. A puff of white whirled about her. Claire squinted and scanned the street. She spotted the black SUV and descended down the cement steps. Exhausted swirled from the tailpipe as Claire rounded the back and opened the passenger side door. She hopped inside and slammed the door. 

“Feel better?” Victoria said, shifted the vehicle and eased away from the curb.
“Yes.” Claire dropped her bag onto the floor between her boots.
“Good, because the call we’ve been waiting for came in. Magda Alves is in federal custody.”

Claire’s skin warmed, but her bones chilled hearing the news. The plan had worked even though the cost had been high. She would have done it again to save Anne and her baby.

“I’ll tell, Michael.” Claire said.

Victoria merged onto Hennepin Ave, which led to The Chrome Hotel.

Look What I Found

Since I deleted my author page and now utilizing my personal page and group to brain vomit not just author stuff, but pretty much anything in my life or whatever pops into my quirky brain, I found this snazzy follow button.

I'm a nerd, I know. I wish I had a group button. There is probably one lurking about and I haven't found it yet. Tomorrow I am doing Happy Hour over at Tipsy Lit's Book Club @11am. Swing over and say hello.

Thursday my post about...well, you'll just have to read it at Tipsy Lit

My brain is absolute mush. My son has started his end of the year homeschool exams and I've been working on 3 different WIP's, Deadly Conviction being one of them. 

My slacker blogger ass is hitting the hay. I don't think another word can

Magda Will Cut A...

Magda Alves is not to trifle with. Her part in Deadlly Deception sparked a, we-want-more-of-Magda dialogue on social media. She makes a brief appearance in Deadly Revelation, I assure you, she will be quite present in Deadly Conviction.  

Magda is the Latin American Drug Lord. She surrounds herself with people she can control and manipulate. She'll slit your throat for breathing wrong and not think twice about it. Power is what she wants and it's what she has. 

Her future hasn't been determined. But, she's cunning and Magda won't go down without a fight. Preferably one with a lot of blood and dismembered body parts. 


Eggshell Syndrome

Everyone at one point in his or her life has had it. Or, are experiencing it currently. Walking on eggshells is a delicate stride over topics and around people in order to keep the dysfunction hidden.

I am all about dysfunction and when done properly can be fun, inappropriate, and amusing. When done to not ruffle feathers or rock the boat to ease a person as they create drama or make bad decisions, that’s where the syndrome turns critical.

My feet have strolled along eggshells since I wore glitter pink jellies.

Today—in my fabulous strappy sandals—I’ve stomped down on those shells. I decimated them like King Kong after 5 espressos. Those delicate eggshells weighed me down more than King Kong after 5 espressos. After 34 years I’ve cut the emotional cord to those who hurt my heart and squash my soul. Not only is the damage irreversible, it will take years for those wounds to heal. You see, not only does it hurt me, but also it hurts my son. My precious son and that’s unacceptable.

Eggshell Syndrome silences those with valid emotions and opinions but acknowledges those who don’t own up to their responsibilities.

Why are my feelings and opinions not as valid, not as important as others in my family? Why am I penalized because I’m successful, have a loving marriage, and raise my child with morals and ethics? Why haven’t I been good enough? Why am I not good enough to remember? Why is my hurt less than? When will my voice matter?

I have a damn good husband. I have an amazing son. I am loved. My life is imperfect and I’ve battled through hell along side my husband and son. Our marriage fractured during that time when Logan was ill but we stayed united. Our love grew in strength. 

God answered each prayer that I sent to Him. Jesus guided us. My son survived. My marriage toughened and grew in love. My eyes were opened to who and what mattered. My parents fought along with us. 

Family isn’t about DNA. It’s about the respect and love between people, related or not. I don’t tiptoe among eggshells with them. Truth is what matters. No matter how hard it is to receive.

My voice and feelings are valid. My opinion is valid. It’s mine and I will shout it from the rooftops. I matter! My husband and son matter! My parents matter!

Kick those eggshells. Stomp on them. You matter. You’re feelings matter, your emotions matter.

There is a scene in the movie, The Wedding Date, when Debra Messing is standing on her tiptoes:

Nick Mercer: Is that an old habit from ballet class or from a lifetime of walking on eggshells?
Kat Ellis: I never took ballet.

She closed the bathroom door and every time I watch that scene I think about my life and the ballet I never took.

I no longer suffer from Eggshell Syndrome. I’m cured—shattered a bit—but cured. I can no longer live my life weighed down by negativity or drama. I don’t have time for that, who does?

I love and respect myself too much.