Dying ain't much of a living.

An old friend contacted me out-of-the-blue after losing touch years ago. We caught up on old times. In doing so, she relayed to me her ongoing struggle with an addiction to pain pills, and repeated last-ditch efforts in rehab to get clean, a fight that started long before we met. My younger self would have latched on and immediately tried to figure out a way to save her. My older, wiser self has stayed several arms lengths away, cringing each and every time the conversation went to how bad things are, how tight money is, because I now believe that she wants something from me. Money, a place to stay, I’m not sure, but I believed it wouldn’t stop at one request. The trust is gone, bled away from so many years apart and knowing that truth in our past wasn’t a shared offering, so it's hard to accept that all she could possibly want is a friend. I hadn’t spoken to her in months when she texted last night to say she’d gone back to rehab. My first thought was what does she want. She knows me well enough to know how to manipulate my emotions, or at least used to be able to, so this is obviously a ploy to get something. In my head I’m screaming, why can’t you rise above this?

I don’t believe I’m addicted to anything, so I’ve never been able to fully comprehend addiction and how powerful it is. I grew up with an alcoholic father. Two of my former relationships were with addicts. I know a lot about trying to fix the person and feeling like a failure when I can’t. I know about the overwhelming urge to sacrifice myself to make the person happy enough to not need whatever it is they are addicted to. Their crutch. It is a very helpless feeling to watch someone fight a losing battle and knowing you aren't enough to make them happy.  

In the most recent contact, she asked me if she was a positive or poisonous influence in my life. I have struggled with an answer. I can’t honestly reply based on recent experience as it’s been limited at best. From our past lives, perhaps it is a bit of both. Positive, because she helped me realize I can’t fix people, or that she knew me well enough to know that’s what I was doing and could tell me I couldn’t have saved her. They have to fix themselves, which includes wanting to get better. Have I hung up my sword and put my trusted steed out to pasture, the white knight somewhat jaded by feelings of worthlessness? Jaded, but wiser, at least in regards to what I can do for others. If I did, I can take that as a valuable lesson. Poisonous in that I feel guilty. Is it guilt that I can’t fix her, don’t want to fix her or guilt that I no longer trust her enough to believe that she isn’t playing an angle? I’m not sure. But it’s there, whatever it is. Every I hear from her, I get turned sideways, caught between this obligation from a past so far away that I struggle to remember details about our friendship, and the need to save myself from obsessing over her well-being. I sound cruel, but I can’t decipher the “cries” as someone legitimately asking for help or someone looking for a handout.

My father-in-law once told Sarah that I will give pieces of myself away trying to save others until one day I won’t have anything of myself left. That scares me, because it has caused issues in the past. I wonder if a lifetime spent trying to save everyone will doom me to losing myself. That I never really learned to look after me and what’s important in my life, including my partner. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I am an addict. I’m not addicted to a substance, but a behavior. If so, I can begin to appreciate how compelling the craving is. Is the inability of saying no an illness? Does this  epiphany help me sympathize or will the need to protect myself put the final nail in the coffin? I have to remind myself it’s not my responsibility to save her, nor can I. I can remind her that her son’s life is worth getting better for. For that matter, so is hers. I can’t make her see it, despite the itch to try. Perhaps, the right answer to her question is she was an eye-opening influence, in that I finally see my behavior is a pattern, an issue. Not so dangerous as drugs or alcohol,  but self-threatening maybe. I can’t thank her for the lesson, because it sounds callous to say thank you for coming back in my life to teach me that I need to let go of this desire to save people. Thank you for helping me see that my life is pretty good, and I don’t need to seek out people who are broken like I did before, seeking fulfillment in saving others. Will I stop helping people? No, I know I won’t. But I won’t do it if it means sacrificing myself and my family.

I texted. I didn’t ask how I could fix it. I told her I’m sorry she had a relapse. I hope she realizes she has a lot of reasons to live. I hope she understands it’s not too late to save herself. I’m hoping…

My Anne Shirley

Friday marked the end of a personal era for me. When I started my current job almost ten years ago, I was new to the city and new to the company. Sarah was the only person I knew in Indy. My first day, I moved quietly into a cube surrounded by unfamiliar faces. I was introduced to the nearest ones, praying that within time, I might make a new set of work friends, as I’d left my old ones behind in the move.

I couldn’t have prepared myself for the overwhelming welcome I received from a woman whom I would come to call a dear friend, so much more than just a work friend. She would become a bosom friend, of which Anne Shirley so fondly referred to: “a bosom friend–an intimate friend, you know–a really kindred spirit to whom I can confide my inmost soul.”

This dear friend nursed me through mental and emotional rough patches. She lugged me to the ER when my nose bled for thirty minutes straight and wouldn’t stop, delighting in the fuss of fixing me. She was the person I was with when I found out my dad had been diagnosed with esophageal cancer, and held me as the initial shock wore off. In turn, I forced her to the med check when she threw her back out and couldn’t stand up straight. We were close enough I could drive her home, get her changed into pajamas and put her to bed. We’ve weathered many a storm together, ever thankful for a soft shoulder and a strong hug when we needed it. Many a day, she would kiss me on the forehead and tell me she loved me. I based one of my first characters on her. She read that book and every one after, sharing her opinion, good or bad. She brought me into her world and in doing so, opened the company to me. She has been one of my fiercest supporters and truest friends.

Friday was her last day here. As I sat across the desk, completing the last of our tasks together, I realized how much I would miss her. Our friendship won’t go away with her leaving, but I will miss the daily hugs, the I love you’s, the pick-me-ups, all the get your head on straights.


I have been blessed with a handful of friends I would consider kindred spirits, who have enriched my life in ways I can’t even fathom. I’m reminded in a world that is often shaky and unreliable, I have a port to seek shelter in. It’s made me realize that the best gift a true friend can give you is unconditional love and support, and a world possessed of these generous creatures is a good world indeed. I hope for everyone to have their own Anne Shirley, for “kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think. It's splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world.”  

A Very Unusual Mind

The Writing Process Blog Tour 

I was recently tagged by fellow author, Kathleen Wheeler, in the Writing Process Blog Tour. Kudos to her on her GCLS nomination and being a finalist in the Poetry category. A big thanks to her for checking in with me before she tagged me, as she understands wearing a lot of hats and trying to find extra time for an additional one. Kathleen penned her first novel Changing Shapes, which was well-received, and an anthology of poems entitled The Immaculate Chaos of Being, which is a finalist for a Goldie…in case you missed that earlier. Read about her current WIP, Blindsided, which will hopefully drop sometime in 2014, in her “writing process” blog post. I understand she also dabbles in pottery, music, and has an affinity for fried chicken. Thanks to Kathleen Wheeler for tagging me! Hope you enjoy!

1. What am I working on? My current work in progress has been slow to say the least. Made to Love is a continuation of sorts to Someone Like You. I started writing it before my dad got diagnosed with esophageal cancer and passed away this past January. I had my mind set on a romantic comedy of sorts, the opposite of Someone Like You. After a break from writing that lasted longer than I would have liked, I picked up the story again. I found that writing the story became cathartic for me; a part of my healing process. Hopefully, I can wrap this one up sometime this summer, as it is long overdue.

2. How does my work differ from others in the same genre?  I think it’s hard to say that what I write is uniquely different from the genre as a whole. I like to think that different story twists add something to my novels that you may not see in another book of this kind. I like to put something of myself in each person, mostly vulnerabilities or personality flaws, which make the characters believable. I share a lot of my embarrassing moments with the world, so you will usually find those dents in the armor of my characters as well. I feel like it makes them more real and more likeable and makes them more believable. I tell stories of people. My books aren’t just the love story about the main characters. I love to tell the stories of everyone in the book. I was told once that I spent too much time on developing side characters, but those are people I enjoy writing as well. To me, the love story without the “fluff” isn’t the same. I also love to capture the details about the areas where the stories take place. I realized, probably as a result of my granddad being a builder and following him around as a kid, that the house in every book is a crucial part of the setting. I am fascinated with architecture and you will see that in my books. Nothing super different, but just enough to bend the mold.

3. Why do I write what I do? The voices in my head tell me to! Seriously, I think that we lean toward what we know and what interests us. I write the stories that I love to read. It’s probably cliché to say I write stories about lesbians because I am a lesbian, but it’s the truth. I don’t imagine I would do Gay Fic justice. As far as the ideas, I write them as they come to me. I will do that until there aren’t any more in my head. Then I won’t feel like the Mad Hatter lives in my brain, laughing maniacally and tossing out stories willy-nilly with no regard for time!

4. How does my writing process work?  See the Mad Hatter comment. It’s very chaotic. I have a general idea of how I want the story to end or highlights that I want to include and I write to that end. I don’t have an outline, because I’m not very good at following rules and I would certainly veer from it anyway. There are times I will actually skip chapters and go back and write them once I’m comfortable with where the book goes from that point. I crave quiet when I write. I don’t do well with distractions, as I actually play every scene in my head as though it is a movie and I’m playing the roles. It helps to get up around 4 AM and write before work. I’m at my freshest before my life and job seep in and occupy the small amount of free space. The other odd thing I do is I have to have my cover done before I start to write the story. I may change font, but the cover is narrowed down to 2 choices, if not the final version long before I write the first words.

So now it’s time to tag the next Blog-a-thon vic…er, I mean ready and willing participant and I chose Penelope Grey to pick up the torch. She penned her first novel, Infinity’s Song, in 2013. She promised me that the follow-up to that, Caught & Kept, would be out before her most recent jaunt around the world. She owes me $5.  :)  

The best fried clams I’ve ever had!

I originally started this blog as a joke for a friend of mine who hates social media. I’ve been craving lobster rolls lately and finally worked myself up to making them, in lieu of flying to Maine to get one. When I get an idea in my head, I become a one-track thinker, with a narrow-minded purpose that translates into every conversation (or as Sarah likes to say – a broken record), so my plans to make the perfect lobster roll did not go unnoticed. Rather than text with details of my project, I promised her I would blog and she could read about my adventures there.

What started as a simple quest for a good lobster roll turned into a trip down memory lane. One of my favorite vacations ever was the time that I took my parents and most of my siblings to Maine. Growing up, we didn’t have the means to take family vacations, so when I got old enough, I rounded everyone up for a trip to one of my favorite places to make some of our favorite memories. During that wonderful week, we drove through the town in New Hampshire where my dad up, hiked in Acadia National Park, shopped at L.L.Bean, visited every lighthouse along the coast and remembered how much we loved growing up in a big family.

We feasted on fresh lobster for a week straight. I remember every morning, my dad would gather everyone up and make the ½ mile walk to the pound at the end of the peninsula and buy our lobsters for the day. They would sit in the fridge until we were all worn out from sightseeing and starving. Then Dad would fire up the stove in the old Victorian and start churning out lobsters with the regularity of the peanut man at a major league baseball game tossing bags of hot peanuts to hungry fans.

So with memories of that trip and my taste buds dancing wildly, I began my search for the perfect lobster tail. Yes, I could have purchased a whole lobster, but I am squeamish about some things, so the very idea of tossing a live lobster into a pot of boiling water was not high on my bucket list. No, frozen lobster tail would suffice, and, after trips to multiple stores and several days of disappointment, I managed to round up some impressive tail. 

I had read that boiling and steaming weren’t the best ways to cook the lobster, as it pulls so much of the flavor out of the meat. I opted instead for roasting them in the oven. There is some debate about how long one should actually cook lobster. I cooked them for ten minutes in a 400 degree oven then let them finish with the residual heat. I finished them off in an ice bath to stop the cooking process.

When they chilled to room temperature, I started to pick each sweet, succulent bit out of the perfectly reddened shells. Each lump brought me closer to the elusive lobster roll. Finally, finished I added just a dollop of Mayonnaise, leaving the recipe as pure as possible, and put it in the fridge to chill. 

Several hours of yard work later, it was time to make dinner. I added a dash of celery salt, some pepper and a bit of sliced celery. I toasted the top split buns with butter and assembled the lobster rolls. Anxiously, I took a huge bite of the finished product. Was it everything I built it up to be?? Make no mistake, it was delicious! But as I munched my way through, I found myself remembering that it tasted better on the deck of an old lobster dive, overlooking the coast, with my family by my side. And as it is with lots of things, it was better experienced where the memory was made.  

My dad always said he wanted to go back to Maine. That was the best vacation he’d ever had and the best fried clams he’d ever eaten. We never made it back to Maine. Something always came up. I told Sarah this summer I was going to order a bunch of lobsters from Maine, have them shipped to my parents’ house and my dad could cook for us once again. We haven’t made it to summer yet, and I’ll need to find someone else who doesn’t mind cooking lobster, but I will keep our plans for our own family lobster-fest. I’ll probably even grab Dad off the mantle and bring him out to the porch to enjoy the party. I figure that’s the only fair thing to do since it was his idea to go back to Maine.  And like my lobster rolls, maybe they won’t taste as good as they did all those years ago, but I know the memories we make will be just as sweet!  

Fired up!

There’s been a lot of going back and forth on recent events surrounding comments made by a reality TV star. This is my take on it…which, as everyone is so quick to point out, I have a right to express. What a wonderful nation we live in!

I look at it this way. Replace the words he actually said with different, but similar in that they are based on someone’s opinion. Mick. Guido. Chink. The N-Word. Cracker. Jew. Feel differently now?

Maybe those are too harsh. Let’s try these instead. Stupid. Fat. Ugly. Queer. Slut. Retard. Now are you a little outraged? I was, and I still am. I don’t believe the debate is about freedom of speech, as so many are quick to point out. It’s about human decency. It’s about having an opinion, but doing so respectfully. We have policies in our workplace that prevent bullying. We stand up for a our children when they are called names. We try to instill in them respect for others and hopefully discipline them when they are unkind to others.

For those of you who think who cares what one hillbilly from the South says?? Try this: Duck Dynasty has 14 million viewers. GQ has almost a million subscribers. Add the millions of viewers that have seen the story on the news, countless more who saw it on social media, the subscribers to online newspapers and magazines and you start to see the scope and impact that his negative words have.

Was A & E out of line in suspending him? In my opinion, which I will again reiterate, I am allowed to have, no. We are living in a society that criticizes people for differences. For A & E to allow him to remain on TV after his disparaging remarks would have said to the public that it’s okay to be hateful. Is he allowed to his opinion and beliefs? He sure is. I don’t condone the way he went about expressing it. We all have human will and the blessing of Freedom of Speech, which ensures we can express an opinion. But it doesn’t give us the right to be hateful assholes.

A pint low!

Today not only marks Spirit Day and the fight to end bullying, but my first foray into donating blood. Normally, this wouldn’t be blog worthy, but as I do with most normal things, I turned this into the Thursday fiasco. I apologize for any misspellings and missing words…I’m still feeling a bit woozy.

I coerced the girl that works for me into joining me…we’re still not back on speaking terms. I started off by pulling the poor young man that was checking us in into a five minute conversation around our perfect stripper names. Mine is Citron or Juicy or something like that, Susan’s is Angel Bayard and Brad, God love him, chose Candy. I think that is a whole other blog.

Next, I tortured the poor women testing my hemoglobin to make sure my blood was healthy enough to donate. I told her I was a good bleeder, as my many attempts at free running produced better than average results.

Finally, I made it to the chair, well, the first one anyway. I told him it was my first time, so go easy. He told me it was his fourth time and they stopped and picked him up under the freeway on the way there. Funny guy! He wrapped my arm and checked for a good vein. Fail. I swapped chairs and gave the left arm a try. Also a fail. So he tried a blood pressure cuff to amp up the pressure. Finally, he called his supervisor over and said he didn’t like it, didn’t like the way my veins ran. How they ran? What possible way could they run besides straight down my arm? I told him to just go ahead and say it, I’m weird. Then I cracked a stripper joke to ease the tension. Something about veins shifting from using my arms to hang upside down so much.

They finally got me flowing and all was well. I was ten minutes behind Angel and I was intent on showing them just how good a bleeder I am. Three minutes later, my bag was halfway full.  Another hree minutes and I was done. They got me bagged and tagged and then the nausea set it. Apparently, they are super worried about first-timers. They gave me my token 8 oz lemon-lime soda, a red plastic bag, and told me there would be an incident report. Of course there will be. Why not!

When I finally felt better, they led me out of the chair and told me to tend to “my friend”. Apparently, despite many trips to the blood bank, she fainted, fell out of the chair and was now lying on the floor, yellower than the purse I was carrying. I sat down, offered encouraging feel-better comments like “You’re so yellow” and “I guess you won’t be working tonight”.

I found out that in addition to an incident report, they really don’t like to leave you alone. When the next wave of nausea came, I tried to sneak away to the bathroom, which was somewhat akin to trying to break out of prison. I was escorted to the bathroom, with apologies for invading my privacy, but “we just can’t have you passed out on the cold floor by yourself.” Finally, I felt almost whole and Angel was at least off the floor. We walked out with a shred of dignity, a bag of fruit snacks and a pretty darn good excuse not to work out.

We figured out all the wrong things to do, but as I looked at that pint of blood and heard that I may have just saved three lives, I felt pretty darn proud of us, fainting and all! And somewhere, in the recesses of my mind, I think I remember listening to Fat Bottom Girls and telling them I felt fine because I was listening to big fat fatties. My apologies to Queen. 

Almost Famous

If you haven’t had a chance to see Kiki Archer’s latest interview, you missed out on the opportunity to see her eat a worm. Yep, you read that write. She was dared to either twerk or eat a worm. She actually chewed up and swallowed a wasabi flavored worm and kept it down. Mad props to you, Kiki.

The vid got me thinking about the day hell freezes over and I score an interview. Chances are, it won’t take place on the finals course of American Ninja Warrior and my dare won’t be to navigate the Spider Wall with my mad parkour skills. Insert previous post about an injury to my leg from an attempt to parkour at a local park. All that aside, I know for me, worm-eating seemed to be the less pleasant of the two dares, so I set out to make myself a twerking expert.

First, I searched youtube for an educational video about the do’s and don’ts of twerking. I’d like to say for the record, it should be just the don’ts of twerking. I found one with a woman who certainly looked as though she would have mad twerking skills and I set about to follow her step-by-step instructions and turn myself into a dancing queen.

With important key phrases like “drop it like it’s hot”, “arch” and “thrust”, I knew I had found a gem. Phone in hand, loose jogging pants for freedom of movement and a willing spirit, I worked my hips in concentrated slow motion in time with my talented “teacher”. She taught me how to twerk both cheeks at the same time, twerk one at a time and the all-important side-to-side twerk. Magic was happening, I was becoming a twerking queen.

After learning each important, but disconnected step, she encouraged me to put on some fast music and put those moves together in a move that can only be described as someone having convulsions while standing up. But I ignored my saner side and continued on. I knew this was a social movement and I was a butterfly. With perfection in hand, I tested those moves on Sarah, even threw out my own “drop it like it’s hot.” In my eagerness to show off my newly acquired skill, I had neglected to realize the torque of my twerk and I propelled Sarah into the counter with all the finesse of a 300-lb sumo wrestler trying to win Dancing with the Stars. I had failed. More importantly, my mad dancing skills had failed.

I did apologize and even offered to kiss it and make it better. As I put my dancing shoes and stretchy “twerking” pants away, I realized, as did the daring Ms. Archer, that perhaps the lesser of the two evils really was the poor little worm. So like Wesley from The Princess Bride, I am building up my immunity to iocaine powder on the off chance I do receive an outrageous dare, because twerking will never, ever happen…again. 

A Mixture of Madness

“An apt quotation is like a lamp which flings its light over the whole sentence.”

-          Letitia Elizabeth Landon

I wanted to say another thank you to the people that entered the Sin No More contest.  When I set out to give away copies of my new book, I wanted it to be a chance to get to know some of my readers and find out what their favorite moments were. I was delighted to see my favorite book on the list. What surprised me most were quotes that I hadn’t thought about. It was a pleasure to go back and see stories and characters through someone else’s eyes, learning what quotes resonated and stuck with the readers long after they finished the book.

One thing that I have been blessed with in my life is a plethora of wise friends who deliver a surplus of sound advice along with much needed support. Whether or not I listen to that advice depends on the scope of the situation surrounding it. What is for certain is that in most, if not all of my books, there is a sage secondary character who doles out life changing advice with ease and sometimes the sweetness of honey. It isn’t always the best advice, but it’s always with the best intentions.

Someone asked me if I would share my favorite books and quotes. It would take a while to do and I would probably bore you all in the process, so instead, here are a handful of my favorite lines.

My favorite book is Love’s Abiding Spirit, and Gay is perhaps my favorite character of all. She shows us just how easy it is to give advice when the situation isn’t about you. Much like a dear friend, whom she is patterned after, Gay is quick-witted, endearing and all together charming. She is sarcastic to a fault, affable and impossible not to like. Here are some of my favorite Gay quotes the ones that, for me, made the story memorable:

- “Honey, I reckon that’s like me saying I just want to lose a couple of pounds.”

- “Sure do. You don’t want your bush to outshine the house. And, darlin’, no one wants to get tangled up in overgrown bush.”

- “I figure we’re all responsible for our own actions. No one can make us do anything. In the end, no matter what anyone does to us, it’s the individual that chooses how they react to it.”

- “This aging lesbian’s opinion is about as useful as goose shit on a pump handle.”

- “Darlin’, if my cousin is not half way in love with you herself, I’m not Gay. And that’s a major feat in itself, considering that’s what my birth certificate and half of Savannah’s rec softball league say I am.”

- “Some of us are nesters and some of us like to rattle the cage. I’m a rattler. Plain and simple. Now don’t think that I’m not a romantic at heart though. I’m pulling for you two kids.”

- “Well screw it then. I forgot you were God… I reckon you must think you are with the harebrained crap that’s coming out of your mouth. Guess I forgot you can control everything and guarantee no one will get hurt. Pretty powerful credit you’re giving yourself. While you’re at it, would ya mind ending war and reversing the greenhouse effect?”

-“Course tryin’ to convince you of that’s like trying to boil corn in ice water.”

Sure, I like Carrie in Immediate Possession, she’s like my mom away from home, Tess in Secrets of the Heart will always remind me of my older sister and how could I not adore Carmen in Twist of Fate, but Gay will always be closest to my heart, mostly because she makes my friend seem a little closer and probably a little because she wouldn’t let me get away with stupid stuff. 

I Don't Want to Grow Up

One of the things I valued as a child was my innocence.  At four years old, I wished I could be a man so I could marry a woman, because I didn’t know any other way than what I saw around me. I saw my parents and just figured that I had to be a boy to marry a girl. I wasn’t exposed to the words gay or lesbian or even knew that there was a word to describe the feelings or thoughts that I had. I only knew I liked girls.

In 1979, people didn’t get bullied or singled out for being gay or lesbian, at least not on my block. Rather for being poor, not as smart as someone else or because you weren’t great at kickball. We didn’t call people names like fag or homo or queer. We made up names like Dumb Dumb Head or Lame Brain. We didn’t have labels that specified if we were gay, lesbian, bi or transgender. We were just kids.

It’s so different now. I often feel bad for kids today because they aren’t innocent at four years old anymore. Changing times have exposed them to issues and problems that I couldn’t even fathom at that age. Media has created a frenzy around sexuality, fostering a negative atmosphere that targets our youth. It’s taught them to be afraid and to hate what is different. It creates problems that no child is prepared to deal with or should have to deal with.

At a time when the most pressing problem should be what Little League team did I make or how should I dress my Barbie today, society is forcing children to deal with adult size issues. I read an article recently about a five year old that took it upon herself to stand up against the hate mongering Westboro Baptist Church. The response from the church was to call her a Satanic Liar. While I applaud that strong girl, I am sad that at five, she has to see the hate that is bred by adults and the reason why.

Another article today mentioned a six year old transgender girl who had to go to court to win the right to use the girl’s bathroom in school. It breaks my heart that society has fostered such a deep-seated hatred and intolerance, that this poor girl, through no fault of her own, has to fight to be treated equally. She shouldn’t have to face that fight or be told that she is different. She should get to be a kid and experience all the things that come with growing up without carrying with her the feeling of being different.

Our youth should not have to be exposed to or stand up to intolerance or fear retribution from adults who blindly continue to dole out narrow-minded judgment based on ignorance and hate. The very people that grew up sharing the sandbox have forgotten the most basic principle that lies at the core of humanity, to just be a decent human being. That idea has been twisted and manipulated so much so that a large part of our population now believe and teach that that same sandbox isn’t good enough for everyone, and all to the detriment of our children.

The innocence, the naivety is gone.  Our children have been exposed to the ugliness that surrounds us. When I look at my nieces and nephews, I pray that they aren’t gay because I don’t want them to have to deal with the hate. But most of all, I pray that the innocence lasts a while longer.  I want them to look at Sarah and I with innocent eyes and not those jaded by society. When they do figure our relationship out, I want them to know that being gay or lesbian, bi or transgender is as normal as my brown eyes. I want their worries to be about grades and batting averages, not that their favorite aunts are lesbian and someone said that was a bad thing.

It isn’t about not letting them know what is really in the world, it’s about letting them grow up at their own pace, finding out and facing adult issues when they are adults and have the knowledge to do so. It’s about letting a six year who may have been born with different parts just be a six year old and not be told she can’t use a girl’s restroom. It’s about letting our kids get to the age where they can responsibly choose the fight that they want to be in and not forcing it on them. It’s about teaching them that no matter the differences between people, we are all just humans and we all deserve to play in the sandbox. It’s about letting them just be kids and not taking away the few years of innocence they have. They will grow up soon enough.

http://news.msn.com/us/rights-case-ruling-favors-transgender-6-year-old

http://www.nydailynews.com/news/national/lemonade-stand-westboro-baptist-church-raises-thousands-article-1.1375502

Please pass the Kleenex!

By now, some of you know that I’ve included a little extra at the end of Someone Like You…several of the recipes from Lex and Aspen’s kitchen. What you won’t see, much to my chagrin; is their playlist. A last minute decision to pull it from the book to avoid any kind of legal trouble meant I couldn’t share the music that played in the back of my mind as Lex and Aspen’s story played out on the pages.

One thing that some of my friends know about me is I am a softie. I will tear up at a Budweiser commercial and cry like a baby during movies like Steel Magnolias or Fried Green Tomatoes, no matter how many times I’ve seen them. Yes, the content gets to me, but more so the music. I love to hear a song and feel it move through my soul, evoking raw emotions. Without the music, the words wouldn’t move me quite as much. I love the perfect song. I could watch a scene with only the music and the tune would touch me just the same, or just listen to a song that played in a favorite movie and feel the familiar tug.

With that in mind, I’m sharing the songs that played for me as I stood invisible in a far corner and watched Lex and Aspen ache. I am sure you will put your own in there as well, but here’s my humble start. I hope you find the song that moves your soul.

Lex and Aspen’s Soundtrack

“It Was” – Chely Wright

“Beneath Your Beautiful” – Labrinth ft. Emeli Sande

“Can’t Stop” – Mozella

“The Story” – Brandi Carlile

“Fade Into You” – Mazzy Star

“Just A Fool” – Christina Aguilera ft Blake Shelton

“Answer” – Sarah McLachlan

“Dreamer” – Uh Huh Her

“First to Fall” – Laura Shay

“Taken” – Plumb

“Sometimes Love Ain’t Enough” – Heart

“Where I Stood” – Missy Higgins

“Ain’t No Sunshine” – Daryl Hall with Finger Eleven

“You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome” – Bob Dylan

“Everytime You Go Away” – Paul Young

 “I Try” – Macy Gray

“I Won’t Give Up” – Jason Mraz

“When the Stars Go Blue” – Tim McGraw

“A Thousand Years” – Christina Perri

“Here With Me” – Dido

“Hold Onto Hope Love” – Amy Stroup

“Between the Raindrops” – Lifehouse ft Natasha Bedingfield

“In Your Eyes” – Peter Gabriel

The Next Big Thing Blog Hop

When fellow author Penelope Grey asked if she could tag me, my first response was Honey, I’m married and I don’t think the wife would appreciate that very much. She insisted it was all in clean fun. She was super excited about the opportunity to be a part of something that encompasses authors of different genres, but with one goal…writing great lesbian pieces. Hence, The Next Big Thing Blog Hop. Check out her blog posting. http://pensgreyspace.blogspot.com/2013/01/the-next-big-thing-blog-hop-continues.html?m=1

Here’s how it works:  It’s kind of like a chain letter with interview questions. Once I’ve been tagged by an author, I’m supposed to find another five authors that agree to be tagged. I came up a tad short and want to say a special thanks to Chris Paynter for giving me the honor of tagging her. There will be more about her novels and blog below.

I’m talking about my new novel for the first time. I’m super excited to get this one finished up. The story has been a work in progress and I’m ready to let these characters fly.

Questions & Answers:

1. What is the working title of your book?

The title is Someone Like You.

2. Where did the idea come from for the book?

I read an article about couples not divorcing because they couldn’t afford to and managing to keep it amicable. I started thinking what if you had to move back in with an ex for financial reasons or something else. Would the love be rekindled?? If it wasn’t, could two people work around that and stay friends?

3. What genre does your book fall under?

Lesbian romance. All of mine do with the exception of The Killing Ground, which is a mystery/thriller.

4. Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

I love this question. I always pick someone to play my characters. That way as I’m writing and watching scenes unfolding in my head, I can actually picture faces and how they speak and move and interact. Plus, it makes the love scenes so much more enjoyable.

Lex:                 Tonia Sotiropoulou – she is Greek and has that very distinct dark coloring

Aspen:            Nadia Bjorlin – Aspen has these ice blue eyes and Nadia’s are perfect

                     

Cass:               Kate Hudson

Ginny:             Diane Keaton

Susan:             Jane Fonda

5.  What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Ex-lovers thrown back together after five years to dissolve their marriage try to ignore the feelings that never went away.

6. Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

My book will be self-published under Syd Parker Books.

7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

The first half I finished in about a month, the second half I left and came back to more than once over the last year.

8. What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

I don’t have one in mind, though I can’t think of one that has delved into this subject, at least from this angle. Although, there are a lot of very talented authors and sadly, I don’t have time to read everyone.

9. Who or what inspired you to write this book?

I think “the one love” and second chances inspired me. Sarah has a saying, which I use in the book, “I believe in second chances, just not with me.” My thought is what if the love story you think is done really isn’t done. What happens when two lovers lose their way? Can they find their way back to each other? Does love ever get a second chance?

10. What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

Following the example of another author who put out a soundtrack to her novel, I’ve decided to do one for Someone Like You. The story is emotionally raw in places and as I was writing it, I would hear a song that made me think of Lex and Aspen. Also, per the request of a very good friend of mine, look for one more surprise to be included.  

That’s pretty much it other than to say that Someone Like You will be out in March.

http://ckpaynter.com/  Chris Paynter is the author of several novels, including the winner of the 2010 Reader’s Choice Award for Favorite Romance Book, Come Back to Me. She also penned Survived by Her Longtime Companion, Two for the Show and Playing for First. Check out her blog at: http://chrispaynterbluefeatherauthor.blogspot.com/

How He Smelled of Tobacco and Peppermint

There has been a lot of feedback from Jodie Foster’s Golden Globe speech. Did she come out? Is she retiring? All debatable points, but the one thing that touched me, actually made me tear up, was the moment she told her mother, who is suffering from dementia that she loved her. Three times, so the woman lost behind those blue eyes might possibly hear her and remember it. I know all too well the feeling of looking into someone’s eyes, praying this will be the day they recognize me and instead I am greeted with eyes that stare straight through me.

I don’t remember the first time I saw my granddad, but what I do have are snapshots in my head of all the wonderful times I spent with him. After we moved back to Indiana from California, my dad was on the road a lot, so my granddad became a father figure of sorts. I even picked up calling him Dad and did so for years. My granddad owned his own homebuilding business. To this day, I can remember running in to see him in his messy office, spinning in his chair, looking at blueprints and smelling his pipe tobacco. I still love that smell. He taught me to climb trees, swish a basketball and hammer a pretty straight nail. I visited him on job sites and scaled the framed out homes long before there were walls to keep me out. He loved to fish, and he shared that with us.

I remember at four years old climbing up onto the bumper of his truck and telling him to use baking soda to clean the battery posts to “fix” it. We asked him for crazy pills every time we visited, which were actually gum drops. We drank soda from adult cups and sat on the top of the refrigerator and waved at him from our perch. Before Christmas (my Pre-JW days), we would all pile into our cars and follow him to the boonies to find and cut down a Christmas tree. We played basketball with trampolines under the net and he soothed our wounds when we fell off. He took us up in the attic of the garage and showed us a treasure trove of goodies. Looking back, it was all just things in storage, but it’s the reason I love to antique because it reminds me of him.

A recent comment got me to thinking about the year that we watched my San Francisco 49ers play his Miami Dolphins in the Super Bowl. I remember actually orchestrating it so I could watch the game with my granddad. I bet him a Big Mac that we would win. It was a small wager, but to a child it was the world, especially when I won. I never collected that bet and sadly, it’s too late now. We are probably even though, because he lent me a foldable measuring stick about thirty years ago and I broke it and never replaced it.

My granddad was a very proud and independent man. Years ago, when the homebuilding market stepped away from the traditional custom home to a more popular and inexpensive cookie cutter model, my grandfather refused to stop treating each person and home as an individual. In the end, it cost him his business and his home. When I was 16, he and my grandmother lost their house to foreclosure. We didn’t find out until days before it was final and all we could do was pack as much of their life into boxes and cart it away. I met the woman who bought the house at auction years later and it had sold for a paltry sum compared to its value. I silently hoped that her kids loved it like we did, stood on the 2^nd floor and tossed things down the laundry chute to the basement, swung on the porch swing so hard they almost tipped it over, made imaginary calls on the antique phone or slid down the stairs on their stomachs.

He and my grandmother moved into my uncle’s house, salvaging what possessions they could and my granddad, trying to salvage his pride. It was in those years that he developed Alzheimer’s. It wasn’t bad the first ten years but in those final years, he became angry and forgetful, so unlike the man I had once called dad. In the end, one of the few people that could still get through to him was my cousin. He would sit with my granddad for hours and talk to him about baseball and fishing and the kids. He could still break through the wall and get my granddad to laugh.

I remember getting the call that he had passed away. We were driving home for 4^th of July weekend in 2010. I refused to break down, instead allowing myself small bursts of tears. Sarah finally insisted I pull over so she could drive. I think I cried the rest of the way home. At the visitation, we children gathered around and marveled at how unlike my granddad the man before looked. His “too busy to mess with a brush” hair had been cut and styled, his normally bushy eyebrows were trimmed to an acceptable length and his perpetually tanned skin was sallow. He seemed very lonely all decked out in a suit that wasn’t his and surrounded by nothing. So we scheming children, behind the backs of our aunts and uncle, outfitted him with a fishing pole and several pipes for the road, all discreetly tucked away for later.

I was never more proud of my cousin than when he walked up and messed up my granddad’s hair and tweaked his eyebrows. He walked away with the telltale family smirk and said that’s the way granddad would have wanted it. We spent the night of the funeral at my parent’s house…a reunion of the family he left behind, dancing to scratchy versions of “Brown Eyed Girl” and old Bob Dylan hits and singing into whatever utensil we could find. My grandmother, who has begun her own battle with dementia, was at times dancing alongside, forgetting why we were there and at other times, hiding her sad blue eyes. I brace for the day her eyes don’t see us. For now, I will enjoy her while I can.

Though my granddad may not have remembered those of us he left behind, there are a lot of people that remember what a good and kind man he was and that he always smelled of “tobacco and peppermint.”  

It may have seemed a small, random gesture to express her love to her mother three separate times and so emphatically, but I understand how she feels. For there comes a time when you can say it one time or a hundred times and it doesn’t matter. I applaud Jodie Foster for baring her soul, however brief it was.  

Bittersweet Symphony

To this day, I can’t hear the song “The Boxer” without thinking of my dad. The latest was a collaboration done by Emmylou Harris and Mumford and Sons that I had it on repeat as I drove into work this morning. Growing up, my dad introduced us to all kinds of music, from Journey to Mozart and Handel. I can still remember sitting in the seat of his semi listening to “Faithfully” and not realizing at the time how fitting the words were in our situation. As a truck driver, he was on the road all the time and when he was home, he drank enough to be “cool” and played the role of father, never giving us a look at who he really was. By the time I moved out, I knew my dad loved music and was a Red Sox fan and still had an East Coast accent that would keep up with anyone from Boston.

It wasn’t until he had a stroke five years ago, that my dad became a family man. He was always good at taking care of us before, but I never knew anything about him other than the person he let us see. I didn’t know his past other than he was born in Holland during the war and immigrated to New Hampshire and didn’t learn to speak English till he was ten years old. I remember driving to Florida for my grandmother’s funeral and on the way home he didn’t eat because there was only enough money left to feed my sister and me. What I didn’t know was he almost didn’t go to the funeral because his mom was never really a mother to him. She kicked him out on the street when he was 14 because she didn’t want him, or that after the state made her take him back, he hitchhiked cross country to catch the family when his mom and brother left him behind. He made it as far as Illinois before he stopped and got his first job as a driver with a gentleman that had picked him up along the way. He has worked every day since then.

Those are the sad memories, the ones that I can understand why he didn’t share. But along with those, he started to share the good ones too. When he was at the juvenile home, he got to serve the governor of New Hampshire at a state dinner. When he was younger, he worked with his dad making bread at his small restaurant. When he was 18, he bought his first convertible. He was airborne in the Army, dated a woman named Esperanza in Mexico. Wooed my mother in Sequoia National Park and started his own family. All bits and pieces of what made him the man I knew and I was finally getting to see that.

He changed with us too…in a wonderful way. He was no longer the cocky man I knew, who stayed just on the edges of our family. He was now involved, caring, devoted. He actually loved the kids, not just tolerated them. He has turned into this amazing dad who still loves music, but now he tells us about the first time he heard a song or why it means so much to him.

I have a lot of memories of and with my dad, some happy, some painful. I have some resentment for growing up with an alcoholic father and the challenges that came with that, something I’m still working through. That aside, I have some wonderful memories of time spent with him. Being on the road with him and driving towards the Rockies for the first time, or driving through Utah at night and thinking the Salt Flats glowed in the dark, talking on the CB and making fun of other drivers. Things that make me smile when I remember them.

A lot of my memories have songs attached to them and when I hear that song it transports me back in time. But “The Boxer” and “Faithfully”, those songs encompass my dad. Those are the songs that evoke the most emotional response. I picked up a lot of things from my old man. I am sarcastic to a fault, I wear my heart on my sleeve, I cry at movies (yes, this from the King of Cool), I can bullshit all day long, I can’t carry a tune but I’ll belt out Journey with the best of them. I’ve always done those things, but now when I do them, I can look at my dad and know a little more about the man I got those traits from and know that whatever his faults, he’s trying to be the best dad he knows how to be.

I may not agree with a lot of the choices he made and I will probably always carry some hurt and pain from growing up the way I did, but now my head knows that there’s a reason he was broken and that a lot of his path was just him dealing with that the best way he could. I know he’s spent his whole life fighting the feelings of being unwanted and unloved and how much that messes someone up, especially a kid. I know, despite everything, my dad loves us and no matter what happens, “the fighter still remains.”

http://www.cmt.com/videos/misc/839379/the-boxer-from-cmt-crossroads.jhtml#id=1694498

My conversation with Charles Darwin or I used to be a what??

As I was writing out the check for my stepson’s tuition recently, I started to think about the relationship that he and I have. I met… well let’s just call him Charles, more for your safety than for his, almost seven years ago. He was a young lad of thirteen, smart, shy and not entirely sure who he was yet, but as eager to soak up information as I was. Naïve to a fault, but innocently so, as are most children.

Over the years, we have talked about a great many things, including his coming out to me (this was not too much of a surprise) and asking me to tell his mom for him. I have been his friend and his confidante in important matters and ones that weren’t as serious. We have always talked and he even used to listen…a little bit. There are a few topics that I steer clear of as he is much like his mom in that his sign is Gemini and sometimes the evil twin comes out and wants to duel to a verbal death. He will harangue and cajole and whatever other means he can muster up to prove his point and change someone’s mind. He will start conversations about hot-button topics because as he puts it, people tend to say what they really mean when they are angry. I am not a fighter and I refuse to be pulled into his verbal shenanigans, but I understand his youthful exuberance and his eternal belief that he is right about everything.

I call him Charles in jest, but it is somewhat fitting. One of the conversations I refuse to have with him is religion, the other is the eternal debate between creation and evolution. He stands hard and fast on his belief in evolution and I respect that he is as sure of himself at twenty as he is. I, however, consider myself to be an enlightened adult also and feel there is a place for God and for science. I won’t try to push this on him or anyone else, but I won’t debate either just for the sake of showing my true feelings.  I prefer not to waste my time talking to a brick wall who doesn’t listen to counterpoints. There are times when I wonder if he will ever listen again.

He called the other day to tell me his latest plan of what he wants to be when he grows up and ask what I think about it. For as long as I can remember, he has talked about being a doctor and I’m proud to say, he has the mental capacity to be one. He is quickly learning that he doesn’t have the mental fortitude.

His mom works in surgery and sees everyday how miserable the doctors are that she works with, so her worry in this career choice was his unhappiness. He worked this past summer as a transcriber in an ER and got to see firsthand just how unhappy and incredibly smug most doctors are. Don’t get me wrong, there are a handful that have managed to keep the job separate from home and still manage to have a life, but the majority of them are miserable and exhausted, but can’t quit because this is all they know and they’ve grown accustomed to the lifestyle that money affords and don’t know how to give that up. As much as Charles believes that he is right, he isn’t smug or nasty about it and he realized that he didn’t want to grow up and be like that.

He then decided to change from being a doctor to being a Physician’s Assistant. Still a very good job, but without the time, debt and mental weight of being a doctor. We support him and encourage him in this endeavor. He works hard and we know that whatever he set his mind to he will accomplish. He’s also a hard worker and a bit of a perfectionist, which only fuels his goals.

Last month, he changed his mind again. He has decided he wants to be a social worker. This idea was so radically different and I couldn’t figure out how he picked social work. He isn’t a bad kid, but selfless and giving are not terms I would use to describe him. I finally realized that he is lost and not exactly sure what he wants to be anymore. He’s finally realizing that he is indeed fallible and it’s altered him in such a way that he isn’t so cocksure anymore. So he gravitates towards ideas that he hears around him, looking for direction.

He called me the other day, after his announcement that he was no longer going to go into medicine and he wanted to pursue a career as a social worker. He asked me if I thought his mom would be disappointed that he was doing that since we were paying for his school and would we think he was wasting his education. Granted, he has scholarships that cover a lot of it, but at least he is realizing that what we pay is a pretty hefty chunk and he’s at least thinking about that. I said that no matter what you choose to do as a career, as long as you work hard and do your best at it and you’re happy doing it, your mom will be fine. She just worries about you. As hard as being a doctor is, social work is no walk in the park. I asked him if he knows the types of people he would be helping. He said yes, but I don’t know that he understands how tough it will be. I don’t think he grasps the hardships that he will run across and the heartbreak that will be in every face that he looks into.

He has a big heart buried under all that bravado and he’s going to meet people that are going to break it without trying. His mom worries about that and probably worries a bit about him getting hurt. But I assure him that no matter what, we love him and it’s his decision.

He jumped right in, applying for a job as a tech at a mental facility for adults with mild disorders. He loves it! As a matter of fact, last night’s big news was that he got to drive the transport van. He still shares his stories because he’s happy, but also because he wants his mom to be proud of him. I told him I loved him before I hung up and I was proud of him too. He will probably change his mind a couple more times, but he will always look to us for guidance.

The thing that touches me most is that in a world where kids don’t worry about disappointing their parents anymore, I have been blessed with a stepson who despite his desire to argue, still calls to tell us he got an A, or makes sure that he’s making the right choice. He still worries about what we think and listens sometimes, even when I think he doesn’t. What I hope is that he will come away from it with the same values that we did. My mom always said that she just wanted to raise us so that when we ventured out in the world, we were responsible adults who made responsible choices and could support ourselves. We do our best to instill that in him, even if he does think we used to be monkeys!

What's Your Amazing?

A recent blog made me really start to think about myself and the people I have met in this journey. It’s been several weeks and I haven’t been able to shut my brain off. In the blog, I mentioned that my goal was to be in the best shape of my life when I am 40. Several encouraging comments later, I remarked that 40 is my new amazing! And this is where the churning started!

I realized in my conversations with several of the women I now call friends, while we have never met, we have one thing in common. We all have a story that makes us unique. We all have hopes and dreams and aspirations to be something amazing! Many of us have reached that goal and many, like myself, have more we are working towards. The one thing that has helped me to stay motivated  is the ability to share my dreams and have just one person give me a high five or some other form of encouragement. It’s what keeps me putting one foot in front of the other and keeps a smile on my face.

It’s easy to become dejected when it seems like our goals stay just out of reach. But what if we have one person, or maybe 100 that can pick us back up again and just say “I believe in you”? Suddenly, the impossible doesn’t seem so hard anymore. Suddenly, the point that seemed so far away gets a little closer, a little clearer.

With that little build up, I am super excited to launch a brand new Facebook page. What’s Your Amazing? This is a place where we can all get together and share our stories of what we have accomplished or what we want to accomplish in our quest to be able to shout “I’m the new amazing”!

So, whatever it is that you have in your life, we’d love to hear about it. If 40 is your new amazing, or climbing Mt. Whitney, completing a 5k or publishing your own novel, tell us about it. If you need a little pick me up along the way, I have a couple hundred friends that are great at that.

My first big goal was writing a novel which turned into publishing a novel. I’ve done that. I can tell you after the initial scared as shit feelings, which do surface with each new book, the feeling of holding my book in my hands made me feel amazing! My next challenge to myself will be a little harder, but I know that my friends have my back and when I say I want to put back a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Half-Baked Ice Cream, they are going to remind me that the fleeting feeling of joy I might get with that will pale in comparison to getting to stand up and shout, “40 is my new amazing!”

Whatever your new amazing is, look in the mirror tonight and shout it. And when you’re done, feel free to visit the new FB page and share your story, encourage a friend and leave with a smile. 

"Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night"

This past weekend, we went to Chicago to do another race. As many of you know, I live to do 5k’s, Warrior Dashes, Mud Runs, Color Runs and whatever other races I can find. A dear friend of mine told me several weeks ago that I needed to stop throwing my money away. To which I replied “How can it be wasting money when I get a really cool race shirt and medal?” It’s completely beside the point that the shirt will end up in a donation pile by next year. To me, it’s the thrill of completing something and wearing my “shirt” of honor proudly...at least once.

The other thing that a few of you know is I have a tendency to share my more embarrassing moments, sort of comic relief for myself. This weekend didn’t disappoint. The race that we had planned to do was on Sunday morning, so Saturday we spent the day sightseeing, taking pics for upcoming book covers and carbing up for the race. The weather was perfect and there were a handful of soon-to-be-married couples creating memorable wedding shots all along Michigan Ave. We happened upon one couple that was recreating their own surreal version of “The Kissing Sailor” moment right in front of the John Hancock building. I turned for a better look and when I did, I stepped into the street, hit an uneven bit of pavement and twisted the hell out of my ankle. Not one of my “cooler” moments. I did save face and refused to cry, but the damage had been done. I was going home raceless-without a finisher’s medal, overstuffed and a shirt that might as well have said “I paid to do this race and all I got was this crappy shirt.”  

I learned two valuable lessons this weekend. Rubbernecking no matter how much someone looks like they just stepped out of Madame Tussauds Wax Museum is at best dangerous! And second, I learned that even though I feel 37 at heart, this body isn’t as young as it used to be. Normally, I would wrap a bum ankle, get my ass to the starting line and self-medicate with Advil later. Now, not so much. What I did do was hobble back to the hotel, prop my feet up and play Words with Friends with my mother, groaning randomly for sympathy. Admitting that my body is breaking down slowly is a little hard for me to do. Not doing a race because of a sprained ankle calls into question my invincibility and inevitably the itchy wool tights and giant S on my chest will have to be retired sometime soon. Granted, when they were handing out super powers I did ask for the ability to teleport. Yep, didn’t get that or you can bet I would have “winked” myself to the beach every day. But I’ve made do with at least believing I was invincible, tripping along somewhat oblivious to the wrinkles showing up in my face, the creaks of protest from my knees when I walk up the steps, or the sore hip from being in the car too long.

I’m rolling my eyes a bit here because I’ve made myself sound 87 and not 37. It isn’t that I’m old, it’s more of realizing what the little aches and pains foreshadow. When I see my mother who I still consider “young” at 62, I realize I can’t remember what she looked like when I was 5. In pictures, she’s a beautiful 30-year old with a wicked twinkle in her eye that looks similar to mine. Now, she’s a little grayer, her face has a few more wrinkles and she’s constantly looking for 1 of 19 pairs of reading glasses she misplaced somewhere. Somewhere along the way, she went from a young woman to a mother to a grandmother and I see myself on the same fast-paced journey, sans the kids.

And knowing that I’m getting older doesn’t make me want to settle in and admit defeat, it only makes me want to work harder to age gracefully. I may have twisted an ankle and missed this run, but there’s a Title 9 run in October that’s yelling my name, with many more to follow. My new goal is to be in the best shape of my life at 40 and actually do another half-marathon. I know at some particular point, I’ll join my mother and we will spend lazy weekends rocking on the front porch remembering the time she chased after the neighborhood boys and beat them in a water gun fight. But for now, I’ll keep pounding the pavement, cycling the open road and pointing myself to a healthier future. And stop sightseeing.

As a footnote to this blog, while I was hobbling around town I did find this kickass, “I will shank you” pair of shoes that I can’t wear for fear of breaking my ankle, or for the public ridicule that I would surely subject myself to. But I can look at them and know that somewhere there is a woman walking the streets of Chicago wearing this pair of shoes and wishing to god she had worn a pair of Saucony’s and done a 5k instead. I know her body is probably feeling worse than mine right now and that makes my smile just a little bit bigger.

Caution: Contents Pot

As I was recounting a story this morning about rolling my parent’s joints at 4 years old (this is another blog completely), I was met with some blank stares, some wide-eyed wonderment and no shortage of chuckles. Forget for a second, that when under the influence, normal, rational thought goes right out the window and focus on the reaction to the tale. It reminded me that every day we walk out the door and open ourselves up to the world’s opinion. Of our clothes, our hair, our conversation, everything about us is up for judgment.

Not everyone is as affected by this as I am. I tend to take criticism, whether good or bad, to heart. There are times I will choose not to say something, wear something or do something because of what I imagine people will think, effectively negating my rights to self-expression. I’m not talking about something that is so outlandish that it will propel me into you tube stardom. Just something simple like a shirt, an opinion, or dancing with compete disregard for rhythm. Growing up, I used to think everything my mother did was embarrassing. I told her once not to breathe, because it was embarrassing. Was it? Not really. But looking back I realize it was only because I expected judgment, that I assumed that everyone around us found her behavior less than socially acceptable. I say that having reached a point in my life where I have a deep respect and love for my mother and what I consider a fine job of raising all seven of us with minimal injuries.

As a young child, I obviously didn’t consider people’s reactions to my behavior. But as I got older, I became self-conscious and developed the need to seek approval and acceptance from outsiders. I became a people pleaser, looking for reassurance that I was indeed acceptable. I looked for approval in every facet of my life, doggedly putting aside my own well-being to meet my “imagined” expectations. It wasn’t until I was 26, married to a man, going to a church that didn’t fit me and contemplating the best way to get away from it all that I realized I couldn’t look for acceptance outside. I finally realized I was my own worst critic, unable to accept me for me, criticizing myself more than anyone else could. I had to own up to the fact that the life I was living and the approval that I received wasn’t for the real me. It was for some fake façade that I had built. It was time to live my life as the real me.

Ten years later, I thought I had gotten rid of those tendencies and given myself the freedom to live my life. It wasn’t until I decided to write and subsequently publish my first novels that I realized the old skeletons were peeking out of the closet and reminding me too much of 7^th grade anatomy. There have been moments along the way that I reverted so far back that I actually contemplated taking every book off of Amazon, the bits of criticism almost too hard to stomach. It has been most noticeable with my soon to be released book.

To this point, I have only written romance and had gotten to a place where I was comfortable with that. But about a year ago, an idea popped into my head and took my brain captive. It was a mystery, so very different from anything I’ve done thus far. As I wrote the story, the tiny voice of doubt whispered in my ears, asking me quite frequently what the hell I thought I was doing writing this genre. I pushed it away as best as I could, needing to empty my mind of a story that kept rattling around inside. Once it was finished, I wondered if I had the gumption to put it out there and open myself up to the feedback that any book gets. I wasn’t sure. Suddenly I was a kid again, worrying that my hand-me-down clothes and shoes, and my new haircut that my mother gave me wouldn’t be good enough. Could I take the pointing and the teasing again? It took me a while to accept the answer.

At 8, my mind couldn’t. But at 37, I am a stronger woman. So I pushed the skeleton back in the closet and stuck a chair under the doorknob for good measure. Every time I step out into the world or release a new book, I know there will be opinions on it. But now I’m not taking them to heart near as much. Everyone has a story to tell, in some fashion and everyone puts themselves out on display in the world, with the hopes of being accepted. We look in the mirror every day and make sure we look okay before we step out. We try on more than one outfit just to get it right. We think, even if just for a few seconds, before we say something. All because there’s this part of us that just wants to be liked. For the most part, we don’t let that desire paralyze us and for the most part, people aren’t mean. I know that now, so I no longer assume that people are going to make fun of me. Rather, what I do accept is that everyone has an opinion and most times, they aren’t going to be the same as mine and that’s okay, it makes us all unique.

With that said, although it is still a few weeks off, I’m sending out a sneak peak of my newest novel, The Killing Ground. This way I have to release it. I’m also including a heartfelt thank you to anyone that gave a cautious unknown a chance to live her dream.

 A serial killer is working his way through Chicago. His victims have nothing in common except being pregnant. Detective Rebecca Foxx of the Chicago Detective Division has her hands full trying to catch the murderer before he kills again. She has enough pressure without the overbearing FBI butting in.

FBI Special Agent Jordan Gray isn’t sure what she is in for when a midnight call brings her to her boss’s office. She asks her to take an assignment off the records. Investigate the attack of her partner, but don’t let anyone outside her office know.

It soon becomes obvious that Rebecca resents the FBI’s intrusion and it seems Jordan’s personal attention. With no breaks in the case, she is forced to accept the FBI’s help, but she’ll be damned if she is taking anything else from Jordan.

What follows is a series of missteps and twists and turns that leaves both women wondering if they will ever catch the killer and trying to figure out how to keep their feelings for each other from becoming a distraction.