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Category: Life of an Author

Motivation in a Pool of Nothingness

Motivation in a Pool of Nothingness

Motivation

What is motivation? Have you ever been far, far away from your happy place, searching for the spark of motivation to get you past the darkness? Your spark will be different then my spark, a thing as unique as you are.

The things that motivate me can be as simple as a motivation quote, a song lyric, an unexpected note of gratitude. My greatest professional struggle is my attempt to become a better selling author, have a strong following, so that I can do what I love for a living. It hasn’t been an easy road. As I scratch and claw toward this goal, I find myself searching for a motivational spark that propels me forward, that keeps me writing, tweeting, blogging and marketing.

Lately I’m motivated by women succeeding in their life’s work. Specifically, Lorelei Gilmore opening her own inn. Every time I watch that story arc I choke up. I cheer for her, sitting on the edge of the sofa, even though I know that by the end of the season, she’s successful, she happy, she’s free.

Better Things

Yeah, I know it’s a television show. If you know me, you know I’m a self-proclaimed television junkie. I love the medium. Besides books, I think tv is a great medium for telling a full, rich story. There’s time, in several hours, or weeks and even months. You have a chance to meet the characters, get more than a glimpse into their lives. You feel something for the characters even though you realize they’re not real. But for a few hours a week or a night, they are real.

Kids are work, they’re hard and they come with both good times and bad times. I have two. I’m tired, emotionally exhausted as I deal with a child who has crippling anxiety and another with transgender issues. Most of the time I question my decision, feel like a failure because I can’t keep up and it leaves me overwhelmed. And in that whirlpool of emotions I land on activities, books, movies or television shows that offer me a sliver of motivation, that make me feel as though I’m not a failure, like I oftentimes feel that I am.

Currently, my new favorite is Better Things. It’s a story about a working mom, raising three daughters alone. Sam is a working actress, fulfilling her lifelong dream and in the process, she struggles to raise her children, keep her career successful and deal with the unusual issues that her children manage to come home with.

As I watch it almost at times feels as though I’m with a friend and I don’t feel as bad as I did when I start. Maybe I’m not so far from being okay as I sometimes feel that I am.

Being a little unfocused and overwhelmed won’t be able to derail me.

Motivation

My motivation is different then your because I have different dreams, different desires, different needs. I desire to be in a different place, to be a better person a good mom.

I write because I can’t do anything else. It’s who I am, it’s what I do. Better Things, Gilmore Girls, the song Set Fire to the Rain (that’s for another blog), they motivate me. They inspire me to continue forward, to achieve me dreams, to raise successful, happy children. To accomplish that I find my own motivation, different from yours all to the same purpose. Find that thing and run with the spark and never lose sight of the meaning behind it.

 

 

 

Living for the Weekend – Living a Satisfying Life

Living for the Weekend – Living a Satisfying Life

Living for Precious Moments in Time

Why are we living for the weekend rather than the living in the present moment? Is the thing we spend most of our time doing, that distasteful to us, that we long to be any where but where we are?

I don’t enjoy living for the weekend. Living for the sweetness of lazing around, taking my time to drink a tea, watch some mindless television, to not rush awake before the sun rises so that I can get it all in before work. Because realistically, I’m still not getting it all in.

It’s time to enjoy the time in between doing what I love to do.

I Was Born to Write

I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up, when I was seven years old. I never once wavered from the dream. I wanted to be an author. I wanted to create worlds of my own making, make my own schedule, feel the sense of accomplishment and freedom you get working from home. It is a great dream and during those periods of time when I’ve been at home, in between full-time paying jobs, I felt that freedom, I experienced the sense of accomplishment as I finished 5 book drafts. As the book series worked itself out.

And then I got a job.

Full Time Writing for Cash

It’s boring. It feels like a time suck and I find myself living for those moments in time, in between being at work where I can finally sit down and write. Where I can feel productive and proud of the work I do. Unfortunately I haven’t fully found my audience and the reality of life was such, I needed to go back to work.

My daily struggle, rising before the sun and rushing out the door al the while knowing that I’d rather be at home being creative, letting that side of myself stretch out and explore. I don’t have that opportunity writing procedures.

I sigh. The dream is still the dream, the book, is still being written. Creativity is my escape from the mundane as I explore options for not letting myself get sucked into the living for the weekends. There is so much time wasted, longing to be where we are not.

It’s time to not live like that anymore. I make a vow to myself.

It’s Okay to Not Accomplish Everything

It’s time to let go of the desire to be perfect. It’s time to create priorities. Yeah, something’s need to get done. Dishes, laundry, grocery shopping, seeing friends. Something has to give, a plan needs to be constructive, sleep needs to be had.

When we let go, not hold on too tightly, we can live in the moments in between where we want to be. Life is too short to work through it, to miss the other moments in time. I forced myself to go to yoga tonight, even though I wanted to come home and write before I became to tired to think. Because I know, I needed that hour and 10 minutes to be alone with myself. To recharge and stretch. Something had to give. Tonight that thing I let go of, laundry.

I can wear dirty pants one more day. Can’t I?

 

 

 

Confidence – Shall We Pretend Until We Believe?

Confidence – Shall We Pretend Until We Believe?

The Greatest Confidence Boost

The greatest boost of confidence that I have ever experienced was writing my first book. The greatest loss of confidence started when I tried to sell the book.

Being confident is like riding a roller coaster. There are so many highs and lows, twists and turns and big ass drop that turns your stomach as you purse your lips to hold in the vomit.

Trying to sell books is that same roller coaster. There’s tiny bits of good luck and lost of down turns. Much frustration and the high when the story comes together in a way you couldn’t predict when you first wrote the book.

The Confidence Struggle

I’m not the only one who struggles to remain confident. Life gets in the way, we all have problems, situations that are so overwhelming, it can attack our total being.

That’s where I am right now. Honestly, my confidence, at this moment is low, I feel as though I’m the worst writer ever, not only as a fiction writer but as a technical writer. I literally feel as though I can’t string words together to form a complete sentence.

It’s a struggle to find something to change the tide of emotion, that one thing to make create that upturn, the path that leads me to a place where readers find me and read my books and get enjoyment from the story.

Though there’s been some positive movement, there’s been much disappointment. So much so, I’ve been researching options in which to find that boost, that change, a way out of this perpetual rut I find myself in. At

At first I thought I’d, try some self-help books. I’m not great at self-help books. They may inspire for a moment, but I can’t carry it through to a conclusion. They just don’t get me.

Next I’ve opened myself to new experiences. This one is a work in progress. I’ve joined writer’s groups. And as my schedule opens up, I plan on participating and trying to glean something from the experience. I hope this can finally convince me that I’m actually a writer. If I keep telling myself that, maybe one day I’ll believe it.

There’s Always Something Positive

As I open to new experiences and as I start to believe the lies I tell myself, I need to remember to acknowledge those moments. Single moments in which I feel confidence. When I feel fierce and indestructible. When I look in the mirror and confidence radiates from my face, in my clothes, in my psyche, there’s no more brushing it off as if it doesn’t matter. It’s time to pretend for the greater good and the more I tell myself I’m confident, the more I’ll start to believe it.

Never Give Up, Never Give In

I keep plugging along because I so believe in myself at times, regardless of the underestimation that comes my way. You can’t win, if you don’t play, you can’t succeed if you don’t try. I can because I do. Join me on the journey, because someday is almost here.

WIP – Book 3 of The Wizard Hall Chronicles – Wizard War

WIP – Book 3 of The Wizard Hall Chronicles – Wizard War

September 1: The Day of First Sun

Cyril B. Stonewell waited patiently for the world to forget Princess Amelie Maxillian of Amborix, but it would take longer than the six weeks he allowed for it. Hundreds of stories had been written, pictures posted to millions of websites; her life story could still be accessed as if she were still living. This was in part due to the lack of closure. Though they knew who killed her, no one outside of Wizard Hall America, or the Wizard Council of America knew why she was murdered. And most importantly, no one anywhere knew what Stonewall was planning to do.
It’s time!

Stonewell dragged the heavy sack across the perfectly manicured lawn. It bounced, and the man stuffed inside groaned as he woke from his magical stupor.

Before reaching his destination, the body inside woke and grew restless, or scared and tugged at the canvas sack he was stuffed inside. When he couldn’t loosen the ropes, he kicked and flayed. Stonewell, not a young or healthy man, stopped, issued a hard kick to the man’s kidney and squatted beside the dirty bag.

“Keep this up and I’ll kill you now,” Stonewell hissed. The man, spoke only German, but he understood the tone of Stonewell’s words; he stiffened into a tightly wound ball and himself be dragged across the dew covered lawn owned by the royal family of Amborix.

With his destination in sight, Stonewell, short and fat, stopped again, and panted in exhaustion; the bag was heavy, even as thin and malnourished that his victim was. It was too much exertion for Stonewell.
I should have teleported!

He picked up the drawstring of the sack and hobbled his way toward the gravesite, where the royal family had buried their only daughter, far from the prying eyes of the world. But she wouldn’t be buried there for much longer.
With each labored stepped, the former high ranking member of the Wizard Council, grunted from the exertion and sweat poured down his cheeks. He wrapped the canvas handle around his hand, and took another step toward the large oak tree at the center of the open land.

Wind carried voices.

Security is here too soon!

Panic filled his gut; Stonewell hobbled as quickly as he could toward the gravesite, where the grass hadn’t fully grown back. A moist patch of dark earth, smooth yet visible lay at his feet.

Stonewell dropped the bag, wiped sweat from his forehead, leaving behind a streak of dirt and leaned against the granite headstone.

The voices, grew closer, yet they were still off in the distance, traversing the large clearing.

I need to move!

Not relishing the thought of being discovered, Stonewell glanced around the clearing searching for shadows of the security officers against their flashlights. When he saw none coming, he waved his palms across the first layer of loose dirt, pushing it to the side of the grave. He worked alone to remove several cubic feet of the heavy earth, and with each sound in the darkness, he’d spin around, anxious security would find him messing with the gravesite. He removed a second layer of dirt, the pile growing enough to draw suspicion.

Flashlights illuminated the thick, dense trees, that circled this open lawn. The harshness of the German grew louder, stronger.

They’re angry. Damn!

Stonewell ducked behind the large oak tree as Amelie’s headstone lit up with streams of light.

The bag!

“There!” Footsteps sloshed across the wet grass. Stonewell, nearly caught, waved his arm around the edge of the thick trunk, and swiped his palm in the direction of two security guards heading to the mysterious bag. Little did they know it contained a half drugged street urchin.

“Help me!” the man shouted. The security officers gained speed seeing the bag move and the pile of dirt beside the grave of Princess Amelie.

Stonewell’s jinx hit both men, they stopped mid step, frozen as living statues. He swished his palm again, knocking the men over; they landed with thuds against the grass.

Poking his head around the tree trunk, Stonewell surveyed the scene, wiped his brow of sweat, slid out from his hiding spot. His first order was a swift kick to the bag, he heard a crack in the man’s ribs. “They’re gone. You won’t be saved,” Stonewell sneered and began to remove the dirt before the security guards woke from their forced nap.

The earth from the grave loosened and floated to the pile easily but the exhaustion seeped through Stonewell’s body as he expended a lot of magical energy to unearth so much dirt and locate the coffin.

I must be close!

Three hours after he began, the cement tomb was finally visible. He wiped sweat and dirt from his face, wiped it on his expensive suit, already covered in mud. He swiped away the final layer of earth revealing the bronze plaque on the cement lid read that read, Amelie Victoria Maxillian, Rest In Peace.

As if he knew what was to come, the victim, struggled inside the canvas bag, closed tightly with a sticking spell and other magical jinxes used to prevent his escape. His moans, grew fearful as he screamed obscenities through the thick fabric.

His legs kicked out as if he could rip through the heavy fabric. Stonewell glanced at the indigent and threw a jinx at the moving mass, immobilizing him.

Standing at the edge of the hole, Stonewell held his palms upward and raised the heavy cement lid, floating it up through the grave and landing it on a clear patch of grass. Shining his light inside, he examined the coffin—still polished, nearly pristine—it lay untouched by air or time. He jumped down, tightly enclosed inside the hole. Adrenaline coursed through him as he raised the lid, unsure of what he’d find.

he silk lining ripped to shreds and covered in streaks of blood.

The newly risen vampire lay still, her expensive silk lining, ripped to shreds, covered in blood. He flashed his light inside, her angry eyes were black holes. She blinked rapidly as she stared at her savior hovering above her.

“What took so long?” she sneered.

“I know, love. It couldn’t be helped.” He smiled and reached for her hand, but the agile, young vampire rejected his assistance. She easily stood and leaped from the coffin, without breaking a sweat or dirtying her emerald green, silk dress.

Stonewell hoisted himself from the hole, slipping in the wet earth, landing in the coffin. Amelie sneered as she watched him struggle from her former prison. He glanced up at the lovely princess, and grimaced. Rather than embarrassing himself further, he teleported to the grass, bent over and sucked in a deep breath.

“I’m famished,” Amelie cooed through purple, pouted lips. Her hair fell wild around her face; her dress slipped from her shoulder. Her fingertips, raw and bloody from attempting to escape had marked up her silk dress. Smudges covered her neck, her cheek, her lips.

A breeze wafted across the clearing, Amelie closed her eyes, felt the wind across her bare skin. Though she no longer felt hot or cold, the breeze still tickled her skin.

Stonewell wanted to run a brush through the golden locks, dress her in the finest of clothes like the princess she was.
With a bath she’d be perfect.

“I’ve brought your first blood, your highness.” He bowed low to the princess as he showed her the bag with the victim squirming inside.

“Don’t call me that!” she shouted. Her voice rolled through the trees.

“Yes. Amelie. Here. Here’s the food I promised.”

Stonewell, once a high official of the Wizard Council, now succumbed to being Amelie’s slave, he untied the strings that held her first victim inside.

As a young vampire she knew nothing about the art of the sensual kill. She pounced on her prey, ripped opened the bag and held the victim to the wet grass. She sniffed him and licked his tender neck. He struggled against her vampire strength; she held him tighter, bound his hands behind his back in one of her delicate hands and pulled his neck backward, giving her room to sink her fangs into the artery. Warm blood passed her lips, she sucked deeply. Her first taste of blood was all she needed to understand the ecstasy in that moment. A slow groan of pleasure escaped her as she writhed against her first victim. As he was drained of life, he no longer struggled against her grasp, she loosened her hold on him until he finally went limp.

She held him in her arms until there was nothing left inside of him and pulled her sharp teeth from his neck. Amelie licked the last drops of blood from his neck, licked her lips of whatever she hadn’t sucked and then tossed the corpse to the ground. She stepped over him, sashaying to the man who saved her from her confines.

“My master,” the vampire cooed. She smiled coyly, averting her eyes from his lecherous stare.

The princess is happy!

Stonewell smirked to himself as he reached for her hand. He shivered at the icy chill that emanated from her skin.
“Did they notice, my dear?”

Amelie shrugged. “I have no idea what happened to me after I died,” she hissed.

It’s unlikely they found the vampire tracks beneath that thick, golden hair at the back of her head.

“They did a fine job. Fine job, indeed.” Stonewell glanced at the mess he created, reached down for the dead homeless man and pulled him toward the coffin. He was still very heavy.

“I’m so hungry,” Amelie whined. She pressed her lithe body against his squat fat bottom.

“I need to clean up this mess. We can’t give anyone a reason to investigate this grave. They will know you aren’t here,” he said as he dumped the body inside the coffin.

“Now,” Amelie said as her breasts and hips curved against him. Heat rushed through him as her every touch aroused him, even the cold chill from her skin felt alive.

“I will find you someone to eat. Now let me finish,” he ordered and lowered the coffin lid on the dead man.
“Now!” she screamed.

Amelie grabbed Stonewell’s fat wrist and twirled him around to face her. Confusion and fear lined his face.
“Now, my dear. I’ll fetch you someone new. Le-let’s go. We’ll go, now,” he muttered as he glanced at the frozen security team feet from where Amelie held his wrist.

But Amelie was no longer interested in the man who freed her from her prison. Pulling him to her like a rag doll, she yanked on his chin pulling his head back, exposing his neck. She could no longer wait for the taste of iron and sank her fangs deep into his neck and let the blood flow.

He cried out, “No! My love, no!”

Stonewell struggled as all victims did when they realized they were about to die. She felt the life slip from him, his muscles went slack, the life faded from his eyes. Cyril B. Stonewell’s body slumped against Amelie as she sucked from him all that he had.

 

Six Months Later

The minute Annie returned home from the Cave of Ages, she went on medical leave. Two injuries in one week was enough to claim compensation time; she gladly stayed in bed past eight in the morning when the sun burst through the curtains, blinding her.

I should find dad’s missing file.

Her mind raced with thoughts of her father, of his missing file, of the Fraternitatem of Solomon who got away with murder. She sighed and felt Cham’s warm body in deep sleep beside her. Not wanting to wake him, she climbed from the bed, threw on a thick sweatshirt and headed for her kitchen.

Zola, always protective, always there for Annie, busied herself in the kitchen, even as she too was recovering from several injuries, to her wrists, ankles and her ripped fairy wings that hung limply behind her.

“Go rest,” Annie said as she took the cleaning rag from Zola.

“I need to stay busy. You know that’s what you’ll be doing too,” Zola remarked and though Zola attempt to show strength, she was glad when Annie shooed her away. “You rest. I’ll know if you don’t.” Zola smiled before teleporting herself to the guest room for much needed sleep.

Annie poured herself hot water from kettle on the stove and dunked a tea bag inside and sat at the table.
So, where would dad hide a file?

Annie fiddled with the warm mug, the tea seeped and the water grew dark brown. She twirled the tea bag.
Basement probably?

She glanced at the open door, left her steaming mug of tea on the table and headed into the damp, cold basement.
Annie zipped up her warm hoodie and glanced around the crowded room, surveying possible locations for a file.
Maybe in the walls or under the floor or maybe the air return vents?

Annie started with the laundry room, a long thin room at the back end of the basement. It was completely unfinished, contained a washer and dryer as well as the other mechanical units for the house.

Immediately, Annie noticed the metal chair leaning against the wall and a single iron shackle that had been left behind when the clean-up team had dealt with the evidence and mess of Zola’s abduction a few days prior.
Why is that still here?

Annie pulled the shackle from the floor, noticed the blood and hair and summoned an evidence bag. With the iron bracelet secure, she began to thump against the walls, assessing the sound for possible voids in the wall. When she found nothing, Annie did a quick search of the area behind the water heater and furnace, but there was no sign of a file or a container to store a file.

With the evidence bag secure, Annie stepped back into the main basement room and scanned the walls, the floor, the boxes, filled with junk.

What was here when dad was alive?

Weary and not wanting to tackle the boxes of junk Annie decided to head upstairs for breakfast, until she noticed the small door to the crawl space, an open area beneath the staircase to the second floor.

Would he hide it in such an obvious location?

Annie had never been in the crawl space, let alone seen what was stored inside, if there was anything at all.
Sitting on the cold floor, Annie pushed against the panel that should have slid open manually. But it wouldn’t budge and use of magic did nothing to dislodge The opening. Annie sighed and summoned a crystal. Holding it over the door, she maneuvered the crystal scanning for magic. It didn’t take long for the rock to glow brightly with white magic.

The magic floated around the crystal, she stared at the old magic.

Eight years old maybe?

“Hey.” Cham rubbed his eyes of the last bits of sleep as he climbed down the staircase. “Whatcha doing?”

“I think I found the hiding spot.” She tossed him the crystal; he stared inside, reading the magic.
“Ah … that’s a really simple spell,” he noted.

Maybe dad assumed no one would ever look here.

“You really think it’s as easy as that?” Annie asked. It surprised her how simple a spell her father used.

“Yeah. I do.” The doorbell rang. Annie and Cham glanced at each other, Annie shrugged. “I’ll get it. You open,” he offered and headed back upstairs.

Annie scooted closer to the crawl space door, casting a reversal spell against the thin panel. It creaked and popped and slid open with an easy touch.

“Really dad?” Annie chuckled. With her flashlight, she stuck her head inside the space. Musty, dusty scents wafted to her; the dirt floor, the cobwebs, a possible nest in the corner. She cringed as the light roamed the small space stopping on the box in the corner.

Is that…

The box had been there for years, covered in dust, and water stains. She backed away not wanting to crawl through the bugs, or snakes or mice that might be living in here.

Duh?

Annie summoned the box, the same that stored the printer paper at Wizard Hall. It easily floated to her. She lay it on the cement beside her, almost frightened to see what was inside.

“You got an unmarked package,” Cham said, handing her an envelope addressed Annie Pearce; it had no return address.

She glanced at the scribbled handwriting, barely legible and felt the package; light and pliable.

“Odd. But guess what I found,” she announced proudly and showed him the box.

“So Jason did hide the file. You okay to look inside?”

I wonder if I am?

Ryan gave Annie his full support to investigate her father’s death. She lifted the box and floated it beside her as she walked the stairs with her unmarked package.

“I don’t recognize the handwriting. I wonder if I should take it to work.” Annie said as she tossed the package on the table beside the box.

“Or you could look for wayward magic,” Cham suggested with half a grin.

“Already there,” she announced as she moved her crystal over the mystery package. The rock didn’t glow.
Annie squished the package between her fingers.

Paper?

She held the mail to the light, but the envelope was thick and opaque offering her no clue as to the contents. Curious, she ripped open the seal and peered inside.

Well that’s not what I expected? She thought as she slipped the contents on the table.

“What the hell? It’s a… a French newspaper?”

The paper was well read, and folded with purpose. The picture attached to the article was clearly visible. Black and white, the red circle was hard to mistake. Annie summoned a magnifying glass and examined the picture as Cham looked on from over her shoulder.

That face!

“Oh crap,” she held the glass and stared into the picture.

“That can’t be.” Annie was stunned as they stared at a picture of Princess Amelie, alive and walking among the crowd.

Baseball, Poetry and the Linking of Time

Baseball, Poetry and the Linking of Time

There’s Poetry in Baseball

There’s poetry in baseball. The movement of the ball as it flies off the bat; the slide into a base; the swing of the bat. Hot summer sun beats against your skin from seats in the bleachers, a permanent fixture since 1937. Animated crowds pack themselves inside for the widest view of the field. And if so inclined turn and wave upwards to the scoreboard operator, the third generation in his family to man the board.

Wrigley Field is the past, it is the present, it is the future. They are all linked by fandom, those of us who bleed Cubbie blue. We were raised by parents, who were raised by our grandparents, and we are linked irrevocably by the love of the game, and the history of our team. Collectively we hang on each hit, each ball carried on the wind. It carries our hopes, our dreams in each at-bat.

Each season ended with immortal words, “Maybe Next Year”. We would slink away and lick our wounds, another season lost to time. 108 years of time.

They rewrote the story, and those of us who bleed Cubbie blue, breathed a collective sigh of relief, only after we jumped up and down, let out energetic screams and some of us even cried.

Baseball Links Us

I watched the series with my grandfather, who died in 1987. HIs picture lay on the table beside me;, facing the television. This he would have loved. That team would have sparked in him the delight of a child. How he loved baseball, how he loved the Cubs.

Live in the moment when it comes. Leave for the sporting goods store, 20 minutes after they win and bask with others as we wait to buy the prized “World Championship” gear. It doesn’t matter that it’s midnight. As “Go Cubs Go,” plays from someone’s car, chat up the next jubilant fan and share the stories. “Where were you when the Cubs won?” For a mere moment, there was no division, collectively we were simply Cubs fans.

It was the fourth largest gathering of humans in the history of the world. They snaked along the parade route to the rally. We packed ourselves into the park. It was a sea of blue, thousands of stories jammed together celebrating for themselves and for those who never got to see what we got to see.

At the rally.

LIke nothing before, we rolled from the rally, stretched out along the avenue, steady and proud in gear. A club of millions.

Michigan Avenue Chicago

This Year is Different

We are now experts in rooting for the champions, we’ve been here before. And yet, my stomach roils with each error, I hold my breath with each swing. We are giddy with excitement, because we know, how few and far between this could be.

I’ve passed my affliction to my children; they are now the fourth generation of Cubs fans and they understand the suffering and jubilance of truly being a fan. I cried today when they squeaked out a win. I will always bleed Cubbie blue.

 

 

Words: Their Cause and Effect, Both Good and Bad

Words: Their Cause and Effect, Both Good and Bad

Words and Their Effects

Words, they can greatly affect how we think, how we feel, how we react to an event. Twenty six letters make up approximately 171,000 words found in the Oxford English Dictionary. And depending how these words are conceived and in which order, they can greatly affect those who read them or hear them. They can rise us up or bind us; anger us or fill us with love. And whether we read them or hear them, they can create a visceral reaction to them.

Outlander

Claire Randall, the ultimate early feminist, the free spirit who grew up traveling the world with an archaeologist uncle, a woman who could swear with the best of them, a woman not tied to the conventional societal norms, who could think her way out of a problem, and defend herself in a world, so different from her own.

She survived World War II as a nurse, having watched many of soldiers parish. She understood pains and sadness. But she was resilient, she was strong. The Outlander series is about her and her split life, the one she lives in the present, the one that shakes her up in the past.

Soon after the conclusion of the war, a tired and battered Claire is reunited with her husband, her love. And as they return to each other, get to know each other again, Claire is yanked from her life and as it happened, she was sucked through a time warp, landing in 1743.

Claire the Survivor

She’s a survivor of a brutal war and yet it almost doesn’t protect her from nearly being raped, or beaten, or kidnapped by a clan of Scotsman. As she gains focus and learns where she is and when she is, she is forced to work as a healer for the clan leader and his family.

Claire is tough, thoughtful and resourceful. I grow to love her character, her strength, her unwillingness to give up on her dream of returning home to her husband, to her own time.

But she fell in love. And I’ve got to admit, Jamie Frasier is by far the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. And as Claire falls deeper in love with Jamie, as her confidence and strength grows, she learns to survive and thrive in this environment so different than what she once knew.

I grew Incensed

This brilliant, beautiful woman who endured so much, living in a past without the comforts of the 20th century goes home. Separated from her love and pregnant with what she assumed was her soon dead husband, she returns to her own time, 1948 England.  Her first husband takes her back and together they agree to raise the baby as theirs.

Claire, after all she had been through finds the provincial life difficult to bear, she wants so much more for herself. She misses Jamie, can barely live with her husband. But she forever will be who she is, the opinionated, mouthy, brilliant and beautiful Claire. Where Jamie loved her for it, her husband Frank was not as impressed. He wanted her softer, quieter. Claire resisted, even in public, even when conversing with the head of the History Department.

As they conversed of President Truman, she interjected with what she had read and agreed with in the Boston Globe. He laughed at her. She spoke again, he shot her ideas down referring to her and her position as wife and soon to be mother as more appropriate than a well-educated and thoughtful woman.

Words Too Many

I listened to him belittle and demean her and for the sake of Frank’s career she backed down. It was that incident, that made her fighting mad, and she fought back so to speak.

I grew angry at the scene, groaned and yelled at the television. And though I do realize it was 1948, and this most like was the reality for women all over, I burned.  And then I cheered, because I knew what was to come, I after all did read the book. Claire enrolled in medical school after her daughter was born.

It wasn’t always easy for her or the only black classmate. Whispers and sneered followed them and yet they persevered. I was proud that they took that initial first step and stood up for themselves and their dreams regardless of what society had to say about it.

Words Can Heal

Claire inspired, she fought back, she created a life for herself that challenged and garnered respect. But the treatment she received from men left me stinging. I too want more for myself and find that when I write, when I attempt to accomplish a dream, I am far more confident and happy. When the 26 letters of the English language are put in a certain order to create words and those words are joined in a way, they can inspire, just as much as they can take down an army. Claire’s battle felt like my battle and it inspired me to continue forward regardless of who underestimates my abilities. I know what I am and what I am capable of. May we all have the opportunity to hear and read those words that create love and kindness and may they inspire us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Defining My LIfe – Defining Moments Don’t Have to Define Your Life

Defining My LIfe – Defining Moments Don’t Have to Define Your Life

Defining My Life

Defining my life fell into two separate and distinct periods of time; life before my daughter was born with a terminal disease and the path life took after. The single defining moment for me, was that second, that single moment before she was born (via C-section) and that long moment when I realized she wasn’t crying, that something was very wrong.

It sticks with you, these defining moments. Sometimes you can find yourself as a victim of the moment and let it drag you under, or you can use the moment to step forward and redefine your life and your dreams.

I fell somewhere in between. I found a way to move on, to raise my other daughter, have another child. While moving on, I seemingly found myself a victim of my circumstance, stagnating and letting that single moment define who I was.

Re Defining My Life

I read Harry Potter. I loved Harry Potter. It did more than entertain; it woke up a passion in me that I hadn’t realized was there.

That, coupled with a meeting of a former classmate at a twentieth class reunion, forced me to look at my life and the choices I made and something inside of me changed. I no longer wanted to let life and the bad things define how I lived my life. It was time for me to take control.

I remembered for the first time in years, that I had a dream. One that I cultivated since I was seven years old. I wanted to be a writer.

Writing That First Book

I tried over the years to write a book. I stopped at chapter 1 or paragraph 1, never completely understanding how to craft that story. Never really understanding what it was that I even wanted to say.

But this time, the jealously that my classmate was a published author and my sadness that had accumulated over a lifetime, forced me to open the book and really think about what story I wanted to tell.

It wasn’t very good or very long and it took many attempts to reach the published versions I have online. I look back at the first time I typed “The End” on that very first draft and I can’t help but be proud, I can’t help but realize my life is no longer defined by one single event.

Now I’m Defined

Now I’m a writer, who is a mother, one who lost a child. I write about the loss and how it affects me, but not as a single defining moment. It happened and it makes me sad and it always will. But it won’t always make a victim of that circumstance. I finally found the confidence to truly move on and I now weave those emotions and memories into my writing to give it depth and meaning. I’m no longer defined by it, I define how I use it to motivate and move on.

 

 

 

 

Why Do You Write – Where Does the Passion Come From?

Why Do You Write – Where Does the Passion Come From?

Why do I write?

So why do I write? It’s an intriguing question; to ask someone why they do what they do. What brought them to their profession, hobby, fandom? I took to reading early, ravenously read through entire series. It didn’t matter if it was Nancy Drew, Judy Blume, Stephen King or Harry Potter. Always with each book, as I experienced all these adventures between the pages, what I really wanted to do was write my own story.

It is my passion.

I am a self-proclaimed introvert. Being the center of attention is uncomfortable, confining. But when I write, I am free of anxiety, of fear. It is on the paper that I can write and re-write to craft the words that express my thoughts, my feelings, my emotions.

To be a writer, is what I have wanted to do since I was seven years old. I have never wavered from my desire to create my own worlds, my own stories and characters. To create something lasting. When I can’t form the words with my mouth, I can always type them with my fingers.

I’ve always been able to write about anything. Though sometimes, I just don’t know what to write. But when I do, it gives me power, it gives me confidence.

I love finishing that first book, letting the story pour out of me. It gives me a great sense of pride with each draft when I see the story fill itself out, when I link each book to the other as I tell a complete story. I don’t feel as confident with anything else in my life as I do when I write.

And through the highs and lows in my life, to write it was keeps me sane. When I don’t write, heavy emotions can wear my down. Writing is my therapy. It is my strength.

Why Do I Write?

I write because simply, writing is a part of me. When darkness gathers and envelopes me, writing is my light. It is my fire. I was born to do nothing else.

Pass it On

I read a blog Tara M. Martin . It was there she answered the same question; why does she write? So I had this idea to share why I wrote. And then it occurred to me. I’m going to pass the question on. To all my writer friends, why do you write? To all my non-writer friends, what is your passion.

Life should not be passionless. We should dance, sing, write exercise, mediate; do something we are passionate about every day. Every day.

 

Six Sins of the Writer – In Otherwords – Insecurity

Six Sins of the Writer – In Otherwords – Insecurity

We writers all do it, let our insecurity get in the way of what we’re trying to accomplish. We let it hold us back. Something I’m finding as I take a very personal book and shop it to agents. After 9 query letters, I’ve received 9 No’s. It makes me want to stop, hide the book under my pillow and cry.

After spending the last 7 weeks healing from shoulder surgery, I’ve had a lot of time to think, a lot of time to re-assess and a lot of time to feel sorry for myself. I’m not where I want to be physically or professionally, I’m not this, I’m not where I should be. I started thinking about the Writer’s Deadly Sins.

The Insecurity of Fear –

The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. Franklin D. Roosevelt

I’m terrified to send the next letter, put myself out there, expose myself and a book that became something so personal it feels like each rejection is a rejection of myself and my person. It’s ridiculous, I know. And yet, I promised myself I’d sent out three query letters a night. After the 9th rejection, I haven’t sent out another. I will tonight, I swear it!

The Insecurity of Comparing Yourself to Other Writers –

Try not to get lost in comparing yourself to others. Discover your gifts and let them shine! Jennie Finch

This is my biggest fault as a writer. More so because I see others succeeding where all I feel I’m doing is spinning my wheels. I try this, I try that, and all I’m looking for is a simple boost, a simple jump from nothing to one, just to show I’m making progress. Sometimes I stop reading other’s posts on Facebook because I just can’t deal my own lack of confidence.

I’m me, however, once in a while the comparison might lead to something amazing. Like when I walked into my 20th class reunion. I’ve talked about speaking with a former classmate, Joy Meredith who I found out was a published author. The jealous, the anger at myself grew and pulsed until I finally sat down to write my first book.

Still, don’t compare yourself to other writers. It’s not apples to apples, it different genres, different stories. Just be you.

Not Giving Yourself a Break –

Women need to hear the words, ‘It’s okay if things don’t go exactly the way you want them to.’ Give yourself a break! Brooke Burke

To sell books you need to market them. That means social media, blogging, book fairs. There’s so many pieces in the overall scheme I get overwhelmed when I realize I’m not doing everything there is to do. I read The 30 Book Marketing Challenge, by Rachel Thompson, which was set up to be doing something everyday for a 30 day period. And I did. I was crazy with carving out the time to look at a new website, change-up a Facebook page, tweet something important. It made me nutty, depressed, jealous. Yes, I recognize I need to be doing most of the things she wrote about but realistically, I was not getting graded on my work, it will not make me a best seller after 30 days. What it will do is help. Rather than making myself nutty, I should have given myself a break, taken one action when I could and realize that it wasn’t going to change over night. I can only do what I can do; after all, I work full-time, write in my free time, raise two children and care for a house.

Insecurity makes you Forget to be Proud of Your Accomplishments –

You have to remember that the hard days are what make you stronger. The bad days make you realize what a good day is. If you never had any bad days, you would never have that sense of accomplishment! Aly Raisman

I might not be where I want to be but I can’t forget that I’ve published three books and have written another three. That’s six books that I have fretted and stressed over, that I have passionately crafted. Not everyone can say they’ve written a book. I’ve written six and I need to remember that I have accomplished something. And if I want more, I will grab hold of the accomplishment and carry it around proudly.

Insecurity and Forgetting Your Passion –

My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive; and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style. Maya Angelou

Writing makes me happy. I find confidence when I craft a story and when the story works with the series. Sometimes I forget what I really need to do is write passionately.

My last writer’s sin…

…is to forgetting the seven-year old I was so many years ago. She’s the one who fell in love with Nancy Drew and the detective story and she’s the one who decided definitively that she wanted to be a writer.  I need to remember myself when I was her and honor the dream I came up with so long ago. I know what I want to do, now all I need is to take another step in that direction.

 

Inspirational Guilty Pleasure – Thy Name is American Ninja Warrior

Inspirational Guilty Pleasure – Thy Name is American Ninja Warrior

Inspirational

I could have picked a more traditional guilty pleasure. Something like Dynasty of the 1980’s or the Kardashians today. But I didn’t. It’s hard to explain the draw for me, a non-athlete, a self-proclaimed television junkie. But there it is, a show, that is by its nature, is something inspirational to me and therefore, something I’m drawn to, something I can’t get enough of.

Yeah. It’s an obstacle course, one that looks impossible, one that makes me shake my head as to the level of difficulty because really who wants to roll dizzy across the water and try to climb another obstacle when you’re half crazed with dizziness? But it is awesome!

Inspirational in its story telling

The people who try the obstacles either want the money, or the challenge of making it through all courses, there are 6 of them. But there are those who have battled cancer and came back, or endured physical therapy after a car accident, or dealt with the death of a friend, parent or spouse, who are looking for something, something challenging, something beyond their everyday life.

It’s more than just an obstacle course. For them it is that thing that brought them back from the brink, something they must do. I find myself cheering for them, hoping they can make it up that final foot or last obstacle and I can imagine myself climbing up and breaking down those challenges.

Don’t make it easy, just give us a chance

Each year, more and more women participate and each year, they get faster and go farther than they ever have. They compete equally with the men and for me as I watch Kacy Catanzaro conquer the warped wall, or Jessie Graff make it farther than any other woman before her, I tear up. It reminds me, that a little hard work, a little determination and  accepting the opportunity when it’s presented, we can accomplish the goals we set.

I don’t ever think I’ll be strong enough or ambitious enough to actually make it on the show, but I do believe that I’m talented enough and determined enough to make my goals my reality. Every time I watch the participants on American Ninja Warrior, I feel the inspiration. It can be done.

And that is why I keep watching and that is why I keep writing. Because I can’t stop. Because, just one more chapter, one more sentence, one more word. And I’ll be ready when that opportunity knocks down my door.

American Ninja Warrior

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