Idk

I’m having a problem with follow through on my stories right now. Writing them, that is

And a little bit on reading new books. I’ve thrown a bunch onto my DNF shelf. One of which I dnf’d so hard I mentally started rewriting it in my imagination then flipping it over to a story I had started once upon a time.

So much so that I started looking for the file. But my cloud storage is a confusing batch of storms, none of which I found it in. Which means I should look for it on my laptop. But my desk is full with my work computer and stuff for work and I don’t want to cross that boundary.

Which I get it. I have a whole a$$ house to set up in. And I have too much crap and I get it under control and then it slips the leash and goes out of control and yada yada yada. Just put the work in, and I can have a working solution. I could have the home I want.

And yet something almost always stops me. And that something is me.

I know how I became my own worst enemy in this. Anyone have any suggestions? Because I don’t know how to fix this.

First Rejection & Snow

Of the year. And it’s fine, it’s part of the process. It’s fine. I read somewhere once that being rejected just means your story has not found a home yet.

What hurts is that in the midst of the s**t show of the last few years, I lost both my physical log and the computer log of where I had submitted which stories.

In the rejection letter they were absolutely both extremely professional and kind. Especially since I had apparently submitted that story to them in 2021.

Sigh.

So many emotions are swirling in me right now. A morass. Not because of the rejection of the story. It will find its home.

And it hit hard because I’m trying to find my footing in my new home. Most of that is working through the mental state that I arrived in. My home is still in disarray, and when I lay in bed and close my eyes I see my old room. My old life.

Friday night & Saturday morning we experienced our first snowfall that stuck. My son still calls California home. Sunday we went to lunch with my niece & her family, and I borrowed a shirt for a wedding next weekend. Wednesday I put my kid on a plane to our old home to visit– and I’m hoping he gets on the plane back 12 days later. I’m hoping he doesn’t get into trouble.

I’m also looking forward to time without him. Time to make a freaking mess of the house so I can put it together the way I want to.

My words are messy, but they are coming out. I’ve got 2 stories I’m working on because well, messy. I wrote a poem.

I talk to my bestie on the phone everyday. She’s still in Cali, and is my backup with the almost adult boy I’m sending out there. I miss her. I have family here but haven’t made friends yet. I also don’t really go anywhere– haven’t even been to the library yet. I do recognize the cashier at the Dollar General, but I’m sure I’m just another face in the day to her.

Well. This has gotten a lot more personal than I thought it would. Hope you don’t mind. My brain doesn’t feel as messy.

Until next time, my lovelies!

When it isn’t about the thing…

So I follow @hannahnicolemaeon TikTok. She has a series of what I just thought were skits — Assistant to the Villian, and they have gotten me through some really dark days. I am so happy that it’s actually a book that will be coming to a shelf near me in November. So excited for her, and also excited to support it.

Now she has a brilliant marketing team. They sent out gorgeous promo boxes and I started seeing them pop up on the Tok. Kewl! Then there was a contest to get one, but my phone wouldn’t let me enter. Google don’t like doing that kind of stuff from the Tok or an evil villain is holding me down. Or would it be a hero being a dood? One or the other. A chance popped up again, and again I was blocked. And again.

Then there was a book club and the first 50 would get a free ebook. I was, miraculously, right at the very beginning but… Again. Blocked at every turn. Couldn’t follow the link thru Tok and it wasn’t available thru the actual app the club is on. So once again…

And I lost it. I was on lunch at work, sobbing in my car, trying to get myself back together because it was time to go in. Red eyes and snotty, but I eventually did so. Thankfully the guys I work with are kind of oblivious.

Now here’s the thing. I. Don’t. Cry. Over. Not. Having. Books. End of story. Never have. Do I really, desperately want to read it? Yes. However, I don’t even know if it’ll be any good. Never read anything by her. Want to support her, interested and wanting to bring some sunshine back in my life, yes. Absolutely. But I don’t cry over not being able to buy books. If I did, it would be waiting for a new Anne Bishop book and never have I ever.

WTH?

Talking with my sister Mary, who btw I’m running away to in about a month, put things into perspective. Dad died and I’ve been running and fighting so hard since I haven’t had time to grieve. I’m leaving my home. I’ve been here 13 years, and in Cali all my life. Said goodbye to SF over the weekend, and my beloved Pacific Ocean and now I’m crying again. I’m trying to pack up my home and don’t know how to do this.

On top of all that I can’t write. My tongue has been leashed, at least for another month. All the hurt and anger and so many more emotions that need to come out but I promised to hold it in. And when I can’t speak my truth I don’t write it either. Actually I probably should. It’s not like I have to show it to anyone, right? But will I have any time.?

To be honest, I have been feeling like I just have to live in Hell for a while, then I can escape.

And again, not the fault of the author (hannahnicolemae) or marketing team of the book. I am so excited for her. And to be very honest, I have been blessed with ARCs and marketing treats from Rie Sheridan Rose and if you haven’t read her series with Jo what are you waiting for???? Steam Punk greatness is what’s waiting for you there. She also has spooky books, just in time for fall.

I Don’t Know

What I’m doing and it’s getting pretty obvious.

Let me explain. That would probably help, right?

Or maybe I should flex my description skills. It is one of the areas I lack, or need more practice with. The Lazy Writer, remember?

Bare bones edition: I am trying to figure out how to pack up a 3 bedroom home that my father lived in for 20+ years and the Princeling & I have lived in for 14 years and move away from the area I’ve lived for 20-ish years.

Possibly the state I’ve called home my entire life.

Probably.

More than likely.

Now, let’s add to the stress of our hapless heroine. The last time time she moved it was in a hurry-+ clothes and toys shoved into trash bags filling up the trunks of 2 cars. She was able to go back later and grab a few precious items, but not all.

Now, of course, everything is precious. And not just to her. It isn’t just move, trash, yard sale piles. There’s also FAMILY pile, stuff the family might want. The problem is,  well, family.

Sometimes it feels as if–+ well, I put it this way. If I let everyone have the things they asked for there would be nothing left. Not a stick, not a stone. Not even the stuff that belongs to me & my son.

I just threw some stuff in the trash. It unfroze me for a minute. But there’s also a fear of… What if someone asks for it? Let’s be clear: this stuff wouldn’t be sold in a yard sale and belonged in the trash. My insides twist and turn, knot and release.

And the creative ideas are popping like bananas but I have energy and/or ability to function in the single digits. I’m scared. I’m frozen. I haven’t had a chance to breathe because hits just keep coming and yea, I still need to grieve as well.

I started writing prose poetry to work on my feelings. It’s working. I’m getting out the vitriol and it’s helping me heal and remember family is family and I do love them. They love me too, it’s just other things getting in the way.

It’s supposed to be 108 today. I’m not going to be doing much out in the garage until much later. I got started…. And that’s half the battle.

Hey you

Hey you. Yes, you. I see you there. I know you’re scared, and I don’t want to tell you not to be afraid…

And yet…

Here I am. Telling you it’s OK to be scared, but you still have to go on. Maybe it’s something you’ve wanted for a long time, something positive even, but it’s such a huge change that you’re scared to death. 

It’s OK. Let’s breath through it. We will make it to the other side, and you might even wonder after all is said and done why you were so scared. You might even feel a bit silly, but that’s OK too. I’ve been there.  You’ve been there too, so remember to just breath. And maybe giggle a little. 

It releases tension.

Truly. 

And even if it’s not ok, I’ll sit with you on the darkest night and light a candle for you. Call me and I’ll just breath on the other end letting you know I’m there. Maybe it won’t be ok again today, or tomorrow….

But things will be ok again. And after they’re ok again, you’ll be able to search for the good days. The awesome days. 

You’re not quite ready to believe in them, but they’re out there. So I will hold the dream for the both of us.

Santa Mom

I felt my mom close to me this weekend, as if she were with me while I shopped. She was there as I found the special soup spoons she used when we were sick, and the babmoo grippers thingees that she used to pull toast out when it got stuck in the toaster. She was there with me in a tractor supply store (don’t ask), as I started bawling.

I started bawling, the first time, because of a day planner. The year my mom died, she kept a day planner, and used the spaces for days of the week as a sort of journal. The comings and goings of us kids, all grown, and her little trips with dad… all in the little journal. Some weeks were full to the brim. Some only had a few filled out.

Then she died.

I couldn’t look at that blank planner, so I started filling it in for her. Comings and goings, a little glimpse into life right after she died. It was 20 or so years ago, but I still remember that journal. I think I still have it somewhere. But I know it. I know the cover, i know the feel of it, and I know what it looked like on the inside.

And in the tractor supply store, right with all the calendars… was a copy of that same damn planner, only for 2017. Same. Damn. One.

I bought it. I will put it into my stocking, and I will write in it. Buying it means that I now have 2 but one will be for my writing and one will be for my adventures in mommyhood.with my boy.

And then Walmart happened.

In talking with a friend, I told her I don’t know why I’m so emotional today. I don’t know why this is happening, but…

But I’m tired of being the one to do for everyone. I do stockings for everyone in the house, because Mom did. Because to me, that stocking shows time and attention and love. Dad used to do mine, and help with his current wife’s stocking… but since the stroke (and maybe a little before), it hasn’t happened.

I know every single present that is currently under the tree.

Even mine.

And it sucks. Because my son would love to do it for me. And wanted to. But I didn’t think to think outside the little house. But next year, next year… I have 2 different people who have said that they will take him out shopping for me, and help him do my stocking too.

Friends and family are a blessing. But sometimes, you have to stop being so strong and powering through… at least enough to ask for help.

I fell Mom close to me right now. Not just because of the stuff, but because of people willing to come together and help out.

Love you guys.

If you know someone who is a single parent, if the child is old enough, offer to take them shopping for their parent. Both the child and the single parent will appreciate it. Being strong and keeping it together, especially under the pressure of making the perfect holiday is tough.

 

 

Love Never Dies

I know this to be true:

Love remains, even when all that is left is a memory.

Love remains, through the years you should have had together.

Love remains, even as grief changes the very molecules of your soul.

Love remains, as you live your life, alone or with others.

Always, always, love remains.

Love never dies.

Bones

I saw the bones

Of the world

Washed up on shore

Stripped bare of the

Taint of hate

Laying side by side

One atop another

Coexisting
No care for male 

Or female

Republican or Democrat

Black or white

Brown or tan.
How long until

We no longer

Need to wait

Until we’re bones?

America the Beautiful

So I went off Facebook on Thursday. Before I did, I wrote  a post letting people know that  I was turning it off for a while, and that my heart hurt.

It hurt a lot.

I was ashamed to be an American, that’s how much it hurt.

O beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties
Above the fruited plain!
America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!

(Note, from America, by Kathrine Lee Bates, 1914 version)

I wasn’t seeing a lot of good on Facebook. Or a lot of brotherhood. Well… except for people that are just like them. The Paris attacks, we had 24hour coverage of. And I understand that we hold a strong affection for Paris. It’s the city of dreams for many of us. We’ve either gone there, or dreamed of going there. What happened was horrific, and reminded many of 9/11…

But what about all the other tragedies that happened that day? November 13,2015 was a horrible, horrible day in world history. In simple human lives lost. And yet…. I’ve only seen 1 news outlet even touch the fact that only Paris received the heart rending support.

Then the hate began.

O beautiful for pilgrim feet
Whose stern impassioned stress
A thoroughfare of freedom beat
Across the wilderness!
America! America!
God mend thine every flaw,
Confirm thy soul in self-control,
Thy liberty in law!

O beautiful for heroes proved
In liberating strife.
Who more than self their country loved
And mercy more than life!
America! America!
May God thy gold refine
Till all success be nobleness
And every gain divine!

(America, Kathrine Lee Bates, 1914 version.)

People seem to forget that we are “the melting pot”. That we are a nation built (or stolen) on immigration. Ask the Native American’s if the Pilgrims are the hero of their story– or the villain. We have a long history with immigration, and it’s not always pretty.

Why does history matter when we’re dealing with a different enemy? (I actually read this and almost cried at the stupidity). Well, history might not tell us a lot about the current enemy. But it sure shines a light on us. And it’s not the  flattering, Hollywood set lighting either. It is harsh and ugly.

The memes that I’m talking about are basically sheep bleating to keep the wolves away. Only, they’re not keeping out the wolves. If you want to see the numbers break down, then go and check out Scalzi’s post on it here  He says it much better and more concisely than I can.

So, basically, we’re screwing the families. Just like we did to the Jewish immigrants before we stepped into WWII. We turned them away, as did other countries. And their boat had to go back to Germany. We sentenced them to death. Make no mistake about it. Our fear, our sheep mentality, cost people their lives.

And people are ok with making that mistake again. Forget what lady liberty has inscribed:

“Inscription on the Statue of Liberty”

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses, yearning to breath free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless, tempest tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

Author: Emma Lazarus

Just take that and throw it out the window. What we claim to hold dear is not, after all, dear to us. We want to slam our doors to the huddled masses, to people who have left everything behind to try and flee to safety… and people are ok with letting them go back to an enemy we hate. We’re not only ok with it…

We’ll one up it.

Yes, it has been suggested that we keep a “database” on Syrian refugees. Really? Really? Do you want them to sew a gold star onto their clothes as well? Or tattoo a number on their arm? Or maybe we should incarcerate them upon entry into the US because of their ancestry, regardless of if they are innocent. Or Americans. The worst deeds done in recent human history, and some people are not only willing, but eager to repeat them.

Never mind what it says in America:

O beautiful for heroes proved
In liberating strife.
Who more than self their country loved
And mercy more than life!

See that. Those ideals we hold so dear…. Talking about the military and MERCY.

MERCY.

MERCY.

Something that is sadly lacking on Facebook right now. And it’s not only the froth that’s coming out on their pages. It’s the bullying that goes on with it. If you don’t agree with me, you’re an idiot. All liberals are flighty ditz balls who don’t like the military (to which I say bite me). Ban the Syrians! Let me keep my guns! Go away!

Give me a freaking break.

So I’m taking a break from Facebook. Because it broke my heart.

O beautiful for patriot dream
That sees beyond the years
Thine alabaster cities gleam
Undimmed by human tears!
America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!

(America, by Kathrine Lee Bates, 1914 version)

Hopefully, God will shine his grace on us. Even though we are so undeserving right now. We’ve thrown brotherhood right out the window, and a lot more of what we hold dear. Maybe if the news could just report the actual, you know, news… instead of a candidates views of it, things would get better.

Or you know. If people would get their faces out of Facebook, and actually put a book in their face. Or talked with people. Had an honest debate with no name calling…

Yah. Instead, I’ll be on Twitter. Or with my face in a book.

 

 

 

When Nightmares Come to Visit

Halloween was my favorite non-Christmas holiday for a long time. I loved decorating my room for it, actually had boxes of Halloween decorations. It was spooky and fun: a night to pretend to be someone other than yourself, and imagining that ghouls and goblins really are around the corner. I was living with my parents, going to Cal State… when I found out that not all Halloween Nightmares end.

I did not celebrate Halloween (other than handing out candy) from the time I was 24 until I was about 38. One year, during that time, I went over to my brother’s house to hand out candy while he and his wife took the boys out trick or treating. That first night started a tradition, a way of raising a toast…

You see… my mother, she who loved the very dry and sometimes tasteless British sense of humor died on Halloween.

That particular Halloween Nightmare— you don’t ever shake. You learn to live with it, but it’s always there. I can’t remember parts of that day– I must have blacked out while picking up a chair and throwing it at a window in the hospital. I remember many friends who helped, who made phone calls and came by the house to hold my hand while I made phone calls. I also remember going to the airport to secure the flights for my sister in Missouri and my brother who at the time was in Arizona.

My friend Jackie drove me. It was a good thing she was there, because I remember wanting to punch Raggedy Ann in the face. Yes, a lady at the ticket counter, dressed as Raggedy Ann gave your good old Wynelda Ann a temper overload. Jackie quietly stepped between us, defused the situation.

When we returned to the house, it was just getting dark. Trick or Treaters were starting to swarm the streets. The neighborhood that I loved, the holiday that I adored… suddenly was way too much. As a group came up, the kids just starting to come up the drive, I told the grown ups “no Candy.”

“No candy? What’s wrong with you?!!” It was someone I knew, someone I’d known since childhood. He probably meant it in a joking matter, but I couldn’t…

“Mom just died.”

I don’t know how he did it. But there were no trick or treaters that night. None.

My soul sister came in from Reno, spent that first Halloween night with me.

After that, I couldn’t get into the spirit of dressing up, of decorating. Halloween lost its appeal for me. Slowly, the boxes of decorations disappeared.

Then came the toast. It was quite a few years after Mom had died. I was watching the house and handing out candy for my brother, Charlie. They came home, and were separating out the candy. “Hey, a Butterfinger! That was mom’s favorite candy bar!” Soon came to find out, she would con me, my dad and Charlie into buying her just one candy bar… sometimes on the same day. She was diabetic, so if we had known… well. If we had known then what we know now, we would have bought her a bag of full size bars.

SItting there, on their living room floor, Charlie, Beth and I held a toast with Butterfingers, to Mom. It’s a ritual, a tradition now. Even when all I did for Halloween was hand out candy, I always made sure that I had a Butterfinger. Sometimes alone, sometimes with family.

And the tradition spread through parts of the family.

After all that, I’m here to tell you… Sometimes nightmares come to visit, and they don’t leave. But you can learn to live with them… and start enjoying what you once loved.

Because I have a child now. He’s 9 years old. I’ve dressed him up and taken him trick or treating, but haven’t decorated beyond the general fall decorations that my dad has. That changed this year. Princeling wanted to decorate. Please mom! Please!

Love the dollar store. Love it! Halloween items were a true BOGO, and we got a bunch. Mostly stuff he chose– a mummy hand, a skull candelabra centerpiece, signs for the yard, big spider and webbing… I tried to steer him away from outright demons and ghouls, because my dad… but he had fun!

But then there’s my 2 items. That’s right. My. Two. Items. I actually found 2 things that I thought were cute. And then they needed to be mine. And they were BOGO, so how could I not? They are black and purple and witchy and sparkly and they had to be mine. I’ve started up my decorating again… Last night, we watched the Dreamworks Scary/Spooky collections on Netflix and laughed our butts off.

This morning, I’ll go over to my neice’s house and raise the toast with Princeling, the niece and her family. We’ll probably also have the toast again tonight with Pappa.

It’s hard to learn to live with your nightmare. Hard to learn to walk everyday with it.

I plan to dance with it tonight. I think Mom would like that

My wish for you is that you give yourself time to learn the steps. It isn’t easy, it isn’t nice.

Living with grief is of like trick or treaters. Sometimes you’ll get a ghoul, and sometimes it will be a princess. But you always have the power to decide which candy you’ll feed your nightmare.

And there will come a time, either soon or in the distant future, where you can dance with your nightmare and celebrate the one you’ve lost. It takes a while.It takes a lot of ugly, messy tears before you can get to the point where you can remember them with joy and not want to ball.

But you’ll get there.