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.

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.

A Stranger Grief Than This…

Driving home the other night, I saw a man at the base of an ancient tree. He was on his haunches, his shoulders bowed with grief. In front of him, against the tree, was a white cross. He was planting flowers– spring flowers– at the base of the tree. From the comfort of my car, I watched as he created a shrine to a loved one. The music on the radio conspired with him, and… it was a moving moment.

Third person poignancy.

I have a mini-shrine in my room. Two collages of my mom, some of her tea cups, a thimble. Off to the side of the shelf where they are, is a picture of my mom at the Japanese Tea Garden in SF. She loved that place. But the thing is… this mini shrine… I barely look at it. I didn’t even think of it as a “shrine” until.. well, the other night, when I started thinking about shrines. It could be because it’s been up for so long. It could be because it’s been 20, 21 years.

The hard edges have worn off my grief. It no longer crushes me under its unforgiving weight.

And yet, my shrine still stands. I may change it up tomorrow, or may leave it. But I think I’ll take my boy, and go to the local Japanese Tea Garden….. and let him discover why it was one of her favorite places. I can walk in the peace, meditate…
Well. Lets be honest. I have a 7 year old boy. I can trail behind him, taking deep breaths. Because no matter how hard, life does go on.

And it is ok to enjoy it.