Under Pressure

 

creepy stairs

Writing news update: Slim to none.

That’s not entirely true, I guess. I have been writing, although infrequently, and mostly on my phone, since my laptop, Tallulah, has been misbehaving lately. She’s working today, so I’ve been scrambling through my social media, updating things and whatnots and whozits, linking things, writing, transferring the writing from my phone into actual manuscripts, and just generally catching up on all the things I’ve been – for all intents and purposes – neglecting in favor of losing myself in fiction and adopting guinea pigs.

I feel sometimes like I’m the only writer I know that isn’t motivated by money. I mean, obviously, I expect to be paid for my work. I expect any artist to be paid for their work. I also need to make enough money from my books to be able to create more books, and things like formatting, editing, and cover design cost money, as they should. So, yes, I need to make money off my books, but I guess it’s just not my driving force. It’s been a tough year for authors. News of plagiarism, copyright drama, and book thieves has been all over the place, and there’s no doubt it’s discouraging for all of us. So many authors – incredibly talented writers – I  know have been on the brink of throwing in the towel as far as their writing goes, and it’s sad. I hate that there are such unscrupulous people out there. I hate that book pirates feel so entitled to books that they think stealing them is an okay thing to do. I hate that the actions of rotten people affect so many good people just trying to make a living.

I’m not throwing in the towel. I can’t imagine a time when I will ever willingly quit writing. That doesn’t mean I’ll always share the stories I write. Some days are so frustrating I feel like pulling all my stories down and just writing strictly for myself. I don’t really want to do that, but it is extraordinarily discouraging when there is so much negativity and drama going on in the book world. I just want to write, not fight with people or get caught up in drama. I try to keep to my own little corner of the writing world, but even so, drama spreads like wildfire.

But what means even more to me than that kind of nonsense, is getting the chance to interact with those who read and enjoy my books. When a reader sends me a message to tell me they enjoyed my story, or when someone new to my books tells me they love my work because it’s not like anything else they’ve read, or because they see themselves represented in my stories, that makes an enormous difference to me, to my attitude about writing. I’m not the biggest name author out there, and I’ve never intended to be that. I’ve intended to be authentic, to write my stories truthfully and to the best of my ability. I’ve intended to write relatable characters and bust harmful stereotypes about appearances or mental illness. I’ve intended to reach people, so they can know that they are not alone, that at the very least some fictional person has the same thoughts and feelings they have. Representation matters, whether it’s representation of physical appearance, or living through trauma, or mental illness, or some other attribute that makes people feel “other.”

I’m not great about remaining consistent on any social media platform. I’m not great about remaining consistent about blog posts, or churning out new books on a schedule. I’m not even that great at promo stuff, quite often dropping a book with no prior fanfare whatsoever. I’ve got a brain that is simply faulty in some areas, and one of those areas is the ability to focus on one thing consistently. I’ve said before that my writing style tends to be feast or famine and that remains true. It seems like either I’m doing doing doing doing, or absolutely silent. I often fall silent after I finish releasing a new book. I think I just need some time to crawl inside my brain and rest. I do this sort of thing more often now, since I realized how much added stress was contributing to my anxiety and depression struggles. It’s not that I don’t want to release books more often, and it’s not that I don’t want to write. But once I start feeling like I’m getting overwhelmed in every facet of my life, I have to take a few steps back. I have to hunker down. I have to cease putting extra demands on myself. I love writing, but not more than I love my family. Or my own sanity, for that matter. Rest matters, whether it’s mental or physical or both. And it’s a bit easier, I think, to be able to make such decisions when I know my mortgage isn’t riding on the amount of book royalties I’m bringing in.

It’s a pressure I’ve chosen to release myself from, and I feel I enjoy writing more because of it. I know this way isn’t for everyone, and that’s fine. Do I need to bring in money from book sales? Absolutely. If I don’t, I can’t keep making more books. But does the need to make money off my books take priority over my mental health? Nope. I simply cannot allow that.

That said, I have been working a bit on my latest WIPs. Knowing Rogan, the 5th installment in the Secrets of Windy Springs series, has been creeping along, and is currently about 75% finished. The collection of writings on grief I’ve been putting together is just about ready to release, and we recently did a photo shoot for the cover, which I’m super excited about. I’ve also taken a step in a new direction, and launched a Patreon. I’ve set two tiers, one at $1 a month and one at $5 a month. Those who choose to pledge a monthly amount will be rewarded handsomely with boons. And possibly pirates. Sharing matters, truly. It makes a huge difference. I appreciate every single one of you who share my work, write reviews, tell others about my books, etc. I hope some of you will consider joining me on Patreon, because it looks like a cool and different way to interact with everyone.

What else can I update on, other than books? Hhhmmn, well, let’s see. Since my last blog post, I’ve gotten two new tattoos, two new piercings, survived another gray winter in Michigan, adopted two guinea pigs, learned to build them a cage all by me onesie, and have been teaching myself to play guitar. Wait… we may have already talked about me playing guitar. I’m terrible at it, TBH, but my God, is it ever fun to learn!

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The Truth About the Valley

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Like an exhaustion that can never be cured by sleep.

Like a chronic agitation brought on by sounds, lights, and fabrics. Nothing is right. Everything is too much.

Like a hungry ache down deep inside, filling every bit of me up with sadness, while somehow also leaving me achingly empty.

Like tears sitting behind my eyes that never get the chance to fall.

That’s what depression feels like.

Like eight solid hours of cracking stupid jokes at work to keep everyone else laughing.

Like belting out the off-key lyrics to songs that once made you feel happy, just in case.

Just in case they bring a tiny bit of happiness once more.

Like teasing and plotting and planning and hoping out loud.

That’s what depression sounds like.

Just over a week ago, my husband’s brother was found dead at his home. At first it was utterly surreal. And then it was a rush of planning and notifying and shopping for appropriate funeral attire because my kids had outgrown their dress clothes. It was walking through fog and knowing what’s coming next. It was being terrified of losing my shit again and knowing there’s no other way through grief but to force my way through it. It was not crying when we heard and it was not crying at the funeral and it was wondering when I’d become such a coldhearted bitch. It was being afraid of falling asleep lest the same nightmares that assaulted  me after my own brother’s death turned up again. It was we can’t do this again, not again, not so soon, we won’t make it. 

And of course, it was making it through anyway. Because that’s what we do. We make it. We have to.

But somehow during the haze of all the things we needed to get done and the requesting time off work for yet another funeral and the trying to be there for my grieving kids and the making frantic phone calls to family members before the sad news hit Facebook and some loved one found out that way, I forgot to refill the medication I need to make my brain work right. I remembered suddenly just before we left for the funeral, so I called it in to my local pharmacy. But we came home late, after the funeral dinner at my church, and we were all sort of stunned still and I forgot about picking it up until after they’d closed for the night. The next morning started with my daughter losing air in her tire, so we let her take our vehicle to work and took hers to get the tire fixed – there’d been a nail in it. Then my son called me, his voice all wobbly, because one of his best friends and his mom had been in a terrible car accident, and he wanted us to drive him up to the hospital so he could sit with his buddy while his mom was in surgery. When the tire had been fixed and we got our daughter’s car back to her place of work, and then made it home to pick up our son, his friend had already gotten a ride home, so my husband took him over there. And nowhere in that flurry of activity did I remember about my medication. I did eventually get it picked up, but not before I’d gone several days without it. How many days? I can’t recall. I’m unsure if that’s what has set off this latest emotional valley. Regardless, it’s here. It’s here. In my bones. In my soul.

But I’m trying. I’m working at remembering to practice self-care. I’m working at remembering to take a shower. To drag my sorry self up in the mornings for work. To pull the cleanest-looking clothes off the floor to dress myself. I’m hoping this valley won’t be a long one, because already every step I take feels as though I’m shuffling through heavy mud. Having half my hair dreadlocked is handy, because yesterday I literally didn’t even hit my hair with a brush before work, I just pulled on a wide headband to cover the mess. I listen to people talking about going to the gym and what foods they can eat on their current fad diets and I quietly remind myself to just take a step, take a step, take one more step.

And I smile. I laugh.

Like a writer furiously writing a new book. Two new books. Three.

Like a weird hippie chick snuggling her dogs and chunky guinea pig.

Like a responsible adult, clocking in at nine and out at five, every day of the week.

Like a responsible parent of kids with a chronic illness, making appointments with the home nurse and scheduling IV pump swaps with the infusion company.

Like a responsible mom hassling the public school principal over my son’s missing English class credit until she does something about it.

That’s what depression looks like.

Every part of me, every cell, feels like it’s been bruised. My hair hurts. My eyelashes hurt. I find it extraordinarily difficult to tell the difference between being tired and just not wanting to be awake any longer.

Isolation is my best trick. I’m better at that than I am at crocheting or sewing or cracking jokes or probably even writing. Isolation is easy. When things hurt too much, my instinct is to cocoon down. I crave silence. I crave solitude. But it’s addictive. I can’t just lock myself away so I can avoid dealing with pain. If I did, I might never come back out. I force myself to return texts. I force myself to answer my ringing phone. I force myself to connect with people. I force myself to go to the grocery store for necessities.

I’ll be fine, as I always am. Even if I fall completely apart again, I’ll glue my broken bits back into some semblance of order and carry on. At some point, I will. But not today. Today I am tired. Today I don’t have the energy to put my broken pieces back together.

Today I’ve been laughing and typing and calming down upset clients who call the office. Today I stopped on my way home from work to pick up a dollar store Barbie doll, because my coworker turned 37 today and told me she’d never gotten a Barbie doll cake when she was a kid but had always wanted one, so I’m typing this piece while waiting for the rainbow sprinkle cakes to cool enough to frost them. It’s been years since I’ve made one but I’m fairly certain I remember how. At least… well, we’ll see. I’m pretty sure I can do it, anyway.

Today I threw together a new book teaser for my fantasy series, and created a silly poll in my FB group, and I ate half a chicken quesadilla at lunch even though I had no desire to eat, because my awesome boss bought us all lunch today. Today I reminded myself that my guinea pig won’t be dead in the morning, even though I always think he will be, because I know that depression and anxiety lie to me all the damn time about things like that. Today I brushed my teeth and put some braids in my hair so I have less hair to brush before work tomorrow. Today I went to the grocery store to get milk. Today I didn’t practice my guitar, because, once again, my kid accidentally busted my strings, but I thought about the way I place my hands for each chord so I don’t forget.

Today I got up and I tried. I made myself think of all the positive things I have to look forward to. I have a gift card to Barnes & Noble so I can order new books, and I absolutely love to get books in the mail. I have an upcoming tattoo appointment I’m insanely excited about. I’m thinking about a new piercing. I’m thinking about getting new guitar strings, because I’ve got to teach myself to play the opening part of “Minority” by Green Day. I’ve written a new book that people seem to really like, and more importantly, I’ve written a new book that *I* completely love. I’m so proud of that book. There’s a lot of truth in it. Covered in pirates and magic, but still. It’s there and it’s mine.

Tomorrow I will get up and try again. I will probably wear the same sweater I wear most of the time, because it is soft and has pockets and is weirdly comforting. I will take this silly Barbie cake to work, and I will laugh at some point, and I will check on my guinea pig way too many times, just to make sure he’s fine.

It gets dark here in this valley, but I hold onto the knowledge that sunshine will come again because it always has before. It might take a while, but still. I trust it will come. Until then, I will keep trying.

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