John Lennon Said It Best.


I wrote a novel about death, and how the tragedy impacts the dynamics of a dysfunctional family; a year and half after my book was published, my mother bumped her head, and she was dead.

Dead. Just six days following the birth of her granddaughter, Morgan. Now, a photograph of newborn Morgan being closely held against her grandma’s chest is proudly displayed in the living room of my sister’s house–a photograph I had snapped with my mobile phone. I took two pictures of my mother and Morgan with my phone, and a few others using my mother’s flip-phone, so she’d be able to show off her beautiful new grand-baby to her co-workers. My mother was downright fucking proud to be a grandma for the fifth time! And she was looking forward to years and years and years of love.

My mother had so much love to give…

“Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”

My mother died, and life has beaten me black and blue with her absence–a plastic bag filled with the pulverized bones of the woman who carried me inside of her body takes up space cleared specially…

Tara and I filled a few keepsake urns. As for the rest of our mother, we will take her places she loved to visit, and leave bits of her behind.

I still can’t believe I don’t have a mother. It’s coming up on three months. But I know when it’s coming up on three years, I will feel the same blackness. I’m not special in this. Everyone knows this level of loss–or they will, eventually.

The real reason for this post is to tell you all that my life has changed, and the change will affect my presence on WordPress. I am going to be taking care of my niece three days a week–11-5, Wednesday thru Friday. So, my activity will be significantly decreased. Family is everything to me. Family means more to me than even my writing, and reading the writing of those whom I hold in high esteem. I ask that you all be patient with me. I will not forget you, nor will I forget myself as a writer. I will certainly keep up with my happily chosen responsibilities with SD, Blood into Ink, and Whisper and the Roar.

Peace to you all,









My Formal Resignation


I attended a funeral today for Mrs. K, a woman I’ve known and adored for twenty six years. I last saw her in November at the local grocery store, shortly after my mother had passed. Listening to Mrs. K’s eldest son eulogize her was fucking tough. Almost too much to bear. Nicole was sitting beside me though, and I managed to calm down—my girl has a soothing presence. We cried together at the end of a cushioned pew, and I silently scolded myself for forgetting to bring a box of tissues.

After the service, we had lunch. There were smiles and laughs, and I was determined to enjoy the rest of my day.

Then the goddamned cat happened.

A black, grey, and white fluffy tabby approached me, and Nicole as she was getting into her car to return to work. This poor baby had straw tangled in its fur; mucus coating its whiskers…like burnt yellow candle wax; mucus gluing its right eye closed; blood and mucus so thickly crusted on its nose that breathing was heavily labored; and the odor of rot emanated from its cold body. This cat was half fucking dead, I swear. And it approached us with such purpose—I know this little darling was asking for help.

Nicole phoned a nearby animal shelter, but they were already overcapacity. So, I put the cat in my car, and drove 35 miles to a larger shelter. The women who greeted me at the shelter were kind, and they spoke so sweetly to the tabby. And they walked away with the bundle. To the “euth” room.

Consider this my formal resignation.

I quit today.

I fucking quit.


Life as a Writer: part 2×3

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Upon completion of “Magpie in August,” my debut novel, I began submitting to the literary agents I had researched (authors who want to go for traditional publishing should always research literary agents and houses before sending query letters). Omitting all of the uninteresting details, I received four “close, but no cigar” responses, thirteen flat out passes, and additionally, a dozen or so no responses (it is not uncommon that an agent passes on a manuscript via no response).

So, doing the math, I only submitted to about 30 literary agents. I’ve heard of writers submitting to hundreds over a period of two or three years. That’s balls to the wall tenacity, folks—some hard core patience. Patience is not a virtue of mine. After I’d crossed out every agent that made up my list, I began submitting to small presses. Out of eleven, I received one request for my full manuscript.

Don’t tap the keg yet. This small press ended up closing shop. Thank fuck I hadn’t signed a contract with them. Imagine the shit storm…

Admittedly, in the beginning I was a fucking snob who never entertained the thought of settling for indie author status. But then, I discovered some incredible talent here on WordPress—writers who self-publish—and I was blown the fuck away by their craft. For real, in total awe of these people. So, I looked into self-publishing (authors who want to self-publish should always research the avenues, of which there are many, since self-publishing is BOOMING for tons of reasons that I see as obvious).

Two months after “Magpie in August” was released through Amazon, one of the literary agents I’d had a boner for sent me an email. She apologized for the late response, which had come a goddamned year after I’d queried her, and said that although she was interested in “Magpie,” she couldn’t represent me because I’d already self-published—but please do query her with any future manuscripts. I didn’t know whether to laugh, or cry.

I chose to suck it up, and keep on writing. I self-published a book of poems and prose recently, and I’m proud as fuck of the collection. I’m currently finishing up my second novel, which I fully intend to publish all by myself. I’m proud to be an indie author. And I am super fucking fortunate to have a partner in Allane, who takes such care and pride in designing my book covers.

Someday, I may shoot for traditional publishing again. But for now, I am beyond happy to have cover designs created by the designer I want, and to have the ultimate say regarding content editing. I never was one to follow the rules handed down by others anyway.

Peace out, my friends


My Hiatus

For those who are unaware, my mother passed away earlier this month, which is why I’ve not been very present here on WordPress. Aside from posting nearly daily, I read and comment just as often, if not more often. To me, reading, commenting, and reblogging moving content is just as important as posting my own work. I value my community, and greatly appreciate the love and compassion of my friends. All of you WordPress writers are a part of my daily life…a daily life that has been put on hold while I mourn my mother, manage her affairs, plan a memorial service, etc.

I will return to full capacity, though I cannot say when, exactly. Just know that you all are not forgotten by me.



Sleeping Problems

I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing most days, unless it involves the tip-tapping of keys. I’ve forgotten how to properly mingle with breathing bodies; I prefer the company of the characters who live inside my head to the people I meet when I go out with friends, on the rare occasion I go out with friends. The friends I most want to spend time with live miles and miles and miles away from my old house in this piss-ant village in Michigan. There’s one special lady who lives across the Atlantic, and I miss her. Funny how you can miss someone you’ve never beheld. Funny ho-ho, not ha-ha.

I don’t go out and paint the town puke anymore. If it weren’t for Fibromyalgia, would I still stay home on Saturday nights? Would I get all riled up when the phone rings after 7 pm? The friends I most want to spend time with would never phone me after Jeopardy has begun, and if we did go out on the weekend, they’d make sure I was home and in bed by nine o’clock. When I stay up until 5 am, it’s because I’m writing. Or binge watching Stranger Things, or True Blood.

My sister got me hooked on True Blood; Tara let me borrow her DVDs. She also has the complete set of Pretty Little Liars, but no thanks—I do have standards. I finished Stranger Things 2 this afternoon. Holy balls, what a terrific season! I do hope there is a third. It really boils my piss that Jim won’t watch Stranger Things. He also dismisses my attempts to get him to watch Black Mirror. Both shows are themes he is interested in, but for some reason, my fucking husband will not cooperate with me.

Jim works ten hours a day, and Nicole has been out on her own for over a year. I do miss my girl a lot, but being alone most of the day has its perks. For the majority of the day, I live alone. I like being alone. I don’t have to listen to the television screaming at me; I can play my music as loud as I want; I can read a book without someone interrupting me; and I can just sit quietly with my thoughts without someone asking me if I’m okay.

I like to sit in silence, preferably with Melvin in my lap. The sound of his purring is relaxing—hypnotizing. My mind wanders free, and opens up to brand new thoughts. Sitting with my kitty is my meditation. Some people in my life laugh about my relationship with Melvin. They think I’m being funny, or that I’m fucking nuts. Well, nuts to them, I say. I feel sorry for people who don’t know the special relationship between human and animal companion. For real, when my baby boy jumps into bed with me, and falls asleep on my chest, I’m overcome with the most relaxing sensation. My Melvin, he is the best therapy I could ever receive.

I’m tired enough to sleep now.


Fibromyalgia: You Don’t Own Me

Despite the pain I live with every day, I often do forget that I’m not twenty anymore–until I hand down to my girl some vintage band tees too small for me now. Goodbye Fleetwood Mac tank top, and Rolling Stones long sleeved t-shirt. See you around, Abbey Road with the small hole in the armpit. Rick Springfield, you’re next, dude. And poor Peter Frampton, my beloved…I promise you’ll live on in the hands of Nicole. She’ll treat you right. I just can’t stretch you across my boobs anymore. Okay, so my boobs aren’t the real problem. I’ll be thirty-nine in December, and I’m a good deal heavier everywhere than I was twenty years ago.

Thank you, Fibromyalgia—you really do cramp my style, and by that I mean you’ve made me fat. My bell bottom jeans just don’t fit right anymore, and I wonder who I am when I go out in yoga pants and sweatshirts. You’ve taken my identity and my will to give a fuck. I throw my hair up in Pebbles buns now, and wear my glasses every day. I wear slip on shoes, for fuck’s sake. Granted, my shoes are colorful and cute as fuck, and I rock a messy bun, especially when I’m wearing glasses. I refuse to allow you to take away my good humor. You take away my concentration; sleep; self-esteem; sanity; appetite; motivation; and MY T-SHIRTS, among loads of other things…you can’t have my goddamned humor, too.

I thank the Universe for Nicole. My girl reminds me who I am better than anyone. I had a lovely day with her yesterday, full of laughs and stimulating conversation. So there’s another thing Fibromyalgia and my other health issues cannot take away from me—my daughter, and our beautiful relationship.

I know I’ve posted this song a million times before, but I’m posting it again. This is the song that I would play when Nicole was a baby—when she’d wake up crying in the night. I’d hold against my chest, and dance her back to sleep. My special babe. I’d be nothing good without her.