Feeling like the White Rabbit

I’m not just feeling late. I’m feeling exhausted. I’m feeling overwhelmed. I wake up every morning and am already behind with no chance of catching up. That’s my life this past month. I could blame it on being a teacher with four separate preps, all of which are tested subjects (state or AP) and the month of April and first two weeks of May are when those tests occur. So, yes, if your a teacher of a tested subject (let alone FOUR tested subjects), come April, you’re stressed. I could also blame it on the fact that I am a mother of an amazing young woman who is graduating from high school this week, and I’m trying to enjoy my time with her and not register the thought that shortly, my child will no longer be living in her room. I could definitely blame it on trying to carve out time for myself and my writing every day. When do I write? How about a work out? A ride? Oh, wait, papers need to be graded. Dinner needs to be cooked. I need to interact with my family. I need to teach my classes. What the hell do I do for the final week of school after all the standardized exams are done?

I’m getting stressed just writing this post as I think about everything I should be doing, which is precisely the reason I haven’t written a blog in several weeks. There’s always something else I have to get done or should be doing. Or, which happens more often than not, I come home from school, make myself a quick snack, sit down on the couch to eat it, and then never get off the couch. When I finally stir myself, I’m even more stressed thinking about all the time I just wasted sitting on my butt. I’d love to say I have come up with some great solution to my stress and anxiety—a solution that has now properly organized my chaotic life into bite-size, manageable pieces—but that would be a lie. Most days, I’m lucky if I get a quarter of what I needed to done. Very rare days, I get a little over half of my list checked off.

I’ve started telling myself it’ll get better as soon as summer hits because, at least, I won’t have any educational responsibilities. That’s another lie I tell myself every year. And every year there is no magical summer where I get completely caught up. I am learning to embrace the chaos a bit better, and live in the anxiety. That’s the best way I can put it. Learning to embrace the chaos. Maybe I should start shortening my to do lists. Maybe I should learn to say no to new projects and new responsibilities. Maybe I shouldn’t try to do everything. All of those maybes are good ideas, and I’ve considered them many, many times over the years. The fact is that I don’t have a wise saying about how to manage stress and time and bring order to the chaos that is my life or anyone else’s. Sorry. All I can say is that all you other White Rabbits out there, I get you.

I remember when…

Soon, graduation will be here and one of my favorite parts of the ceremony is the “I remember when” videos submitted by students and faculty. Funny, cute, poignant memories shared about the current graduating class. Memories frozen in video. Periodically, I have my students do a free write starting with “I remember when” and I marvel every time at the beauty of their responses. At times, when I really can’t think of where to go with a story or a character, I will sit with my journal and just write a list of “I remember whens” or just a stream of consciousness freewrite, trying to cleanse my brain and force myself past the writer’s block. Often, these “remember whens” have inspired characters and scenes that have developed into longer works or been incorporated and adapted to my current books.

That’s the thing about stories—they come from so many diverse and, often, surprising places. Take, for example, the running joke through the trilogy, “Well, apparently, they missed a few.” It’s first said by Sylle in response to Finn’s comment that the Strygoi had been exterminated by the elves hundreds of years earlier (Spoiler alert: they weren’t). This line came from an “I remember when” freewrite I did in class one day while writing with my students. I was remembering a discussion I had with my Grandpa once about my cleaning abilities. I had strewn a bunch of toys around their living room for playing purposes and had hastily cleaned them up when called to the dinner table. Grandpa had stepped on one and tersely mentioned to me that I needed to remember to pick up my toys before leaving a room. I answered that I had done just that. Grandpa raised and eyebrow at me and said, “Well, apparently you missed a few.” He was not amused. Not being funny. Totally serious and displeased. Grandma continued to say something like it to me for years afterwards. The memory came back as I was writing my trilogy and I worked it into the plot. Instead of missing picking up toys, though, the elves had missed killing all the Strygoi and the monsters were able to rebound in the deepest dark of MithTerra.

That’s what I love about my writing. Even though it’s a fantasy set in a completely made up world with characters and beings and magic not found in the “real” world, as I read my books, I smile and become nostalgic remembering the people and events that gave birth to those ideas that make up my stories. Every character has pieces of people I know, have read about, briefly met, etc. Every monster or fantasy race has origins in things I have read, studied, experienced. My plots have been lived not just in my brain. They were born with real situations being changed by a “what if” in my mind or tweaked by a wish in my heart for a different outcome or a thought about a different path I could have taken. Every storyline has an infinite number of paths to take and many in my books have gone through ten or more iterations before making it into the final printing. I still enjoy perusing them in my journals and saved files—reliving what could have been.

That’s the fun of “remember whens",” too. Reminiscing about the past. Reliving the laughter and sometimes pain. We all need those trips down memory lane to rejuvenate, to remind us of our choices and our life lessons, and to give us inspiration for future paths and stories. So, walk through your memories thoughtfully. Right now, I have to finish my contribution to this year’s graduation video, and wow, the stories I can tell.

Sorry about the rant

So if you haven’t figured out from the title, this post is a bit of a rant on my part and I do apologize…sort of. Spoiler alert: I like to write. I like teaching. I overall like my life. What I can’t stand is social media. I want to write. Not worry about how many blog posts to do a week and how long they should be and where exactly I should advertise them. Not worry about if I’m using the right hashtags (which are pound signs, by the way. Apropos for the weight this part of writing places on my mental wellbeing.) Not wonder how many posts to make for the algorithm or what content to focus on for max appeal. While I have always been good with numbers, I hate math, always have. Not because it makes my head ache or is too confusing for me, but because I find it uninteresting. I love crafting new worlds and characters and stories in my mind and developing them on paper.

There is the good possibility that if I had known the humongous chunk of my life social media and marketing would play in my life before I tried to get published, I may well have not done it. It approaches self-destruct mode in the level of anxiety and stress that part brings into my life. I’d love to be able to do this without having to worry about a webpage or any kind of social media presence. Plus, I never seem to be able to keep up with the number of new platforms that keep popping up. Worse, I’m an introvert. I like my books and paper and own brain. I don’t seek attention. I thrive in the shadows—my safe place. This constant thrashing about in full view of complete strangers is often enough to shut me down; so, instead of posting, I’m like an old computer that is stuck on the rebooting screen—blank with that irritating circle of dots spinning in the middle of the screen. What do I post? Is it interesting enough to get a few likes? Will anyone see it? And will anyone care?

If I had the money, I could afford to pay someone to market my books, get them in front of more readers; but I don’t. My advertising is mainly whatever I can come up with and let’s be honest, I’m not really that good at advertising or using social media. Ninety percent of the time I talk myself out of a post as too silly, too personal, too dull, etc. Which brings me back to the crux of my rant: I want to write, not spend all my time and energy on marketing. This is a common problem for the indie and small press authors. I know I’m not the only one who can’t seem to get their books in front of readers and increase sales, especially when our marketing budget is limited. One person didn’t recommend Amazon ads simply because most maybe break even; so, you make the decision based on if you want to make money or try and increase your reader base. And sometimes you set a budget for your advertising campaign but Facebook or Amazon or GoodReads or whoever you use go over that budget without your consent. Read the fine print. If the cost is per person seeing your ad versus per person making a purchase, you could end up paying more for advertising than you budgeted. Or the advertiser may not turn your ad off once you hit your max budget because it was set to run for a certain amount of time, not until budget reached. Or there could be fees that you didn’t see because they were hidden in the massive legal jargon of the marketing proposal. (You shouldn’t require a law degree to guarantee you aren’t exploited.)

I want to write, but I have found that to be able to write, I have to also market/advertise, use social media, create and maintain a website, keep a handle on my anxiety, and keep up with everything associated with my teaching position; and I’m not the only one out there drowning in everything associated with publishing and carrying on a life outside of said publishing. It’s not easy and sometimes I don’t think it’s worth it. However, my daughter told me she’s proud of me; and I’ve started hearing from complete strangers, not just my students and colleagues, on social media. Most are supportive, which is fun. (I have developed a tendency to skim past the crappy and focus on the hearts. Probably not what is expected, but I slaughter the trolls in my stories. So, why would I give any thought or time to the internet trolls in my reality? Sounds a little hypocritical, don’t you think? Besides, the support is much better for my ego.)

I can’t say that I’ve solved my dilemma with this post, but I have come to realization. I don’t need to necessarily master everything social media or marketing to still feel successful and fulfilled with my writing. I can continue to write. I can continue to teach. Both I love. The rest? Well, as long as I make an effort, that’ll be enough for now.

Spring Inspiration

Today was gorgeous—sunny, slight soft breeze, blooming bushes and flowers and trees, a true Spring day. After school, I headed for the barn and took Mo out for a ride. We have a competition this weekend, so, we needed to jump some cross country, especially the two ditches. Many times when I ride, my mind wanders and comes up with new scenes, characters, story lines, etc.; but that’s not a good idea when jumping your horse. While on the hack down to the bottom field with the various cross country jumps, I did have an inspiration about what happened when Syllé, Falinor, and K’tanna finally made it into Calarta. Because King Arterius was wary of outsiders afte everything that had happened in his kingdom and the danger his daughter Esmerelle had found herself in, he imprisons his visitors trying to keep Esmerelle safe. It doesn’t work out well for him and Esmerelle is incensed he kept the wounded Falinor from her as she is sworn to use her powers of healing for all who need them. After losing the argument, Arterius is determined to figure out the mystery of his guests. See what you think.

Eight days after the arrival of the newcomers in Calarta, King Arterius waited for Esmerelle to flee the citadel before heading for his daughter’s rooms.  The king strode purposefully into Falinor’s room, but the sight that greeted him caused him to stop dead only a stride or two from the door.  Falinor lay pale and barely breathing in the middle of the bed and Sylémar lay curled up next to him with her head on his shoulder and her soft breathing quietly ruffling Falinor’s hair. King Arterius was quickly transported to another time and another healing room—this one filled with wounded—and his daughter curled up in a bed beside Dréger, a dwarf who had been Esmerelle’s bodyguard and dearest friend.  Dwarves would never remember him, but they would remember his grandson, the greatest dwarf king in history, King Asger.

Arterius was pulled from his memories by the itchy feeling that someone’ eyes were on him. Without taking his gaze off the figures in the bed, Arterius addressed his hidden watcher, “So, Ghost, why are you in my kingdom?”  Silence. 

 Arterius continued to study the figures on the bed.  He could still feel the other child’s eyes boring into him but resisted the urge to search the room for her. “I have heard of Falinor, the great elven warrior.  Never met him, but I have heard of him, and I never heard any stories about a family, especially a daughter or daughters.  Who is he to you?”  Silence.

 Arterius made no move towards the bed and continued to stare at the pair lying there but his gaze was contemplative now.  “She is important to you as you fiercely protect her, but Falinor?  I think you’d leave him without a second glance.” Arterius chuckled slightly to himself, “If I promise you to care for him and keep him safe, will the two of you leave my kingdom immediately?” Silence.

 This time Arterius took his answer from the silence. “Probably not. He is important to her, and she won’t leave him. Am I right?” Arterius started to turn his head towards the eastern corner of the ceiling where the shadows were deep and K’tanna kept her vigil, but Sylémar’s voice from the bed stopped him.

 “Is it my fault if he dies?”

 Arterius was startled, having thought the child was asleep, and swung his gaze back to the pair on the bed.  When his eyes met Sylémar’s, Arterius was struck by the ardent grief mirrored in their depths. The intensity of the sorrow pouring out of Sylémar’s eyes took his breath away, reminding him of his theory that she was centuries older than she appeared. 

 “Who are you?” Arterius’s question unconsciously slipped from his mouth, as he stared quizzically at Sylémar.

 Sylémar answered his question with a repeat of her own. “Is it my fault if he dies?”

 Arterius shook his head and gazed a little more kindly down at the child as he moved closer to the pair on the bed. “Unless you ordered the basilisk to skewer Falinor, you are not at fault. Did you command the basilisk?”

 Sylémar shook her head, but Arterius could still see the pain and remorse pouring from her eyes.

 “So, then, why do you think his wound is your fault?” Arterius cocked an eye at the child.

 Sylémar returned her gaze to Falinor before answering. “K’tanna said it was my fault.  That I had killed him.”

 Arterius chuckled softly to himself as he took Esmerelle’s customary chair beside the bed, turning his gaze on Falinor. “Your friend is rather intense, I have noticed, and extremely protective of you.”

 Sylémar shrugged her shoulders. “We protect each other.”

 A snort of laughter from the dark corner reminded them that they were not alone. Sylémar scowled irritably in K’tanna’s direction while Arterius smiled in amusement. “Obviously your friend doesn’t share your opinion.”

 “I guess she’s not my friend,” Sylémar quietly replied, turning her gaze back to Falinor.

 Arterius leaned forward. “I know of Falinor and his great battles against the agents of Merilik, but I do not know you.”  Pressing his point, the elf king continued, “So, who are you?”

 Before the child could answer him, a surprisingly strong voice grated from the bed, “She is my daughter.” Opening his eyes, Falinor stared intently at Sylémar and smiled.

Before the Flame: Syllé’s Untold Origins

I thought I would begin using Wednesdays for sharing something new. I’ve been writing (as I mentioned in a much earlier post) that I have been fleshing out the back history of Syllé and Falinor—when they met, how they got to Calarta, why he claimed her as his daughter, the fall of Glaucis and the rise of the Dréor… all that history. It’s been fun but also extremely difficult because of the time spans between various events. Trying to rope them all together and have them flow correctly has had me pulling my hair out (metaphorically and actually). Do I try to tell it as one long epic or do I break it up into different short stories? There are good parts to both, but I haven’t decided completely yet. I’m still experimenting. Anyway, here’s a short selection from what I’ve done so far. It’s a scene where Falinor and Syllé are being hunted by a basilisk as the two try desperately to navigate Calarta’s encompassing fog and find safety within the kingdom. See what you think.

“Sylémar had first thought of simply sliding into the fog and hiding from Falinor; but she was certain that if she tried that, she would have to answer to the high queen for her actions, which was something she tried to avoid at all costs. So, as tempting as it was to hide within the fog and then slip away from the elf and head south, Sylémar dutifully tailed along behind Falinor, smirking to herself at his failures. Her mocking obedience, however, was a good thing as Falinor was in no mood to deal with Sylémar’s antics, especially as he was yet again leading them back out from the fog bank into the forest. 

Taking a deep breath and trying to calm himself, Falinor was about to pray to the high queen for guidance when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to stand up.  Whirling towards Sylémar, he was just in time to catch a quick glimpse of the basilisk slinking through the fog perilously close to them.  Obviously, the snake was still hunting them and tracking them well if it was this close.  Swiftly, Falinor grabbed Sylémar and stepped back into the dense cover of Calarta’s fog. Falinor held the child tightly to him and slowed his breathing, hoping the child would follow suit. Any sound from them would have that worm immediately on them, and in this fog, Falinor knew he had zero chance of effectively battling that beast.

Standing frozen in the fog, Falinor tried to come up with an escape plan.  The brief glimpse of the area beyond the fog he had gotten before being alerted to the basilisk’s presence wasn’t horrible—a small clearing backed up to a rather dense portion of the forest.  If the snake went far enough past them, they could make a run for the cover of the trees and try to take refuge within what looked like an expanse of closely grown trees surrounded by thick, intertwined underbrush, which would slow them down but the snake as well.

 Falinor’s planning was interrupted by the dangerously close soft, hissing breath of the basilisk. Unconsciously, Falinor drew Sylémar even closer to him.  As he did, he could just discern the head of the massive snake gliding only a few feet from where they were standing.  Thankfully, the snake could see through the fog even less than the elf; but that information didn’t stop Falinor’s heart from racing as the full length of the snake wended past them less than a body length away. Falinor remained holding tightly to Sylémar, who, surprisingly, hadn’t protested her confinement nor tried to confront the worm. Soon, however, Sylémar began to feel something was wrong—dangerously wrong.

“Fali—" Sylémar started to whisper.

“Shhh,” Falinor cut her off.

 The snake. Coming fast from behind. We’ve got to move!! Sylémar almost screamed that last part causing Falinor to wince slightly. 

The child’s voice in his head carried a surprising power, which was a good thing as it spurred Falinor into action in time.  Falinor surged forward towards the treeline, hoping to make the thick brush before the basilisk reached them. He wasn’t fast enough. Only a few yards from his goal, the basilisk struck.  Lightning fast, the snake cleared the fog and swung past its fleeing prey, blocking their escape.  Before Falinor or Sylémar could react, it skewered Falinor through the back with its barbed tail while spreading its hood and rearing its head high above the ground.

Basilisks thrive on toying with their prey; so, as the worm began lifting its head, it was also slowly lifting the speared Falinor off the ground. As mortally wounded as he was, Falinor refused to give up and struggled to detach himself; but he couldn’t sever his connection with the snake. Falinor vaguely felt his feet lifting off the ground and continued to feebly fight to get loose.  Even though his vision was becoming blurry, the elf could see he was rising towards the snake’s mouth.  If he didn’t get free soon, he’d be torn off the barb by the teeth of the snake.  Feeling his strength waning, Falinor apologized, I have failed you, my queen.

Suddenly, Falinor heard Sylémar’s childish battle cry and thought he saw her blurred form ricochet off the tail of the snake.  He barely had time to wonder where Sylémar had gotten a sword before he heard a sharp clang and felt himself falling a short distance to the ground. He had just enough strength left to manage to land on his feet but quickly fell to his knees.  He was aware that the child had landed near him and swiftly taken a protective stance between him and the snake, whose hissing had become louder and more enraged at the loss of his prey and part of his barb.  He finally recognized that the sword she was raising defiantly at the basilisk was his.  Falinor didn’t have time to wonder how she got it.  With utter dread, he recognized that the infuriated worm was about to strike straight down at its tiny adversary as he saw it rise even higher above them and spread its great hood. 

With the last of his strength, Falinor grabbed the child and tossed her towards the thicket. “Run!  Don’t look back,” he managed to order her.  His eye was caught by quick movement from the treeline just above the basilisk’s head. The last thing Falinor saw before the darkness filled his eyes was a slight figure leap from the trees and slam a sword through the basilisk’s brain.

The connection of writing by hand

In a world filled with quick responses, supposedly lightening fast drafts, and scandalously easy editing, I’m old school. Give me a pen and paper, please. There is a connection with paper that can never be felt with a keyboard and impersonal screen…at least, that’s how it is for me. My true guilty pleasure is rather inane: depending on the time of day, it’s just a cup of coffee or a glass of a warm Shiraz (I say “warm” not as a description of temperature, but more of taste. I know that is weird, but everyone’s normal until you get to know them.), my comfy couch with its view of the mountains, and my favorite pen rich with blue or black ink that sinks beautifully into the paper of one of my journals. This is absolute bliss for me, especially if I am being serenaded by the lovely rumble of a bullmastiff snore emanating from the large dog curled up next to me.

I came up with many of the scenes, characters, and outlines of scenes during the precious morning bliss hours watching the sunrise as well as quite a few rants over inconsequential things, some sad little poems, and at least one truly horrid haiku. (I never said my stuff was Pulitzer Prize winning or anything.) There is no need for any of it to rock the foundations of the world or anything. It is simply a recharge time. A time to let my mind journey anywhere and everywhere. A time to let all the emotions out. A time to reset.

I enjoy pen and paper. My creativity flows best with that medium, not a computer. (Well, I say creativity, but what amuses, entertains, moves me is what I’m talking about.) For the majority of my students, creativity is created by something electronic; but that’s not me. The computer is second, at best, to the pen and paper. I write and then I type. Typing is the last step, really. Even when I revise a piece, I revise on paper and then change the electronic version. Just like my trilogy, when I had issues with scenes I had already finished and typed, I would write alternative versions in my journal; and if I liked the new ideas better, change them in the computer.

I realize that I’m an anomaly in this world driven by tech and electronics, but I don’t care. I prefer pen and paper. In fact, if I made the rules, electronics would be removed from classrooms and students would use pen, paper, and an actual textbook. I do believe test scores and literacy scores would skyrocket. Sometimes, simple is best and there is absolutely no good reason to replace something just because there’s a newfangled way of doing things.

Family

One thing I’ve learned over my life is that family isn’t necessarily defined by DNA. In fact, most people view at least one person as family even though there are no blood ties whatsoever. My daughter has an aunt who is not my sister; but I dare anyone to try and tell me she isn’t family. Family can be, and often is, chosen; and those ties are usually the strongest—our “ride or dies.”

If you’ve read any of my novels in this series, you will have noticed the fluidity of the family structure. (Fluidity might be the wrong word, but I just mean how familial relationships are built between characters related by blood and characters who are not.) Falinor and Syllé are a good example. Falinor is known as Syllé’s father and they definitely have a close and loving relationship. However, he’s her adopted father, a role he took on in order to protect her; but they have grown from strangers to truly devoted family. And Falinor’s love for his “daughter” colors everything he does and says. Regardless of a lack of blood ties, Syllé is his child, his family.

The twins feel the same way about their “sister” and adopting her into their clan is more than ceremonial. Kwin and Finn are Syllé"‘s brothers and she is their sister. The “siblings” are fiercely loyal to each other regardless that one shares no blood ties to the other two, proving over and over that family is more than just DNA.

I look at my family and see a lot of the same ideas, which is probably why many of the relationships and characters in my books are the way they are. My daughter’s aunt has been in my life since before Emma was born and grew from an acquaintance, to a friend, to a sister organically. She calls my child hers and has always been one of Emma’s greatest role models. I know I can call her anytime and she’ll be there for me; and while I may not be the best about answering texts right away, I would help her in any way no questions asked. That relationship isn’t defined by DNA but by choosing a person who enhances mine and my child’s lives exponentially.

Thinking that family is only those people who share DNA with you isn’t something that fits most of us. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t have family ties to people who would never show up on their Ancestry.com tree; but whose absence at a family gathering would feel wrong. There’s nothing wrong with choosing and embracing a diverse family group. Finding and cultivating those relationships, whether started through blood ties or not, is the heart of our lives. We need those ties for so many reasons, but most importantly, for the community they bring. Humans aren’t loners. Instead, we are extremely social creatures. So treasure and build your family and hold on tight to them. I know I do.

Sunrise

My sunrise routine has changed abruptly. As some of you may know from my TikToks and Instagram and even this blog, my dogs and I have a morning routine, or had a morning routine. A few weeks ago, my youngest bullmastiff, Buck, had to be euthanized unexpectedly; so he is no longer with me in the mornings snuggling up to me—or more accurately, trying to convince me that he was a 132 pound lap dog competing for my attention over his sister Annie. It was invasive, a tad exasperating (I only have two hands unlike that one HIndu goddess), at times truly suffocating (you try and breathe with 132 pounds of dog pressing on your chest and vital organs), and my favorite time of day. Now, it’s just Annie who curls up beside me and even with no Buck to fight for my lap, she resolutely takes up just my lower legs for her head as if fully expecting Buck’s FOMO self to take up his required 110% of everything else. The lack of a bully head being shoved into my face or under my arms/hands, or no smeared lens from the plethora of stickky wet Buck kisses all over my face and neck, or just the loss of his exapserated grunt of defeat before lyinng down on top of my right side before the sounds of his snores reverberated off the family room walls, reminds me every morning now that my life is missing someone. So, sunrise is not the same and every morning I am reminded of my loss.

Loss isn’t a foreign concept to anyone, and we all handle its effects differently. (I have been avoiding sunrises—at least these past few weeks.) It can also flare up unexpectedly from the simplest of reminders, causing us to fall down that rabbit hole one morrer time. Yesterday, I was going to call my niece and in my phone contacts, her name was right above my Aunt Mary’s, which reminded me of a significant loss to my life last fall—the death of my aunt and uncle, two people who had been so significant in my life. I am who I am in part because of both of them. They helped shape me and their presence, while physically thousands of miles away but only a short phone call or text, was grounding. Unfortunately, they both passed within a few months of each other last fall and those phone calls and texts can no longer happen. I could no longer make a phone call and hear my uncle’s booming voice exclaim, “Well, hello, Krissy.” Or send my aunt an update text with a picture and get an immediate response that always ended with “I’m so proud of you. I love you.” There’s a void. Seeing my aunt’s name in my contacts brought that loss right back to the surface, especially since I know that most likely someone else now has their numbers. Someone who probably never met them, never knew and will never know what phenomenal people they both were, how central they were in my life and the lives of others.

No one goes through life without feeling loss and how we cope defines us. We can persevere, keep putting one foot in front of the other. We can wallow and never fully emerge from the dark abyss, which has several outcomes: bitterness or hopelessness being the most common. We can honor them, molding their memories and legacies into our own framework. Or it could be a combination of several of these. That’s what you see in many of my characters in my books. They’re all shaped by their losses. Tarin’s loss of his father manifests in his refusal to take the title of king and his relentless stubbornness, especially in throwing himself into battles to protect his friends and family and kingdom regardless of the odds against him. Syllé’s losses manifest in determination and a stubborn resolve that can form into vengeance in certain situations. Halicyon’s almost caused him to turn his back on the Light and fall into a deep pit of hatred; but he used his losses to laser focus his actions towards honoring those he lost, especially his wife, Dol’kah. The Dréor weren’t able to overcome their losses and they became the Dark, feeding off its coldness and bitterness to fuel them. My books are an exploration of how our losses can affect us, change us, strengthen us, and/or bring us down.

I can’t fill the void that has been left by what and who I have lost; and my sunrises will never be the same again. However, I can continue to experience them and build a new routine. Not the same, never the same, but that’s life. Nothing ever stays the same because life moves forward constantly whether we wish it to or not.

Book Festivals

Well, I took the plunge and finally applied for a book festival and I was accepted!! I’ve done a lot of local book signings and events, but this was out of town, which I have avoided like the plague. I never know if the promo is for real or a clever scam. I filled out an inquiry a year ago and haven’t stopped receiving phone calls, texts, and emails from solicitors—supposed publishers, marketing companies, and festivals—that will market, promote, show my books for the low, low price of several thousand dollars. And the festivals don’t seem to have anything real about them beyond the invite.

This appeared to be different and I had promised myself that I would at least put my fears aside and try. So, I did…and I was accepted. On April 25th, I will be one of 33 authors at a book festival called the Spring Book Bash held annually in Greer, South Carolina. I’m so glad that I tried and it’s paying off. Maybe I’ll get some more readers and hopefully, it will give me the courage to try more events like this. My author interview for the event has gone live on the organizer’s youtube channel, and I was pleasantly surprised at how much easier it was over the first interview. That one was pretty bad. I mean, I actually cried part way through the interview; so, truly, anything would be better than that one.

I guess it’s true—practice does make perfect. Maybe that’s the key to adage. It’s not about attaining perfection but the idea that practicing helps you become more comfortable. And when you are comfortable, you relax; and when you’re relaxed, you are more likely to perform something stressful better. Interviews, social media, putting myself in front of others is highly stressful for me; but the more I do it, the less anxious I am becoming. In fact, I actually enjoyed this interview—laughed even. So, if you’d like to view my interview, follow the link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jx3B8kSTv_4

What motivates us

Ever known you have a bunch to do, but just can’t seem to start the tasks? That happens to me about every day. I have this simple “To Do List” and yet never seem to get the tasks done. Even as I’m distracted with other things, the litany of what I need to finish scrolls through my head; and yet, I just can’t get motivated to start. There are always so many distractions: books to read on my phone apps or from my bookshelf, endless scrolling through shows on tv, games to play on my phone or laptop. It never fails. I remind myself of what I need to get done and then quickly become distracted by things I don’t need to do.

I recently made the joke that I would like to be a Lady of Leisure after getting seven snow days within two weeks. While you might think that is a great idea or an awesome opportunity to get things done, I found myself having a hard time concentrating on the tasks at hand. Even now while on Spring Break, there is a litany of things that need my attention; and while I have gotten to a few, I really should have handled most of them by now. Today, I sat down with my coffee and laptop with the intent of checking emails, sending a few, working on this blog, and then getting my workout in. Well, two hours later and I’m just now working on my blog because there are fun games on this computer and Netflix and my mom called and basically, I did everything but what I actually needed to do.

So, how do I motivate myself? Not well, if you want the truthful answer. I’m not lazy. I mean, I have action packed days: teaching, grading, family, riding, writing, cooking, cleaning, laundry, crocheting baby blankets for two of my colleagues who are pregnant. But when it comes to completing my to do lists, sometimes I just cannot get motivated. I see this with my students as well; even when I give them tons of class time to prepare and create, they get distracted by the games on their chromebooks or phones (if they can sneak them without my seeing), which also leads to texting, Snapchat, instant messaging, all the fun tech distractions. Why work on school when you can watch an otter video or stupid prank video? Why get your tasks competed when there are much more inane things to occupy your brain? I get it and often fall into that trap as well.

Very often I have to force myself to start the list, and then, once started, I usually keep going. Sometimes, I get distracted mid-task or find my mind drifting to something else; and if I’m not careful, I’m distracted again. I should have had this written, emails answered, and already finished by workout by now. Instead, here I sit trying to finish my great treatise to the world, no workout done, no emails checked, and several hours behind schedule. I really don’t think being a Lady of Leisure is right for me because I would simply vegetate, which would eventually drive me nuts. I need to work on structuring my days better and not allowing so many distractions. Any suggestions?

To trust or not to trust

I was speaking with a friend who told me about their most recent pitfall with the publishing world. He had thought he was going to be the next Grisham or Crichton. At least, that’s what the publishing company he found online told him. They promised him the bestseller list, massive sales and profits, a professional marketing plan, including ads on the Times Square Billboard. Absolutely everything he’d ever dreamed about. It sounded awesome and I have to admit I was a tad jealous of him when he first told me about his deal. Then he received the final contract with the itemized invoice and realized that there were a lot of extras in his contract—extra costs, that is. When he started adding up everything, my friend realized he’d have to take out a massive loan and/or cash out much of his retirement to foot the bill for his author dreams. The company tried to convince him it would be worth it—that he’d make that back and more as soon as the books started selling; but my friend did the math. At the price the books would be selling, his portion of the profits would help him break even in 43 years. As he is currently in his 50s, my friend chose to decline the offer. He dodged a bullet, but how many of us havven’t?

We’ve all seen a posts questioning whether or not a publishing site, a marketing package, author event, book award, etc., are for real or a scam. There are a lot of scams out there and their orchestrators have gotten exceptionally good at hiding that fact. Just changing one letter in the web address or .com versus .net can mean the difference between a legitimate business and a fraud. It’s frighteningly hard to tell. I’ve also seen the horror story posts about being ghosted as soon as their manuscript and payment have been sent or something similar; and I’ve spoken with authors who fell for the marketing hype and, unlike my friend, doled out a huge sum of money for the dream of making it on the NYTimes bestseller list only to have nothing to show for it, except a depleted bank and/or retirement account. It makes me wonder how I avoided the pitfalls.

I mean, let’s be honest. I’m immensely gullible. As my husband has told me, I’m very trusting and never smell a rat even when people point out the problems before me. I just live with the idea that people are as honest with me as I am with them. So, how did I find such an amazing publisher? How did I find such a talented artist to create art for me to use on social media and in promotions? How did I not fall for so many of the scams, especially marketing scams out there? Easy. Not because I was too sharp to see through their lies, of course; but because I’m cheap. I sweat about my grocery costs and how much gas to put in my car. I shop thrift and TJ Maxx because I refuse to pay retail and my husband and always run major expenditures by each other. He can definitely smell a rat and do the math to prove his point. So, i won’t be spending thousands of dollars to try and get my name in lights or on the Times Square billboard.

Don’t get me wrong. I would love to see my book on top of that NYTimes list, and I’ve heard that to get there takes truly deep marketing pockets. I’m happy with the success my books have had so far. Some of my students have enjoyed them as has my dad. Friends have enjoyed them as have total strangers. It’s not on the level of NYTimes but I’m published. That’s amazing and so cool. As far as marketing and publishing scams go, if it sounds too good to be true, it just might be. Do your research—google them and don’t just take their word for it. Use a magnifying glass on the fine print and really see what you’re expected to pay. Do all of this BEFORE you send any money their way. Don’t be blinded by the promise of a bestseller. Nine and a half times out of ten, no matter what you do or how you market, the NYT isn’t coming calling.

Progress…

I started working on something really exciting—the edited copy of The Dead, which is book three of my trilogy. I’m not sure if I’ve explained the writing of my trilogy, but I didn’t write it as three books but as one. I had no idea about word count versus page count in publishing and wasn’t really thinking about the amount I was writing. I just wrote. So, you can imagine my surprise when the publisher emailed me that my manuscript was too long to be one book and that I had actually written a trilogy, which meant we split the first manuscript into three parts.

For each book, I have updated, critiqued, changed, enhanced, and just reworked the content before sending the publisher an updated copy. Book three wasn’t any different. I changed two scenes completely as well as added some additional information to a few others. Now, I’m reading through the publisher’s edited, or clean, copy. Once I finish, I will email it back to my publisher. It’s like Christmas when I get the email with my edited manuscript. That feeling of pride in myself is pretty intoxicating, I admit.

While getting the confirmation that my publisher wanted to publish my books was exhilarating and getting these “clean” copies to look over is incredible, I think I get the most excited by the emails from the graphic artist with my book cover proof. My graphic artist is a fantastic artist who has created two drop dead gorgeous covers for me; and I can’t wait to see what she creates for The Dead. I’m impatiently waiting for that email. I know her work will be spectacular.

You know, there’s a lot to this publishing/writing process I never imagined. Some of it is really fun—like what I’m doing now—while some is truly terrifying. (The interviews and book signings come to mind.) Tedious or uncomfortable would be the social media, but seeing my stories fueled by my imagination in print and in the hands of others like my students and my parents is stupefyingly wondrous. How did I do this? The fact that I am a published author and have a third book coming out this year still mind-blowing to me. Some how I did it and that accomplishment is something no one can ever take away from me. But if I want to get this third book out this fall, I should probably return to the “clean” copy and finish my edit. Back to the world of MithTerra one more time.

The power of being seen

Today, two students stopped by my classroom after school. One was there to ask about missing work—which was quickly found…in her notebook—while the other was simply accompanying his friend. Both stayed to chat with me for awhile. I love that—the fact that past and current students actually like to talk to me outside of the class, and after last week’s trauma and sadness, their happy chatter and jokes was exactly what I needed.

It often makes me laugh when people find out I’m a teacher and gasp. Usually the gasp is followed by something along the lines of “I could never do that.” Or, especially after they hear I teach high school, “Are you serious? How do you stand it?” Well, let me tell you. I love my job. Working with teenagers is fun, fulfilling, and challenging. I think those are the best qualities for any job. Plus, who wants to go through life without ever being challenged? How boring. My students make every single day I am in that school, or out of it, interesting. (Their excuses for missing work, especially in email form, are some of my favorites!!) But honestly what gets my happy tears going and feeds my soul the most is when they appear truly happy to see me when we are out in public. That is absolutely the best because you know you’re someone special if these teenagers acknowledge your existence and affirm that they know you beyond the classroom.

I love walking through our local Mall or downtown or eating at a restaurant and have students call out to me, stop by my table, call my name and wave happily from across the street or parking lot, or sit at my table in the Food Court of the mall and chat for awhile, everybody pulling up chairs and telling me the tea. Some of which, I must admit, I didn’t really need to know; but my students, current and former, still seem to enjoy hanging with Ms. Johnson. Let’s be real, I enjoy it, too.

It also reminds me of the influence I have on them and the weight of that responsibility. They are fragile and strong, meek and vibrant. Individuals, who desperately want to fit in somewhere but stand out as well. I find great pride in watching them flourish and not because I arrogantly think I had anything to do with their success and growth. I genuinely feel happy watching my students find their voices and I truly hurt when they silence themselves. I think—or at least, I hope—that’s why I am good at my job. Why so many of my students take as many of my courses as they even if the subject isn’t their strong point or even something that interests them.

It makes me feel successful at my job each year when older students walk back through my classroom door for another year or stop and say hello outside of the school building or stop back by my room just to chat. Hopefully, I’m right and it’s showing me I did my job correctly. That I reached them in some positive way. That time in my classroom mattered to them. That’s how I measure my success as a teacher—in the smiles and waves and acknowledgment I receive from my students, former, current, and even future. They, to me, are all amazing.

Beauty in the Breaking

Why is it that humans are innately programmed to hide their emotions? Or, more specifically, those emotions deemed weak like sadness or pain? Why are we supposed to bottle it up and hide it from the world? “Buck up, little camper” often comes to mind here. What does that mean anyway? Get tougher? Deny our feelings? What? I’ve never understood the feeling of embarrassment or horror at the thought of others seeing me cry, but I have felt that and acted accordingly—shoved the pain down deep and moved forward. Or recited that practiced false phrase, “I’m fine” like my life depended on it. But why?

This past week I was off social media and even my blog, for the whole week, which is uncommon for me since becoming a published author. Now, last Monday and Tuesday was for happier reasons. (I was finishing up my prepublication checklist and turning it into my publisher for my third book, The Dead, which comes out this fall.) Then the week went all to hell with a major family emergency starting on Tuesday night and taking up all my time and focus for the next two days.

Friday morning dawned hopeful and seemed to be getting back to normal. The 20 ton knot of anxiety that had taken up residence in the center of my chest had dissipated to a manageable quarter pound knot and I was thinking things could only get better. Until my daughter called to inform me that Buck, our sweet, FOMO/velcro bullmastiff had bitten her in the face. And now my world was spiraling again. I held it together while getting all the information I could from my daughter. They’d been napping together on the couch (something they had been doing for years), and when my daughter moved to get up, Buck attacked. I calmly handled all the phone calls—my husband, my father (a physician who lives nearby to check on my girl and get her to the ER), the vet to schedule bringing my dog in to possibly be euthanized.

Emma and I had noticed a subtle shift in Buck’s demeanor over the past few weeks and had an appointment with his regular vet scheduled to evaluate him. I was thinking brain tumor because he was six, which is the time these things can start, and had been exhibiting some odd behavior that was getting worse. Buck, normally a velcro dog, had begun putting himself in his crate and staying in the back of it instead of hanging out with us. He would come up to me and push his head against my leg while his teeth chattered harshly. We saw him chewing on his front paws almost obsessively at times. He appeared anxious. So we knew something wasn’t right.

After staying calm through all the phone calls and chaos, that quarter pound knot had grown back into the 20 ton version; and as I sat down at my desk, I had a hard time keeping the emotions bottled up, especially in front of my first period class. When the bell for class change rang, I realized I could not keep everything inside; so, I did something I have never done in my many years of teaching—I handed my class over to an aide (who, by the way, is a beautiful human being). I ended up in a colleague’s empty room and just broke. All the stress and pain from the week that had become that 20 ton knot pressing on my chest was released and I just broke.

Funny thing, I broke in front of my friend, who never once made me feel weak for doing so. Whoever came up with the rule of never showing true emotion in front of others really didn’t know reality. That “Buck up, little camper” idea is stupid. Sometimes we just need to break in order to keep going. I finished my day, albeit sad and still stressed, but that knot was gone. I could breathe and face what I had to do. So remember, there is a beauty in the breaking.

Community

Yesterday, I attended a community fundraiser benefiting Paws for Cause. Luckily for our bank account, my husband didn’t attend with us as he views an auction as a competition to be won at all costs. While I did “win” a few items from the silent auction portion of the event, the true wins for me weren’t competitive. For one, I watched my elderly mother fawn all over a beautiful Shepherd named Falco, who is used for apprehension and narcotics detection and has more energy than the Energizer Bunny. Truly, the only time that dog was still was when Mom loved on him and when his handler okayed Mom having her picture taken with Falco. The joy shining in my mother’s face and pulsating through her voice as Falco reminded her of her beloved Lance, a German Shepherd her family had owned when she was a child/early teen. Mom was Lance’s person and the two were inseparable, even sleeping in the same bed. Although, as Lance was quite large, Mom routinely ended up on the floor over staying in the bed.

For another, I was overjoyed to run into a few former students (one from over eighteen years ago) and learning about their lives now. I have to admit that whenever I run into former students outside of school, I can’t promise I will immediately remember their names; but I love that they remember me and want to chat, especially when they tell me what they remember about me and my class. I got to do that last night and, not that I take any credit for the amazing people they have become, I was amazed and awed at the outstanding human beings they were and are still. And for them to walk up to me, apparently happy to see me, means more than I can truly express.

On top of all that, as mine and now my daughter’s lives just get busier and busier (I mean, soon she’ll be out of the house), precious time with her and my mom is a rarity that I treasure. How many more days do I have with either of them? Just getting to spend time, eating, talking, and laughing with each other is an amazing gift. This is community to me.

In my books, that is the community I portray—this idea of finding joy and peace and health in the company of family, friends, and even strangers. It’s shown in the relationships in my books. Tarin and Halicyon, Hil and Tarin, Finn and Kwin, and Syllé and them all. They rely on each other, are strengthened by each other, find comfort in each other’s presence, and always have each other’s back; but not to the exclusion of all others. Their community can expand as the situation and occasion dictate and they welcome friends and strangers because that is community—an ever-expanding and fluctuating system open to all who wish to be included. So, who can you include into yours?

To promote or not to promote

I have been inundated with messages and posts from advertisers swearing to make my novels the next international best sellers. They promise exposure all over the world, millions of copies sold, ebook downloads galore, and all within days of them taking over the promotion of my trilogy. It just sounds too good to be true, and probably, most of them are. There are plenty of scams out there promising big things or mirroring authentic retailers and publishers, who simply take your money and run, or in modern terms, ghost you. Once paid, the emails don’t get answered, the phone calls go directly to voicemail, and the “business” moves on to their next mark. So, how does someone know the real from the con?

I’d love to have a simple answer for you, but I don’t. In today’s publishing world, there appears to be so many online opportunities to publish and social media is one of the best ways to promote yourself, and since both of those are digital, they are easy for scammers to use to defraud you. It’s why I haven’t ventured too far beyond my comfort zone or too far beyond the familiar. I shy away from solicitations—often checking them out but never truly engaging. I hesitate and wonder if the deal is legit or a scam. It’s exhausting and I still have no real idea how to tell the legitimate from the fake.

Recently, I saw a call for authors to submit their books for an event in another state. It looked fabulous and I got excited. I started filling out their form, but halfway through, I began the what if discussion in my head. I analyzed everything I possibly could about their site, put the form on hold, let it run through my head for several days, and then finally, after a great deal of research and talking with a friend of mine who knew about the event, finalized the form. I was too late. The author spots at the event had already been filled. So, I missed another great opportunity because I don’t have the faith that I can tell the difference between a real deal and a con. Pathetic, right?

What I’ve learned, though, is the too good to be true is. There is no fast road to stardom. It’s not right around the corner and no promotion is going to quadruple or more your sales in a night or a few days. The process takes time, tenacity, and even a few wrong turns. Be smart. Do your research. Trust in yourself and your work. Good luck!

The Symbolism Behind Sylle’s Blue Flame

In my books, Sylle, as a child of the Leas, wields the flame of the Leas, a power that manifests as a blue flame. This power is unstoppable once ignited and no monster of the dark, not even the indomitable Malrauk can withstand it. The idea comes from many sources from throughout my life that have just gathered and congealed in my memory until coming forth in my book series.

Growing up in a religious family there were, of course, the biblical Sunday School sources. You know, the flaming sword blocking the entrance to Eden after Adam and Eve sinned. The “cleansing” of Sodom and Gomorrah (can never remember how to spell that one) with fire raining down from the sky. The fiery bush. Actually, in the Bible, fire represented many things: the power of God, most importantly, but also, purification, the road of trials, and the destruction of evil. So, I definitely got the idea started there.

Now, as to why it’s blue. Well, first off, I have blue eyes and so does Sylle; so, there’s that. Also, I always liked the reasoning behind blue in many religions. Depending on the religion, blue is meant to remind you of the power of the divine as well as marking a place of refuge or sanctuary. In some religions, it symbolizes the link between heaven or the afterlife and earth. (As I’ve said before, I’m a bit of a fact nerd and have a tendency to read and read and read and retain bits and pieces of so many facts and ideas. My brain is stuffed full of strange tidbits of information that leak out in various ways.) So, Sylle’s flame is blue because it is a manifestation of the power, divinity, and infinity of the Leas.

It can cleanse as well as destroy. It can heal as well as kill. It’s potency is dependent upon how Sylle wields it and also her emotions. Like the time at the Fall Festival in The Forgotten when it erupts with the power of an out of control bonfire because the changeling harmed Tarin. Or when she is on the ropes with Tarin being hoisted up into the Drengas kingdom in The Lost and uses her flame to heal Tarin. It is akin to wizard fire, which is how she masks it in order to hide her true identity. Now, wizard fire as wielded by Gideon in The Lost and the upcoming third book The Dead is not as powerful but is a pretty close second as it was bestowed upon wizards by High Queen Sedivar as a weapon to use against some of Merilik’s more lethal creations like Malrauk’s, wraiths, and changelings.

This is probably more back story than you wanted, but as I said, the information in brain leaks out in so many ways. You’ll find even more uses for Sylle’s power in The Dead, but you’ll have to wait until this fall to read them. Just know that she’s not done battling Merilik yet and their fated battle is looming.

Stillness is Not the Same as Silence

As an introvert, I have always been quiet and unobtrusive. Hiding in silence. Hoping no one notices me or draws attention to me. So, my silence wasn’t coming from a place of strength, but a place of fear, timidity. As I’ve grown and flexed my introvert muscles, I have begun to rise above that timid silence and be still. It’s a skill I have fostered and grown and still work on today; but I have learned that in stillness is boundless strength and power. It’s something Sylle is known to do as she watches her surroundings, learning and observing and helping herself make rational decisions. My stillness gives me a breather, a moment to stop and put my disordered thoughts in order, trample down unfounded fears, and listen to myself.

One of my favorite scenes from The Lost occurs in the Drengas throne room as chaos erupts around the small group of fighters from Helmfirth and Exulias. The elite Drengas warriors are in an uproar over their betrayal by one of their own, which is causing Tarin and others in his group to fear for their safety; but Sylle, Tarin notices, is simply standing silent amidst the tumult surrounding them like a solid fortress buttressed by a storm. She doesn’t seem fazed at all as she quietly surveys the chaos around her, observant and still. This enables her to deduce at least one of the culprits and come to a decision on how to proceed as safely as possible. I love this quiet stillness she exhibits. It’s not a weakness. It’s not indecision. It’s strength. It’s determination. It’s self-confidence. It’s power.

That’s what I have learned after years of searching for the shadows in which to hide from the world. I’ve learned that there is a difference between remaining silent out of fear—of being noticed, of saying or doing something embarrassing or wrong—and being still. Still to observe. Still to decide. Still to remain quiet within myself. My stillness has helped me to learn when to speak and what to speak. It has stopped me from saying something before thinking about it. And I have to say that I have learned a great deal about the people around me from being still.

I learned all this from Mac, my wolf growing up. He would often sit in the shadows or on the periphery and watch quietly. He perfected the art of being still, of observing and dissecting the world around him so that when he moved, it was with purpose and decisive. I marveled at that when I was a teenager because that was not who I was, but it was who I wanted to be. So, I wrote that trait into my character Sylle, but I didn’t just pass this trait along to Sylle. Queen Atheneal, Lady Sariel, and Hil also exhibit it. These women all use stillness as a part of their armor and use it exceptionally well. They know when to sit back and wait, when to move forward, when to guard their tongues, and when to speak out. Those are important lessons for anyone, and I learned them pretty well. Honestly, I still have a ways to go, but now my silence isn’t fear-based. It’s confident and strong. (At least, most of the time. Hey, I’m human, not a fictional character. I screw up just like everyone else.)

Strong women

I’ve always been fascinated with archery. I have no idea why, and I am certainly not very good with a bow. So, I can’t say where this fascination originated. I first attempted archery as a freshman in high school during gym class—a class in which I may have accidentally shot my gym teacher in the butt. Well, I grazed his butt cheek to be more accurate. But honestly, my slight obsession with the sport started long before that. I mean, one of Syllé’s skills is archery and I’ve already acknowledged that her character was an idealized version of myself. Also, one of my main characters is a fiery haired human/elf from Helmfirth who is uncontestedly the best shot ever. I’m talking about my character Amarris

Amarris is a complicated character—independent, strong (physically and mentally), sharp-sighted, and looking for revenge. She’s the niece of Therendé’al, the Dréor king’s strongest and most powerful lieutenant and her mother’s assassin; so, Amarris has been waiting for the chance to get vengeance. However, she hasn’t focused her life on revenge. Instead, she’s lived it and reaped the benefits of a present and nurturing father. Her life has been hard but good and she has honed her archery skills to a level above all others. She is one of my favorite characters and not just because she is an archer but truly because of the incredibly strong woman that she is.

If you were interested in a visual of what she might look like in my mind google the iFit trainer Hannah Eden and add brilliant red hair. You see, when I was adapting my original fan fiction, it was 2020 and we were in the middle of the pandemic while I was in the beginning of my battle with breast cancer. Follow a year with three surgeries, Tamoxifen, and a bout of COVID, I was very out of shape and had gained quite a bit of weight; so, as soon as I was cleared and physically able, I started back working out. That’s how I first was exposed to Hannah. As soon as I saw her on that first workout, I realized I was looking at Amarris because Hannah isn’t some waif-thin, barbie proportion, ready to be blown away at the lightest puff of wind type of female. She’s strong, healthy, and solid. That’s how I always viewed Amarris; and when I first saw Hannah, she had flaming red hair, which was the distinguishing trademark of Amarris. Well, that and her insane ability to hit absolutely everything she aimed at, including the heart of a certain dwarf.

Amarris was already formed in my imagination and on paper before I ever found the iFit videos with Hannah. Those videos just helped solidify in my mind a real image of Amarris and the woman I saw her being. The type of woman I always wished had been in Tolkien’s works. The type of woman I created Syllé for myself to be within Tolkien’s world. Not a woman who needs to be saved constantly. You know, that damsel in distress trope that is abundantly annoying in how it continues to raise its nasty head in books, television, movies, and even real life. I don’t need to constantly be saved and it annoys me that because I am female, a lot of the world views I do. That doesn’t mean I never need help or don’t appreciate it when it’s offered. I certainly couldn’t have gotten to remission without help—doctors, surgeries, medication, of course, but most importantly, a phenomenal support system starting with my husband.

Needing help, I have learned, doesn’t mean you sacrifice your independence or are weak and can never stand on your own. It simply means that you aren’t a member of some superhero squad like the Avengers or the X-men. Seriously, even superheroes need help to survive. So, I’ll end with one of my favorite toasts: here’s to strong women. May we know them. May we raise them. May we be them.

I love writing.

My favorite thing about writing is connection—to the characters and the story, yes; but also just the simple connection of pen and paper. There’s something about the feeling of the pen in my hand and the sound of it crossing the paper and the magic of seeing my words come to life on the page. I find it calming, pure, and uniquely intimate. Much more so than typing ever is. Typing is impersonal and half the time we don’t really remember what we typed or only fragments. But pen and paper engraves it into our minds. There have been studies that have proven writing notes with pen and paper causes a connection with the material in our brains infinitely better than typing on a computer. I realize the tech giants own the American education system, but if I had the power, I would remove all technology from the classroom and return to thee days of textbooks, pen/pencil, and paper. Return to the days of computer labs that were only there for final draft essays to be typed up and printed out to turn in after all other parts of the planning process—brainstorming, outlines, rough drafts—were done on paper with a writing utensil, not a keyboard. As a teacher who has watched student literacy and writing skills steadily deteriorate since the mid-1990s, I say we join with the Nordic countries and our own Silicon Valley and take the screens out of our classrooms.

Rant done. Soapbox gone. Back to me and my paper. And by the way, the irony that this blog is being typed on a computer is not lost on me at this moment. Nor am I saying we shouldn’t use to computers to write anything. What would the world be without email? Less immediately connected, of course; but more intimately connected, too. Teaching my students how to address an envelope is something I never thought I would have to teach a teenager. The fact that I do is sad. Getting mail—not email, but an actual physical letter—was such a glorious experience. Now, even Christmas cards and birthday cards are digital. You can’t hold digital in your hands and store them with a ribbon in a keepsake box to bring out and go over again and again, reliving the feelings the words on the paper evoked. Emails, snapchats, posts, they’re all fleeting, impermanent for the most part. But a tangible piece of paper lasts. That’s connection.

Even the smell of paper stirs memories. I mean, really, anyone ever get a perfumed email? Or the whiff of the sender’s cologne? Or pipe smoke? (Yes, I’m remembering someone with that pipe smoke reference.) You can’t send someone’s scent or essence through Snapchat. That’s part of the connection of pen and paper. It’s personal, real, connecting.

My journals are some of my most treasured possessions. I love reading through them to laugh at my childhood writings, cry over old heartbreaks, gloat over triumphs, and find joy in my growth. I love my early mornings with my coffee, the sunrise, my dogs, and my journal. The writing brings me joy and calms my anxiety—as does the growly snores of my two bullmastiffs leaned up against me. These moments are important and I wish more people took the time to stop and connect. I wish I could get this across to my students—the importance of connecting with not just your writing, but your thoughts, your mind, and your audience. Writing isn’t a chore to get through for a grade or assignment or job. It’s a lifeline.