Was she bi-polar or just depressed? Being that she was firmly raised in the suck-it-up-and-keep-up-appearances generation, I don’t think she was even aware of her moods- they were something to be ignored or wrestled into oblivion.
My mother could be my best friend or worst enemy, usually within the same hour.
Which brings me to my mood today- on that day we celebrate our mothers.
There is much to celebrate. She not only supported my love for horses, she immersed herself in it. At times, I wondered if she did it out of love or a desire to control, probably both.
After all, I was one of her accomplishments. She worked hard to have me, sacrificing something precious to her- her dignity- to get pregnant. I was conceived by artificial insemination in a time when it was very hush-hush. Looking back, considering what I know of her history, I realize it truly was a sacrifice- another degrading experience to shove into the hidden corner of her psyche.
If those secrets she buried and hoarded fed the monster chip on her shoulder, well, that was just too bad.
She was a tiny bundle of ambition, who downplayed her intelligence.
She was an unapologetic administrator with an impeccable wardrobe.
She didn’t suffer fools (and we were all fools at times).
Her anger was her strength.
The quest to know my mother drove me to write about her when she was gone. (You can read that here, if you’re so inclined.)
The sad fact remains that I can only consider her complexities after she’s gone, because when she was alive, interacting her was a lively game of emotional chess. The winner kept her sanity and ego semi-intact.
But I loved her. I miss her deeply. She’s intensely present in my latest WIP which takes place against the background of equestrian sports.
I hated being told how to ride by a woman who’d never spent more than five minutes in the saddle.– All the Brightness
She’s both the angel and devil on my shoulders, my mental commentary, my compass- whether I want to do things her way or rebel.
She’s my nemesis and my hero.
She made me over conscious about my weight-
You’re not fat, you’re chunky, Nancie.
She was at every horse show, bought a Bronco so we could buy a horse trailer, even bought a farm which she claimed was her dream, yet she never lived there.
She called me lazy, always berated me for not living up to my potential- I really hate that word now, called me a disappointment, thought my anger was a mental defect without ever considering the cause.
After the initial shock of my teenage pregnancy, she supported my decision to raise my child, providing me a home and support whenever I needed it.
She came when I needed her most. She couldn’t help being herself, but she came and gave me everything she could.
Knowing what I know now, I realize how strong she had to be, and if that strength made her hard, it was a choice she had to make to survive.
She taught me to be strong without having to make the same choices.
Had she lived, my life would look very different. My sister and I joke about that in that funny-not-funny humor we share.
But I miss her. Not the mother I wish she had been, I miss her in all her messy, sometimes cruel, embarrass me by doing the Macarena at my wedding, give-me-the-world-with-heavy-strings-attached generous glory.
It’s Sunday morning and I’m already overwhelmed for the day.
The morning is crisp and bright and sunny and just begging for me to get out there and start working on outside projects.
Yesterday I reclaimed a corner of the garden from the weeds that seem to think they own the place. This was after a trip to the car wash with Mr. Wonderful (you remember him from my old posts- he’s still around) even though it was nice enough he could wash his own car, went to the garden center where I bought more stuff to plant, because SPRING!!!
After planting a whole flat of pansies- because again, SPRING, the garden wrestling, trying to figure out why my tractor won’t turn over-diesel engines perplex me, and finally listening to my aging back to come inside, I sat down to write.
I have two projects open right now. My WIP and my first full manuscript (don’t worry, my now almost famous Crappy Fantasy Novel and Lucifer’s Child still linger in the shadows). When I am stuck on a point in the shiny new thing, I go back to do yet another revision on the first one.
Finding the weak spots in my past work is helping me not make the same mistakes in the new one (that, and an amazing bunch of critique partners).
Because lately, I’ve been feeling frustrated and depressed about my writing.
Imposter syndrome, the general morass that is modern publishing, the waiting, the rejection, the abject fear of failure- all of these things grabbed me by my metaphorical throat and choked the joy out of what I love to do- write and create stories.
I created mood boards, I made a mock-up cover for my Possibilities manuscript, I tweaked the title, I revamped my women’s fiction page on this website, and then berated myself for not writing.
But like getting my garden ready for spring- a spring that has teased us, then frozen and soaked us- I have to do the work to get the results.
So, I am going back to that first manuscript and doing more work- digging out weeds and adding the things that I think are missing. It was a good story. An enjoyable one, but I haven’t been able to find it a home.
I am still querying my second women’s fiction manuscript, writing the third, but the revision of the first is giving me a new perspective. I’m pulling the weeds of my own pride and looking at it with new eyes and finding the weaknesses. In turn, I am making new mistakes with my WIP, but I am also more aware of what that story needs.
Hope is a fragile thing. I have it every year when the winter fades. But as Emily Dickinson so beautifully wrote:
“Hope is the thing with feathers- that perches on the soul-“
I will hold to the hope that I will be published one day- either by taking the terrifying plunge of self-publishing (which is behind the revision) or by being persistent enough to find an agent, and lucky enough to find a publisher.
Like my garden, there’s:
The back breaking work, because I have to be honest, leaning over to pull weeds or sitting in my desk chair for hours seem to have the same effect. There’s a whole lot of cracking and moaning.
The waiting. This is the hardest phase for me. I am NOT a patient person by nature. Waiting for query responses or watching the dirt for the tiniest seedling, then wondering if it will be a rejection or a weed? TORTURE.
The hope, that my work will be good enough to provide me with yummy vegetables or validation for my writing.
These steps might be in search of the reward, but in reality, they are the reward in itself. Why else would I do it? Because:
Today, I plan to show my horse. We’ve done the work-I think. Yesterday’s school was rough- she wasn’t quite right, and we didn’t practice the whole course. But I’ve done a solid job with the basics. I have appropriate clothes to wear (my tall boots don’t fit yet, but thank the universe for half-chaps!). The fences are as low as the expectations.
Cue the anxiety.
It is about the same level as having my manuscript done (but is it ever really finished?). I have the query written. I feel pretty good about it. Synopsis? Check. And I send it out while clutching my tea mug, anxious and hopeful that it will find its way into someone’s heart.
Horse showing isn’t that different. I’ve spent the winter getting my show horse back after a lengthy sabbatical. It was all coming together. And much like my early querying days, seemed to be going well.
This afternoon, following a morning of playing mind games with myself, I was ready to go!
We went into a crowded schooling ring- imagine 15 horses in an enclosed space, all going different directions. It’s usually the trigger for my own epic meltdowns. Too many moving parts for my little ADHD brain. It’s about this time my mare likes to throw in a case of the “bouncies.” A lovely trick that leaves me with no steering mechanism while fighting to keep her between me and the ground. In a ring full of 15 horses careening around and jumping random fences.
Today, she was PERFECT!
But when it came to jumping, she wasn’t right. Her discomfort bad enough that my trainer- who typically yells at me to “put on my big girl pants and keep going”-shook her head and slashed her hand across her neck.
Not today.
It was kind of like getting those form rejections on my full manuscripts.
No real answers, just rejection.
I’ll have my mare checked out by the vet, give her some time, and get back to it.
Same with my queries. I’ll have my pity party, rewrite my query, edit my first pages and get back to it.
Someday, I hope the stars will align enough for me to show well in both the jumper ring and the literary world.
For people who know me, this is no surprise. I can mouth the lyrics to just about every 80s song whether I liked it or not. Ear worms are an emotional hazard for me, just saying.
Music defines my life- from my early obsession with The Monkees to my latest interest in Mongolian Metal -it’s a thing. Really.
There are songs that continue to define me, the songs I will always pause and listen to- The Pass by Rush, Beethoven’s Ninth, Ozzy’s Diary of a Madman, Carribean Blue by Enya, and most recently A Little Bit Off by Five Finger Death Punch- it pairs like a nice Pinot Grigio with my psyche right now. (Hell hath no fury like a menopausal woman. -TMI, but TRUTH)
It follows that when I write, I typically have something playing through my headphones.
For my first foray into women’s fiction, I tapped into those white, suburban soccer mom classics like Lifehouse, some Taylor Swift, Sara Barellis, Christina Perri- you get the gist.
My fantasy books warranted more Ghost, Pop Evil, Breaking Benjamin (they have so many angel themed songs!), Nightwish and lots of new age symphonic numbers. But I piggybacked all that into my original playlist. Things got weird when A Thousand Years segued into Wolf Totem, but when I’m in the writing zone it all becomes background noise.
For my latest WIP (Working title: ALL THE BRIGHTNESS) I buckled down and dedicated a playlist for it. This one contains another chaotic mix from Kelsea Ballerini (Just Married captures the love arc perfectly) to Three Days Grace (So Called Life and Lifetime to capture the angst of living with addiction) and a healthy dose of Ed Sheeran (because relationships and he has a song for everything).
Of course, I also had to add a favorite: a cover of The Church’s Under the Milky Way by Peter Raeburn and BeBe Bettencourt (the daughter of the amazing Nuno Bettencourt of Extreme – their new song is WOW, but I digress). This song haunts me, and it was worth sitting through the movie The Dry, just to hear it for the first time. Good movie, but, well, dry.
I also added my current theme song for riding. I’ve been working on getting both me and my fancy jumper back in shape for the show ring. Since riding and coming back older and probably not wiser is one of the themes in ALL THE BRIGHTNESS, it’ needed to be there.
My new mantra for life.
And thanks to my friend and riding coach, I literally have the t-shirt.
One of the hazards of working in a vet clinic is the number of temptations (meaning animals that need/want homes) is innumerable.
I’m not the best at resisting.
But 14 years ago, when one of the vets I worked with brought in 4 kittens, 5 words about undid me.
“You know you want one.”
I didn’t. I really didn’t. I had a housemate with 8 cats, and two of my own in the house, to say nothing of the one that lived in the barn.
I really, really didn’t want a kitten.
They were cute. Some kind of Norwegian Forest Cat mixes. One was a pretty black medium haired beauty with piercing green eyes. Her two littermates were black and white. In the adjoining cage was one lonely survivor of the other litter.
A sickly, little gray and white ball of fluff.
I didn’t want a kitten.
I brought home two.
The black beauty, who I inventively named Kochka (Cat in Czech, I know. So creative and original, right?)
And the gray and white. His name? Jack. Soon to be Jack Jack, Mr. Smooshy Cat, Smoosh Smoosh, and a variety of other monikers all sung in a baby voice.
Kochka remained too dignified for that sort of thing.
They both blossomed. Kochka into a bowling ball of black terror, ready to grab your hand with force if you stopped petting her before she decreed you were done.
Jack was always the goofball. He had a trilling meow, huge motor, and uncanny knack for finding anyone allergic as soon as they strolled into the house, frequently parking himself on the arm of whatever chair they chose. His long gray hair stuck to EVERYTHING.
I had to hand out Claritin like candy.
He loved everyone. Even when they didn’t love him.
He let Ellie use him as a squeak toy when she was a puppy. He’d poke his head out the cat door just to screw with the hounds. He’d come upstairs every morning, trilling hello outside my door. I’d let him in for a quick snuggle before my day started.
A few months ago, he started losing weight. The vet discovered a growth in his abdomen. With the miracle of steroids, we bought some more time.
But we knew it was a losing battle. He still trilled, he purred, but he’d lost his spark.
Today, we let him go.
May the floors be ever heated and the beds forever soft, my sweet Jack
Not only does he excel at using my dining room table as both dog bed and lookout tower, somehow, he knows the EXACT second I open a writing program.
Whether Scrivener or Word, he just knows.
I can waste countless hours on social media, watching funny videos on YouTube, or my favorite- online jigsaw puzzles. While I mindlessly avoid writing or am simply working out a scene in my head (believe it or not, the puzzles help this process most of the time), he will be on the couch or occasionally one of the many, neglected dog beds scattered around the house.
Take this morning. I drank my coffee and took advantage of my morning social media allotment. All was quiet. I got up and assured myself that said pup was safely occupied. (See Photo Exhibit One below)
Creeping back to my writing dungeon. I flexed my fingers, ready to dive into my NaNoWriMo project. (For curious minds, it’s National Novel Writing Month, click heretolearn about it)
No sooner had I opened Scrivener, than I heard the thump.
Three words. I managed a whole three words before my right arm was jolted from the keyboard. Typing while being head butted should be a sport
Ignore him you say? He then tries to climb into my lap. 60 pounds does not a lap dog make. He works his front paws up to my shoulders, pushing my desk chair like a runaway shopping cart into the wall. Almost as fun as the time I indulged him in a game of tug, and he dragged me and my chair through the house.
Tell him to go lie down? I do. And he complies as soon as I get up from my chair. There is nothing quite as stubborn as a hound dog. They are the ultimate passiveaggressiveIdon’thearyouOh!Youmeanme? creatures.
If I grab my phone and follow him- and yes, he turns around to make sure I’m tagging along like a good human-he happily curls up on the couch.
Okay, I admit I *might* be a bit of an enabler. And he *might* feed my inner procrastinator.
He knows what he wants and how to get it, skills he picked up from my Pomeranian like a four-legged Luke Skywalker at the feet of Yoda. Master the Jedi mind trick you will, my young Padawan.
None of that explains his uncanny sense of timing
Though, while I write this spoiled dog centered post, he is happily lounging. On the dining room table.
According to Oxford Language Dictionary, burdock is “a large herbaceous Old-World plant of the daisy family. The hook-bearing flowers become woody burrs after fertilization and cling to animals’ coats for seed dispersal.”
If only they were as fresh as daisies. My problem with this hell-spawn of a plant lies in the second half of the description- the woody burrs that cling to animals’ coats.
They are everywhere on the farm.
I have declared war against them.
I’ve mowed them down- and been covered in a cloud of almost invisible, yet intensely itchy particles. I’ve tried to pull or dig them up.
They have a taproot that’s thick enough to anchor the Titanic and long enough to reach the molten core of the Earth. And if any particle of said root is left behind, the damn thing seems to grow back before you can put your tools away.
I hate chemicals, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I’ve suited up with masks and gloves and sprayed the wide leaves with undiluted concentrate, and the leaves merely brown at the edges.
They have won.
In that spirit, I give you The First Annual Winterwind Farm Equine Burdock Styling Award.
In third place, I present Tucker. This OTTB (Off Track Thoroughbred) is going for a classic minimalist look. It’s classy and understated. He’s intent on keeping it, evidenced by flying back and threatening to break his halter when I tried to remove them.
In second, we have Beyla (aka The Queen B). This Percheron Cross came in strong with artfully placed clusters along her neck, finished off by a tight forelock cluster. Strong golf clap for the effort put into this look. She must have rubbed her against the spiky burrs for a solid five seconds to create this impossible to untangle wad.
Drum roll, please.
In first place we have another OTTB, Ms. Montana, affectionately known as Annie to those who love her. To those who don’t, she goes by Wingnut, Squirrelly, and occasionally Psycho Crazy Bitch. It depends on the day.
She won this contest hands down. By working both ends, she sealed her victory.
It’s really quite stunning how she artfully draped sections of hair to create an almost braided look. It makes me wonder if she smashed the bush into oblivion as she ground her nether regions against it.
And ever humble, she accepted her award and showed off the almost lattice type matting throughout her mane, while expressing her appreciation and gratitude toward her competitors and the judge.
I am now going to head out and purchase a case of baby oil, which is about the only thing that gets these demonic seed pods out.
It’s taken me a while to get my thoughts together on these issues. So much to unpack.
My views on religion are no secret. I am, after all, writing a book with the working title LUCIFER”S CHILD, the premise of which has been incubating from my childhood. I was the youngster (I think 6 or 7) who got kicked out of Sunday school for asking too many of the wrong questions. Plus, my sister used to call me the devil’s spawn, so it’s pretty on brand.
I’ve struggled with categorizing my beliefs. Atheist? Agnostic? Somewhere in between? Yes, I think I will settle there.
What I am is anti-organized religion. *
Yep. I don’t like any of them. Or I should clarify, I don’t like the Bible. Old or New Testament, Hebrew, good old King James, or anything in between or after, including the Book of Mormon and the Qur’an.
They are interesting reading. They give insight into how ancient cultures thought about their world, but they are also instruments of control. More people have died and continue to die proclaiming their interpretation or their belief is best, and if you disagree, well, here’s your ticket straight to some burning, eternal pit. Or if you are on our side, here are your angelic choirs or virgins or whatever your desire.
To my pre-pubescent mind, my conflict rose from two thoughts. First, how do we know this Bible is the word of God. I mean, it was written by humans, and if humans are fallible and sinners, why would we be trusted with writing all this stuff down? I mean, by 7 I’d played Whisper Down the Lane plenty of times. Didn’t make sense.
But the kicker was when I shared this doozy- if God is good, and the Devil is sneaky and evil, but also was an angel and powerful, then how do humans know the Devil didn’t feed those words to whoever was sitting there with their quill and parchment? I mean, I’d heard about the Crusades somewhere and it just didn’t add up.
I come by my questioning honestly. Even by 7 I had already learned how unjust and cruel people could be, how power dynamics ruled what should have been my simple life.
Which brings me to the issue of rights.
Why do men get to decide what’s right? Things are changing, but not here in the United States, not like Europe. We have yet to have a female leader. We are supposed to be a symbol of freedom for the world, but the more I see and learn, I realize much like my lack of faith in a Book collated by a bunch of men, I don’t buy into American Exceptionalism anymore.
I have privilege. I know it. I work to use it for good. I don’t always succeed.
And I see people who interpret the Bible for their own needs forcing their interpretation on others.
They’ve played the game well, feeding money into the greedy machine that is politics. It doesn’t matter that they are a minority. That distinction simply fuels their righteousness.
The people who fueled the Old Testament were truly oppressed, yet they had an understanding of how a decent society worked. Everyone might have had their role, but even then-since we all can guess the issue I am focused on-even then women were due a level of respect. The lineage passed through the mother, not the father.
Then came Jesus. A man who by all description was fighting for the overlooked, the abused, the shunned. He preached love and equality.
Lucifer and research
When did that teaching morph into “accept me as your savior or burn in Hell,” and the strange interpretations gleaned from writings written years, if not decades, after the poor man lived and horribly died? When did these passages, assembled by a Roman Emperor’s council with an eye for controlling the masses, become the standard by which we all should be FORCED to live?
Because that is what I see from the political entity that has evolved into the Religious Right. They’re simple black and white thinking that have no basis in the holy books I’ve read (and I have read 2 versions of the Bible, The Book of Enoch, and countless others- know thy adversary and all that.)
Like Constantine, these extremists pick and choose which pieces of scripture they like, wielding them like loaded guns to control those who dare to disagree.
So, let’s dive right into the major issue at hand. Abortion. Those who oppose it claim to be Pro-Life. But are they? Because the majority of those I hear about or know, simply think women, by nature of their (God-given?) biology are required to bear children whether they want them or not.
But these fanatics also want to ban the very things that are proven to reduce the need for abortion. Education, healthcare, easy access to birth control.
And in the US, once a woman gives birth, she is burdened with a miniscule leave from the job she most likely needs to survive, must find and pay for care for said infant while she returns to work, and exorbitant insurance or healthcare costs.
How is that Pro-Life?
Do these people shouting at women outside of Planned Parenthood clinics line up to adopt these children they claim to be saving?
Which brings me back to the main connecting theme of my angst. Why is the morality that a woman should be forced to bear a child more important than the morality to care for those who choose to bear children? Why does an unformed zygote have more rights than a contributing member of society?
Why does the Thou Shalt Not Kill part of the commandments apply to a woman and a fetus, yet not some blowhard with an AR-15? Why is it acceptable for a man to break the adultery commandment repeatedly, yet preach that a woman who is raped must carry any resulting child to term? Why are men chiming in on this issue at all?
Why is Viagra covered by most insurance plans, yet birth control coverage is disputed?
I am Pro-Choice, not because I think women should run out and have abortions as birth control, but because until men do not rape, until there is not one victim of incest, until the burden of possible pregnancy is shared equally between men and women, abortion needs to be a legal option.
Until pregnancy is no longer a threat to a woman’s life or livelihood, abortion needs to be a legal option.
Which brings me back to religion, because this anti-abortion movement is more about control than morality. It stinks of a lack of compassion or even common sense. Can you tell me that if Justice Barrett were faced with an ectopic pregnancy, she would choose to die because that bunch of cells implanted in the wrong place? Does she believe her God is cruel enough to cause such a painful and unnecessary death?
Why is her “morality” more important than mine or that of a majority of the country, if the polls are to be believed? Why is it less awful for a young man to shoot up a school full of children than for a woman to have to make the awful choice to terminate a pregnancy?
Why is what a woman chooses to do with her body anyone’s business but her own?
Which brings me back to religion.
This country was built on the concept that the State and the Church remain separate. We are allowed the freedom to worship and believe as we see fit. We should never be held to a religiously based standard. If you believe that life begins at conception, then do so, and live according to that standard. You are blessedly free to do that.
I wish there were no need for abortion. I wish our society supported women. I wish little girls could grow up without the threat of rape or incest, without being subjugated to the basest desires of men, and being forced to bear that consequence.
I wish dragons were real, too.
A world where women have control over their bodies should not be a fantasy.
*I felt for the sake of argument, I should add that I consider Satanism an organized religion as well. I am equal opportunity dismissive here.
Let me preface this post with an acknowledgement that I lead an extremely privileged and full life.
BUT.
It has its challenges.
My day usually begins with the happy, chirping meows outside my bedroom door. Usually before dawn.
I do my best to ignore this.
Until I shift or move, at which point one entitled and spoiled terrier declares, “IT IS TIME!!!” She promptly sprawls across my body, her bony elbows digging into my chest, which gives me about three nanoseconds before she starts licking my nose. Or mouth.
Dog tongue is not on my list of fantasy wake ups.
I should add here that dear husband is deaf, and will most likely sleep through the apocalypse, so this special time is all my own.
After the requisite belly rubs for the terrier, I rise and open the bedroom for the happy cat.
Happy Cat
I am allowed approximately 3 minutes to pet the cat and get dressed before the hounds (downstairs in their crates) start voicing their enthusiasm for the day.
Can I sit on your lap?
Happy Cat pushed into the basement with his 2 siblings (cats have run of the house at night, dogs during the day, because Treeing Walker Hound Dogs like to “tree” the cats, or pin them down and not let go. Good times.)
Dogs fed, coffee in hand, I hide in my office (aka- Writing Dungeon), caffeinate, look at the news, social media, and fend off the 60-pound hound who thinks he’s entitled take his place on my lap like my 6-pound Pomeranian used to. Yes, I have created a monster.
Outside, my Percheron-cross mare (for non-horsey folk that means a sturdy work horse type with a HUGE attitude) is doing her best Jedi-mind meld magic to get my ass outside to feed her ASAP!
FEED ME!
There are 5 others to feed as well, one of which was wasting away, prompting numerous vet visits, resulting in a Lyme Disease diagnosis. I now count out 50 doxycycline twice per day (those 10 years as a vet assistant really come in handy! I’m pretty fast, I must say). Then I turn out the thousand-pound toddlers and clean their rooms for them. This is usually when I get to turn my mind off and get those creative juices flowing. This is also usually the time Dear Husband starts listing all the things we need to do today, tomorrow, this spring, this summer, next fall…and, oh yeah, what do I want to do for lunch? Dinner?
To complete our farm family, we have 20+ chickens, and 2 barn cats. And a husband who is most likely asking what “we” are planning for lunch and dinner. In the Facebook post that provided inspiration for this blog post, I did describe him as “frequently helpless.” I read that to him. He protested. For a second. Then laughed when he recognized the truth. It was almost as entertaining as when he claimed to be in better shape than me. Even his mother laughed at that one.
But I digress.
In light of the menagerie, and my desire to actually have time to write and possibly-gasp- get my writing career off the ground (I have 4 manuscripts in various stages past first draft), and in the spirit of starting the new year fresh and motivated, I made one tiny request of the universe.
Just one.
I didn’t think I was asking too much.
“Universe,” I said. Literally out loud, trying to manifest my desire. “I don’t want to take care of another living being.” I think I might have begged.
The Universe, in a lovely karmic gesture, perhaps not karmic, but of the single finger variety, responded.
By welcoming a stray cat into my barn. A stray cat that went from living beneath the tack room, to hiding in the stalls during the day. A stray cat with an obvious infection and problem with its left eye, rendering him half-blind. A cat that appears deaf. A cat that desperately needed to go to a vet.
So, I set out food and water. I set out a crate covered in a horse blanket and stuffed with hay for warmth. And as it got more comfortable, it revealed that it was not feral. It is a he; he is neutered. He was someone’s cat. He is friendly. He is EXTREMELY demanding for attention. He now follows me around, yowling loudly, and now tries to get into the tack room, where my other barn cats live.
Tomorrow, we have the vet appointment. If he is healthy, and gets his vaccinations, he can join the crew.
I won’t be asking the Universe for any more favors any time soon.
It’s the second day in January, the third year of our COVID infection laden world. Will that be the new signifier? Out with BC and AD, BCE or CE? In with BCo and ACo?
We are clearly not out of the woods, so I guess we will see.
But looking forward, I have hope.
Despite the fact that I have reached the random spontaneous combustion mode of this glorious portion of aging (women of a certain age will understand) and have gained quite the layer of fluff (yes, that is what I am calling it these days), I’m feeling pretty optimistic.
There is so much I want to accomplish.
The first being getting something either published or on its way to publication. I’m going to attempt querying the glutted, chaotic publishing world, praying for that one necessary yes. It will be devastating to my fragile ego, but like playing the lottery, if I don’t try, I definitely won’t “win.” (Let’s just gloss over the fact that the odds seem to be about the same…)
I will get through the next edit of Lucifer’s Child and double up on the query process.
Two trips to Query Letter Hell. Yippee!!!
The good news is I am almost finished the full first draft of Absolution. That will make four completed manuscripts waiting patiently for their time in the sun.
In between all this literary angst, I have a LLOOONNNGGGG list of things to do around the house. The first of which is clean and reorganize my writing dungeon.
Then tackle the rest of the house. Yep, going to Marie Kondo the crap out of every room. Except books, they always give me joy. But if I clear out other stuff there’s more room for them, right?
Right?
Add to this all my typical resolutions: exercise more, eat less or better, ride more, go for more walks, appreciate life, you know, the usual bull sh*t.
Before I go panic clean my house for our expected company, let me simply say I hope your New Year is full of health, love, and gratitude.
Hey, my saint of a sister sent me a Happy Light. Maybe it’s working.
Nancie Abuhaidar 