Finding my way through
Last week I intended to write my first new post about my writing journey. It was going to be good, with pictures from where I started, and hints about where I’m going. It will be good. I am still going to write it. I am still going to include pictures, but the world got the better of me last week and the only things I managed to write were words of anger and fear.
For those of you who know me beyond these pages, you know I’m not one to hold back when it comes to speaking my mind. For the first time in my life, I was afraid to do so. Momentarily. I thought I was going to scrub myself from the internet, close things down, stay quiet. I quietly told a few others to do the same, wanting to protect us all. It didn’t last, not at all, but my reaction to the fear I was feeling surprised me.
As a girl in this country (side note, I prefer that word, don’t come at me for it) I know the idea of indelible rights has never applied to me. Those rights, originally written into the constitution, were for men only, and women were reminded of that for generations. Generations before me have fought hard for the rights I have (or had) as a woman. My right to be recognized as an equal in the constitution still does not exist today. I know Pres. Biden said otherwise on his last day in office when he insisted the ERA was a done deal, but that’s me going down a completely different rabbit hole, which happens on these unedited posts where I just let my thoughts out and then hit send, but I don’t want to go there so out of that hole we go!
My point for this post was to say I’m a writer. I’m still writing. I worked my butt off to get a publishing deal and get my book on store shelves for people, and 2025 was supposed to be my year. I was supposed to be able to spend my time screaming from the rooftops about The Myth Maker. I had plans to offer to attend (virtually) book clubs who did pre-orders. I had plans to run fun contests. I had plans to write about my journey and my process. I had plans to write about my main character, Detective Cassidy Cantwell, and why I want you to not just love her but root for her and want more of her. I had a lot of plans.
This week I’m going to reorganize my thoughts and get my plans back in order. I’m going to write a fun series showing my early poetry from the 80s, my first fanfic novel attempt from the 8th grade, my original handwritten start for The Myth Maker. I’m going to play 20 questions with some characters from the novel and introduce them to the world. I’m going to celebrate other authors who have books coming out this year and are struggling to find ways to celebrate themselves, and I’m going to celebrate myself, because we have to. We need to. There has to be bright spots in the coming chaos.
Politics won’t make its way (hopefully) to this page much, but I can’t pretend what we’re seeing isn’t happening. I can’t pretend any of this is normal, and I definitely don’t want people to think authors like me trying to find ways to still be excited are ignoring any of it. We’re not. I have other platforms where I do write about all of it because words are the way I best process the stress. I can’t deny I spend some afternoons just crying because its all I can do once the anger passes it’s threshold, and I can’t deny I’m still scared, but I can say I’m still going to write. I am still a writer.