Thank You For Being a Friend

Hello my dears, I’ve wanted to write this post for months and months but wasn’t sure how to go about it. Technically this should be a series of phone calls/messages/emails to about 200 people, but if you read on, you’ll see why this might be the best way to tackle things. *deep breath* I’m a really shitty friend. Like, a shitty, shitty friend. It’s weird. If someone messages or contacts me, I will damn near drop everything to be there and talk with them. If someone has a need, I am the shirt off my back kind of gal. I would do anything for a friend. So for a long time it really confused me when so many friends would get upset with me because they wondered why I never reached out to them to talk about things or check in. And it’s true. I don’t call anyone. I will very rarely message someone just to say hi. I don’t check in often. It took me a really long time to figure it all out, but last year, after losing two friends who were angry I never made them feel like a priority, I put a lot of thought into what was going on. I knew why I was doing what I was doing, but I wouldn’t explain why. I tried to say things were busy, that I was sorry, that I loved them. All true, of course. But it wasn’t the real reason. I talk about dealing with OCD a lot. I’m not shy about accepting that part of me. But I am routinely mortified by the way I act or the things I do because of it. So I don’t broadcast those bits a lot. Let’s just lay it out that this blog is very, very hard...

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The Voice Within (And How to Shut It Up)

Hello my darlings! Every so often, I get an idea for a story that gives me all the tingles and then I stop and think, “Nope. Too weird. I can’t write that.” And then I get mad at myself for days and days because I let that naughty, lie-telling voice have leverage. Being a writer is hard. Typically, we are a reserved breed. And yet, the basis of what we do is taking the deepest inner workings of our brains and putting them out on display in word form for the world to comment on. That’s some scary shit, you guys. I’d rather be bare-ass naked in public than stand there with my words written all over me, and I have no shame. That’s not an over-statement. What do I care? Sure, I have boobs. We all do. But do we all have the same novel ideas in our head? Nope. Not even a little. The emergence of Dino-erotica proved that point. But, as this is your literary baby and was grown within the confines of your soul, it’s like going on a job interview completely naked and having the possibility of getting a form letter rejection. “We’re sorry, but your boobies just didn’t speak to us the way we were hoping.  Thank you for allowing us to consider your junk.” We take it personally if someone doesn’t like our stories because we’ve essentially laid our souls out all vulnerable and open. For someone to pass on it it’s like, “WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!” FYI, most people in this crazy biz understand that terror well. It’s part of the job. No one is intending to diss your inner moppet. They are just saying it wasn’t for them. I’m aware that statement will always suck to hear....

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You, Me, and OCD

Hello my loves! This is one of those serious blogs with a attempt-to-be-chipper tone. It’s how I roll. A week ago, I came slightly unhinged. It happens from time to time, so don’t freak out. Sometimes my brain is just like, NOPE, and decides it doesn’t want to play by the real world rules for a hot minute. Usually, I can feel it coming, sense the catalyst, or whatever, and I’m in front of it before it starts. Which is cool. It makes it a lot easier to stow away properly and function. But this time, well. This time my brain went full on dick and I woke up just all out of sorts. I’ll admit, it’s been a crazy few months. Between all the drama, life, and cancer scare, I’m not completely shocked I’m having a moment. I could do speeches about how I may have OCD but my OCD doesn’t have me, but I won’t. Mostly because I sound ridiculous saying things like that. Other people can pull off those Oscar-winning moments, but I lack the grace. I usually giggle or say something about boobies and it loses its crowd-moving momentum. So what does this mean? Well. It means I am really, really uncomfortable right now. Just, *TWITCH* I have OCD every day, but it’s in a way I can manage so that most people don’t even notice. But in cases like right now, it’s a lot louder, if that makes sense. It’s trying to grab extra ground that I try to keep it from getting. It wants to affect more, wants to have more control. Yes, I talk about my disorder like a sentient being. Because it’s a douchecanoe and I can. Plus, it makes it easier to separate the things that come with it from...

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Pinky Finger Inspiration

Hello my darlings! I know this will sound random, but go with me. I swear I have a point. Our daughter likes to stall her actual sleep at night by coming out repeatedly asking the hubs and I for stories. Last night our conversation happened to steer to in the direction of being able to bend pinky fingers. You see, I cannot bend my pinkies independently. Like, the little buggers just won’t bend. Hubs on the other hand can bend his right pinky like it ain’t no thang. Imagine my shock and awe when we discovered that our daughter can also bend her right pinky. In case anyone is curious as to what I mean, here is the bend that frustrates me with my lack of being able to do: Super thanks to Laura Hughes, AKA @MittensMorgul for allowing me to pimp out her skills up there. So I took my question to Twitter. As one does. Who can bend their pinky!? By the way, I would like to thank the entirety of my Twitter feed for playing along with me. Also, the finger tricks I learned you guys can do astounded the hell out of me. “Finger Knot” will haunt me forever. Anyway, my point. What I discovered through my little Twitter poll is this: Some people can’t bend their pinkies at all. Some can bend one. Some are superhuman and can bend both. Those who can bend both, go hop in line behind Finger Knot guy. The X-Men are recruiting and you guys obviously are ninjas in training or something. *stares wistfully at unbending fingers* Seriously. My point… I really wish I could bend my pinkies. I don’t know why, it’s just something that bugs me that I can’t do. You know what else I wish I...

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When the Words Came

Hello my darlings! I love books. (Duh.) I’ve always loved them. The story in my family goes that when I was three-years-old I strutted up to my  preschool teacher, told her I could spell salad, and then did exactly that. After some questioning by said teacher, it appeared I had taught myself to read. Because WORDS. I mean, could you blame me? WORDS. From then on, I was a voracious reader. My grandpa was equally wordy and would give me a book every Sunday after I went to church with him. But he gave me like, BOOKS. I’m talking classics here, kids. Treasure Island, Count of Monte Cristo, Swiss Family Robinson, and so on. This led to my being scolded by my mother at the age of six for ignoring all the beautiful scenery on our family vacation through the mountains of North Carolina because I was too busy reading Moby Dick. I may have had my sassy pants on and yelled back, “Jeez mom, most parents would love it if their kids were reading, YA KNOW.” My poor mom. So, anyway. Books. Loved them. In fact, I cared more for stories than just about any aspect of life. I wasn’t a popular kid, which we’ve talked about here before. 8th grade was the worst year, bullying wise. I think that’s the shittiest year for most kids. Hormones and puberty and shit are assholes. No way around that. There was this particularly awful boy in my History class who found his daily joy in trying to make me cry. Naturally, when our assigned seats were given out? I was sitting right the fuck behind this little human turdlet. This was not a good time for me. Let’s sum it up by saying I was in a very dark place...

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