Masshole to Maineiac By Brenton Barnes

Part 1 - How We Got Here

Ever since I was a kid, I always wanted to live where “things were happening.” It’s a tale as old as time, a young person grows up in the suburbs of a town or city that once had historical significance and feels bored growing up around it. They get a taste for broader horizons from outside sources; usually by hearing about how great cities can be to live in and wind up getting a taste for it by visiting with their parents. Wowed by its bustling energy, its sights, and its attractions, ultimately getting suckered into the “glamour” of big-city living. 

For some, the glamour wears off after a handful of years and as you grow older, you learn that “living in the city” really means “living for the city.” This has become especially true now with rising rents, utilities, and the incredibly high cost of property ownership in urban environments. So where does one go when they learn being where “things are happening” isn’t always worthwhile? If you’re anything like me, you compromise and opt to live near where things are happening; maybe if you’re lucky you’ll get to settle there!

In my case, it was the North Shore of Massachusetts: a suburban city sprawl extending from the edge of the Greater Boston Metropolitan area to the edge of New Hampshire. I grew up there, and thought I wanted to leave it behind in my young adulthood, but found myself drawn back for its thirty-minute proximity (on a good day) to the city of Boston. It was also where my wife and I slowly discovered we could never settle there. While we enjoyed living in the area, we’d move into apartments only to outgrow them in two years' time or flee from either the landlords or neighbors residing there. When we were able to consider property ownership, we’d quickly discover it was way out of our price range (especially in the areas that were considered cheap) and outbid when a cost-effective option came onto the market. 

We still enjoyed the area despite these hardships. We had friends in nearby towns, attractions bound to cities were making their way out into the suburbs and if you wanted to explore or enjoy green spaces they were all within a short driving distance. Until the spring of twenty-twenty occurred and COVID-19 took away all that we took for granted and enjoyed away from us. It took six months of quarantine, avoiding people and public venues, the loss of businesses and public events, and the cycle of working at home and trying to stay entertained there to realize something: an area we once liked and wanted to be a part of felt stale, all paths had been tread and there was nothing new left to experience.

As the staleness set in, a wanderlust took hold of my wife’s mind. When we both were unemployed, she found herself visiting the Belgrade Lakes region of Maine with a friend and was taken with the area: a slice of small-town life akin to Winter River, Connecticut from Tim Burton’s Beetlejuice, but surrounded by lakes and near two cities. Since she had to apply for jobs, she found a noteworthy marketing position in the area on a job board and decided to apply for it. As the summer was winding down and fall was setting in, she drove us both up there, knowing it was something that I had to see for myself. 

As we made our way up to Central Maine and I noticed she was driving us out to what felt like a remote location. I was horrified and shocked that she wanted to live in the middle of nowhere. I even began asking questions like where the nearest grocery store was and whether or not a library actually existed there. Once we got out of the car and settled into our room at the local inn, went for a walk in the town, had dinner at the Village Inn & Tavern, and settled down for the evening the mood had changed. I realized that living in a place like this could be a possibility–I could learn to become comfortable and operate here without many qualms. By the fall of twenty-twenty, we were living in Maine and nearly two years later have had many eye-opening experiences worth thinking about and sharing with you.

Part 2 - Masshole to Maineiac

One major discovery, which was always in the back of my mind, was that I wasn’t willing to acknowledge that I felt mentally unhealthy in Massachusetts. I’ll admit right here and now that I’m still not as healthy as I would like to be. This is a process of learning, adapting, and utilizing coping mechanisms with the aid of a professional, but I do feel that my change of scenery has a lot to do with it.

When I think about Massachusetts in retrospect, it’s a very interesting state with some unique qualities: it has a deep and very rich history, a cultivated image of being a hub of progress and culture, but it is ultimately stymied by old-world stuffiness. I’m aware that there are many places that have similar vibes and that society as a whole is like this, but it has to be noted that there’s a vibe to living your day-to-day life in Massachusetts. Personally, I often felt like I was in constant competition against imaginary adversaries in all aspects of my life and this bred some unhealthy traits. I frequently felt like a crazed, jealous and competitive maniac with many more unlikeable qualities. When you feel like this every day, it’s no wonder we’ve earned the affectionate moniker of Masshole.

By moving to Maine and becoming a stranger, my wife and I allowed ourselves to experience a new culture and environment, let it take root inside of us, and retire our old personas for something different. The cultural experience of living in Maine is very different from what you’d think, especially if your vision of the state is colored by stereotypes and the works of Stephen King!

For one thing, the people are a diverse mix of expatriates from other states seeking something different and generational ruralites who keep to themselves, are honest about their intentions, and don’t appear too interested in judging you. In fact, most of my interactions with strangers in Maine have been positive and very helpful in acclimating to the area. Since moving here, I’ve found it very easy to strike up conversations with strangers, whether that’s the local librarian, a business owner, or a random person on the street, someone will generally take interest in you, help you get your lay of the land and even teach you something about the area. There’s also a great deal of kindness: when we first bought our house and moved in, our neighbor across the road came over and asked if we’d like to have our garden patches rototilled. Even the drivers are kinder, as they are often less likely to tailgate, instead choosing to pass you if you’re going too slow. 

As a state of mind and being, it’s rather infectious and before long I found myself self-reflecting. Moving away from the hustle and bustle of the suburban and urban sprawls to a more easy-going and casual environment gave me a moment to breathe and consider who I’ve been and where it’s gotten me. (It also helped that my boss noted that the air about myself wasn’t common at all with what Mainers were used to). I’m not 100% proud of the person that I have been and I’m not beholden to continue being that same person, nor is it sustainable for my own happiness.

Does this make me a Maineiac? Maybe. There is a debate about what makes a Mainer. For most, you have to be born and raised in Maine to earn that moniker. Others claim that you need to have ancestral roots going back about three generations. If anything, I am considered “from away” due to being an out-of-state expatriate. However, I’m still allowed to appreciate and appropriate the vibe and customs of where I reside and if it results in a chance to become the person I’d like to be, I welcome that chance.

Part 3 - The Verdant Sprawl

It goes without saying that your environment has an effect on you and those around you; Mainers are clearly no strangers to this concept. A few months back I was getting to know one of my co-workers, who had lived all of her life in Maine, and we talked about the differences between where we grew up. To illustrate this, I brought up Google Maps, typed in the North Shore region on my workstation, and zoomed out on a satellite map to showcase its proximity to Boston. When she saw how much grey was occupying the map, her eyes lit up and exclaimed: “Good god!” in surprise.

From an aerial view, the sprawl of urban and suburban cities and towns appears as a massive, discolored grey blob while green spaces pepper its interior and surrounds the exterior. From the ground, it feels as if every square inch of space is occupied by other people, structures, and objects, and in retrospect, it looks overwhelming.

There’s certainly nothing wrong with places like this existing. Living in places with large populations does have its advantages, which I took advantage of and enjoyed while they lasted. However, these places can become frustrating for some. I would find myself getting angry at the strangers and the traffic they generated, how long traveling could take, questioning from time to time whether or not the air I was breathing was clean, and even taking for granted the scenery that surrounded me, including the change in the seasons that transforms the area.

How does Maine compare? A verdant sprawl, with ample space between people and their properties (excluding Augusta, Waterville, and Portland), and in between, is a diverse landscape of trees, hills, mountains, lakes, rivers, and plains. You can take your time driving for miles and note how the sheer amount of flora and fauna outnumber developed land and its occupants. These landscapes offer something unique to look upon and no matter how times you see them, it provides a refreshing spectacle that you never grow tired of. Even a change in the weather or the season transforms the area and offers something new to appreciate: like a dense rolling fog having different levels of coverage, an amazing foliage season in the fall, or dense snow topping cedars and covering all that is green in a vast and pristine white sheet.

Part 4 - Living For The Present & Saving For The Future

Massachusetts, as a state, is known for many things: the beginnings of the Revolutionary War, the first metropolitan subway system (though it recently made headlines for catching on fire), the nation's first library, foods like the Boston Cream Pie, baked beans, clam chowder, the breeding of the Boston Terrier, our sports teams, universities and museums, and last, but not least, our “affectionate” and infamous moniker: Taxachusetts. 

We’ve earned that moniker for more than our tax rates. Massachusetts is considered one of the most expensive states to live in, and that can feel like a burden at times. My wife and I are a (mostly) fiscally responsible duo, but to live on the North Shore meant that our rent was higher than most mortgages and utilities felt like a guessing game dependent on the fluctuating costs of electricity and gas heat. To add insult to injury, once my paychecks were divvied up there would often only be $50 left to save. While we were able to have fun, we could have done more if we had the money to do so.

Meanwhile, in Maine, there’s a sense of freedom in terms of how far a paycheck can truly go. Outside of gasoline and groceries, which still cost the same as anywhere else, so many of our vital expenses that were costly in Massachusetts are a fraction of the cost. As for the real estate market, my wife and I could afford a nice house, swap out our rent costs for a reasonable mortgage, settle down and take advantage of all the benefits that come with it: we can truly control the appearance of our home, have control over our heating sources to keep our home comfortable and we have finally been able to start a family of our very own. While it does come with its own responsibilities and projects, I wouldn’t trade this agency for anything in the world.

Not only that, we can both look forward to the future by saving towards it. We have plans for our infant daughter’s future, potential vacations, and eventual home improvements which we can actively save for. We’re also enjoying ourselves in our day-to-day moments, which has helped us to stay grounded and focused on what we want to achieve for ourselves and pursue it; like improving ourselves.

Part 5 - You Can Never Go Home Again

As I mentioned at the beginning, my wife and I have been living in Central Maine for two years and after such a time it can be hard to return to your old stomping grounds. We’ve visited our friends a few times and in April 2022, we went to the North Shore to pick up some special items we ordered from a local establishment. We noticed an immediate difference in the area once we crossed over the state line: traffic patterns were frustrating, roads were poorly planned and implemented and there was an intensity in the air that we just weren’t used to anymore. Even with establishments re-opening and trying to return to normalcy in what was believed to be the tail-end of the pandemic, I wasn’t missing as much of it as I thought. What once felt like home to me just turned into a place you could live and visit, much like the city of Boston to the south.

What I experienced was a strong indicator that I was at a different point in my life and I’m clearly the better for it. It took a very radical change to get here and I have wondered if I’d recommend a change like this to anyone. My answer is: maybe. I’m not in the market to offer life advice to anyone, but if you can find a place to be happy take a hold of it and see where it takes you.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Brenton Barnes on Twitter @brentonsquared.

Kids These Days... By J.J. Hale

Kids these days are entitled

You say with a sneer

Disdain dripping 

from words you don’t understand

Words you use disparagingly

While they water a seed of hope in me

Because truth be told

on the core words

We don’t disagree

Kids these days are entitled

To more than just unconditional love

Wrapped up in bows of guilt

A gift meant to be returned

No matter the cost

Unconditionally grateful 

(for a life they didn’t request)

Kids these days are entitled

To be heard as well as seen

To a voice that doesn’t waiver at the thought

of speaking their truth

Of disappointing the powers that be

By finally standing up and saying 

Listen

This is me

Kids these days are entitled

To safety, care and love

Even through the uncomfortable emotions

that you want to quash

As they bubble to the surface

Surfacing your own

They are, in fact, entitled 

not to face those things alone

Kids these days are entitled

To be people deserving of respect

Not just an extension

of the adults who feel entitled

to the kids they can no longer control

To make themselves feel whole

With a life they deem a gift

Bestowed

A gift 

(with a balance always owed)

Kids these days are entitled

To grow, develop and learn

To become people who don’t feel entitled

To the respect of their children

By providing the bare minimum

Allowing them to exist

In a society that provides far less

than our kids are entitled to

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow J.J. Hale on Twitter @overthinkerjess.

On Hopepunk, and the Importance of Unhappy Endings By J.R.H. Lawless

I’ve recently had the opportunity to chat with some readers of my two adult SF humour novels, ALWAYS GREENER and THE RUDE EYE OF REBELLION, and their thoughts highlighted something I’ve been thinking about for a while: why, especially in sub-genres like Hopepunk, which my books are firmly part of, we need more stories that don’t have a tidy, happy ending.

The three act structure and beat sheets like Save the Cat exist in books and movies for a whole pile of very good reasons. And yet, they also have a lot to answer for, in that they push creators firmly towards stories that end with a third act dénouement where the main character resolves the conflict or conflicts of the story and mostly everything works out for the best. This is a core genre expectation for anything other than purely adult stories, and even in adult fiction, it is such a dominant dynamic that it is hard to come up with many examples of stories that don’t finish on a happy, or at least mostly happy, ending.

There are perfectly good reasons for this as well, starting with the fact that happy endings make for happy readers, and happy readers leave better reviews and buy more books. At the end of the day, we are selling an entertainment product, and if that product leaves the reader (or the viewer, for a movie) unhappy or unsatisfied with their expectations of a happy ending after they’ve spent hours with you and your characters, then it stands to reason that you haven’t done a particularly good job as an entertainer.

But the key flaw with that premise are those « expectations of a happy ending ». Since childhood, we’ve been formatted to expect and demand that satisfying, happy resolution by the end of the story. It is essential, in fact, since all of Act Two of a modern story or movie is spent torturing the main character and ramping up conflict, and at that point, we are always so prompt to tell our worried children not to worry, « everything will be fine in the end ».

Just looking at a weather forecast these days is more than enough to show us that reality doesn’t work that way. There is and always must be hope—we can and must do better as a species and a global society—but that shit doesn’t just happen because we’ve suffered through Act Two and have reached Act Three of the story we’re starring in. It takes a whole lot of work.

Beyond the other quirks I’m perhaps excessively fond of in my little novels, such as my tongue-in-cheek etymology footnotes, the fact that some readers absolutely love the rough endings in ALWAYS GREENER and RUDE EYE, while some others are clearly put off by the absence of a happy ending might be my new, favourite thing about the feedback from my books.

To me, Hopepunk means always fighting for a better future—in the case of my books, a direct democratic one that breaks with the short-sighted corproate world-state that is a mere projection of where we are today—but also always facing the realities of the crap we have put ourselves in today. And a major part of that reality is that the stories lie, and happy endings don’t magically work themselves out. 

It’s up to each of us to keep striving and making the world a better place, happy endings or not.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow on J.R.H. Lawless on Twitter @SpaceLawyerSF.

Saying Goodbye To My Toxic Working Style by Gillian Barnes

I have always given 110%. As such, I have looked up to people, and more specifically characters, who do so too. Sometimes those characters are less than well-received. Some top ones include Tracy Flick from “Election”, Pearl from “Steven Universe”, Leslie Knope from “Parks & Recreation”, and finally, Joy from “Inside Out”. 

Each of these characters could be described in the following ways: high-achiever, positive, and driven. However, those same characters can also be called super intense, difficult, and unpopular. I have always disregarded the latter negatives because honestly, their results speak for themselves. Recently though, I have been rethinking my outlook. 

Is being the best worth being unliked? Is being someone who values all-in or all-or-nothing the way I want to be? My new answer is no. It has taken me 35 years to realize… that way of life is pretty damn toxic. 

Why People Are Toxic Achievers

Look. If there weren’t reasons to be like the characters outlined above, there wouldn’t be so many of us Type A crazies running around. But there are… so what are those reasons?

You will be promoted: It isn’t a question, but a matter of time… you will advance in your field if you give it more than you thought possible for an extended period of time. People will disagree with me on this point, but I would wager those people gave up the level of intensity before they peaked. I have consistently become the right-hand “man” of many powerful people by living for my job. For example, in one employment situation they had to replace me with three people when I was promoted to another department.

The Downsides No One Sees

Now, that all sounds great, but here’s the downside… at night I would go home and cry myself to sleep under the covers while shoveling ice cream into my mouth. I never had time for my friends because I also had a photo business that I was also rocking. There was no space for me…

Another major issue with being the way I was? People assumed life was just “easy” for me because I was ramping up career-wise very quickly. That wasn’t the case. I worked until I was metaphorically bleeding… but I didn’t let them see that!

And another issue… people downright dislike you for living as I did. I guarantee if you aren’t “one of us” you have called them… “brown nose”, “that b*tch”, “suck up”, or something far worse. 

Jealousy becomes a real thing for people who are either barely toeing the line or doing the minimum. They think they deserve the same things you do and they don’t examine the effort levels you are putting in versus them. It isn’t fair, but it happens. 

*Side note: bosses shouldn’t encourage individuals like former me as it breeds a cultural problem in companies, but they do… if you are a boss, try developing these employees slowly before they burn themselves out. They will be of more use to you long-term than they will be for the 2-3 years they burn bright.

*Side note II: I want to state that in this age of “quiet quitting”, I don’t consider toeing the line to be in the same camp as that. Doing the job you were meant to do well is not the minimum. I stand in solidarity with individuals who set and maintain boundaries. It’s healthy.

Finally, what happens to people like me after ten or so years of living like this? Unchecked aggression (usually at those who can’t match the pace I’ve set… unrealistically) or anxiety that will not quit. 

Does any of this sound good to you? Nah. 

Being A Toxic Writer

So what does it have to do with being a writer? It means that writing 300 words at a sitting does NOT feel like an accomplishment to me. It means that I am awesome at sitting down and cranking an article, but long-form is ridiculously hard. It means that I prioritize paid work for other people over my own work. It means I can only see the finish line and that I am incapable of enjoying the process of writing a novel. 

But there is hope… because I am changing. You can do it as well. 

Seeing Things Differently

Several things in my life have changed recently and they have me changing my way of working…

1. I went to a writers' meetup where one novelist had written multiple books simply by enjoying the writing in small bursts. This probably isn’t a “novel” (haha) concept to many, but to me, it is. Before then, I was always thinking if I didn’t push out a novel in a matter of months that was a certain word count… I had failed. What he inspired me to see is that if I keep going and make progress–if I like the writing–if I get excited and continue to be so, I’ll get there and I’ll actually like doing it!

2. I had a daughter. Nothing will rip your routine apart like a newborn. I had been in a bit of a novel-writing slump for a while, but man, it seemed impossible to write with her around! She needed me…and she needed one million percent of me. Well, that may have been true for her first few weeks of life, but right around two months, something changed–a few things actually…

She began sleeping through the night AND she started understanding to self-soothe. In exchange, I began to realize that she could sit on her little pillow or in a chair happily, while I did things for me. That and I could do things during naps other than passing out or binging TV. Ever since that point in time, I’ve started prioritizing my writing and my reading. I can’t do it all, but I can certainly do something, which is all that matters. 

I hope this helps someone. This blog is 800+ words and it wasn’t painful to write. I did it with a newborn staring at me. You too can do great things in small bursts.

Writers Blocking Writers Block By Winter Krane

If you've been a writer for a while, I'll assume you've been around the block. The curse of creatives everywhere. It makes pencils hesitate and cursers blink. 

Let's batten down the hatches, sharpen our pen nibs, and fight back against the blank-page monster, together!   

Writer's block is notoriously tricky, but part of that comes down to the block being a symptom, not a cause. Usually, we need to test a few different possibilities to identify our specific block before it gets worse and turns into its more deadly form, procrastination.  

 In this post, I'll share five types of writer's block and ways around them. Let's start with the most common.  

Writing when it doesn’t feel right. 

You're dutifully tugging your story along, filling the page, but your fingers falter. You grumble away, muttering things like, "What happens next?" or even "What would my MC do?" but your protagonist doesn't answer.  

Usually, that's because they already did earlier on in your story. But you didn't listen. 

A school of thought in the writing world says you shouldn't look back at your old chapters. That can be true if you're habitually re-creating your previous work instead of moving on, but the problem might be behind you when you can't move ahead.  

If you can't imagine what your character would do, chances are they already did something they wouldn't have done, getting them locked in a situation they can't work out of. And if the issue is with the plot, you might be stuck because you didn't see that you wrote yourself smack-dab into a hole, a plot hole, that is. You see, your brain is far more brilliant than you give it credit for. Sometimes it can't go on because it's trying to tell you the story is bunk. 

So, take a deep breath, back up a chapter or more, and see if you can find your problem.  

Oh, you're back already? Let's try this one next… 

Writing when you're really an imposter.   

Imposter syndrome is a complex cup to chug. Especially when so many agents ask questions like, "Why are you the best person to write this book?"  

If you're navel-gazing more than a broody YA love interest, you know getting your head back to the page is no small task.  

Many people have written about this topic, and I've read what many of them said, but no one helped me more than a critique partner of mine that flat out told me—of course, you're an imposter! You're a writer!  

It sounded simple, but it was just the smack-up-the-side-of-the-head I needed. We always make up stuff, sitting alone like a hobbit in our cave. It makes sense that connecting these made-up worlds with people would feel like a fake check we expect to bounce. When my brilliant critique partner called me on it, I stopped trying to run from that identity and let it win. Yes, I am an imposter, and I'm going to be as good as it as I can be. Catch me if you can.  

Oh, you're not struggling with that? It was only me, huh? Oh, no, that's fine. This isn't awkward… let's move on. 

Writing without meeting your mind’s needs. 

Discovery writers write by the seat of their pants, not knowing what comes next. Outliners carefully cultivate a story, planning the book before they begin writing, making the two opposites. We all know that, right? 

Shhh! Lean in close for a secret—Ready? Discovery writers and outliners are just people who get stuck on different parts of writing.  

Never mind, let me shout this: Everyone has story stuff to discover! Otherwise, their story would already exist. So, we're all discovery writers. But hold up, outlines too! People who "pants" their novels do the outlining in the moment, with their first draft, and outliners do it in a document they conveniently call an outline.  

We're all the same in this matrix! 

So, maybe you're getting stuck in the process because you're telling your brain to do a stage of writing it's not ready for OR already finished!  

Easy—I'm kidding, it's going to take work—fix, is backing all the way up with your story and looking at it hard. Is this a story that flows out of you when you let it? Or is it a story that needs to be cultivated before it's out? 

Bye! Take your time on that one, okay? I need to get back to work on my book. It's kicking my butt right now, and… are you still here? What do you mean you want the next one? Ugh! You're worse than the Avon lady ignoring my no soliciting sign.  

 Writing when your well is dry.  

Sometimes, (Especially when people won't leave you alone because they expect you to finish a blog post when you really SHOULD be writing, but they're all whining, saying, 'No, Winter, you said there were five types, but you only did three!')  

Ahem! Sometimes, you feel like your brain is all dry. Brains are squishy wet things full of fat, electrons, veins, and other…brain stuff. Not a doctor here, but in my expert opinion, brains don't like being dry. 

Kind of like when a well is dry. (Ah! See how I tied that in! Be impressed!)  

So, congratulations, you have contracted the most fun type of block. You have well-block! Only the best for you, Darling! And the cure, get this, is to feed your head! 

Movies, audio dramas, audiobooks, physical Books, comic books, manga, and video games with good storytelling—or bad! You need to see other people tell stories. Inject them into your crumbling gray matter.  

Okay, so there is a bit of homework, though. You can't just let stories happen. You need to ask yourself questions as they go.  

Things like: 

Why did the writer include this character?  

If I wrote this part, what elements would I focus on?  

What made them decide to start the story here?  

It can be helpful to get a pad of paper and keep track of your answers as you go. 

Dog trainers encourage owners to play with their dog before training so their dog's brain is calmed down and ready to learn. Your brain is under-fun-ded too. It can't handle writing all the time. Let it have some fun! 

Yes, this is dangerous. You could end up becoming an entertainment glutton. We tested a few other possibilities first because it's easy to ignore the hard stuff and jump to dessert. Still, overeating isn't a reason to stave yourself, and over-entertainment is the same. Usually, when I'm well-blocked, it only takes a few stories to dose me up. And when I finish writing something, I go wild, devouring every story I can cram in before I'm left to hibernate through another first draft.  

So—keep your wells full…unless you need a plot device for Timmy to fall in.  

Here, in your head, it's no help.  

Writing when your mind is the enemy. 

I don't want to talk about this one. I want to go back to the last one because it's fun and easy. Getting to tell writers to enjoy books? Simple! But this one isn't something I can joke about. Especially when one of the telltale signs of this block is that you can't read or appreciate a movie. Even simple tasks like that are too much.  

What's this block? Sometimes it's mental health, like depression. Sometimes it's an inability, like a chronic sickness, that land you in a brain fog.  

This is the hard stuff that no one wants because it's ugly.  

What's the cure? I don't know. No, I'm not going to leave it there, I've been here, and I can't ignore a writer struggling in this place. But, here's the thing: you shouldn't fix this block instantly. 

You know how those little masks fall in an airplane, and attendants tell parents to put theirs on before their kids? This is like that.  

If you try to take care of your book baby while struggling to breathe, it'll be worse for both of you. But if you take care of yourself and then come back to writing, even though it takes far too long and you hate the way life is going—when you do come back—you have something to write about.  

 I try (oh dear Lord, how I try) to think of these times as growth. This is its own well, a well of sadness that often overflows but is necessary for me to write about hard, important truths. I wish this well was more of a trickling tap instead of the waterfall flood it usually fits, but since it's there, know you can use it once you're back to yourself.  

Just please, take the time you need. Then, when you're ready, we can keep fighting the block and fill the world with stories, together. 

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Winter Krane on Twitter @WinterKrane.

A Feast for the Senses: Food as an Element of Storytelling By Liz Perrine

As writers, we’re advised to use the five senses to bring realism to our work and engage the reader on a deeper level. But instead of considering this concept on a scene-by-scene basis, I challenge you to take it up a notch by incorporating food—and its many contexts—into the fabric of your worldbuilding.

Several authors use this technique to brilliant effect. Aliette de Bodard, herself a tea aficionado, includes tea and tea rituals in her stories. The lives of Tolkien’s hobbits revolve around their love of food and drink, and the many feasts in Brian Jacques’s Redwall books, described as “the best food porn ever written” (Eddie Kim, MEL Magazine, 2021), have come to define the series.

So how can you use this concept in your own work, and take your worldbuilding to the next level? Let’s begin with analyzing food and its varied cultural meanings.

1. Food as Love. Making or eating a delicious meal can engender feelings of love, comfort, and happiness. Think about your favorite dishes from your childhood, your comfort foods. Did someone make that dish to show love, and do you now make it yourself to show love to someone else? Think about how you feel when eating that dish, and how you feel when you know someone is making it for you. Consider the care you take in choosing the ingredients, and in preparing the dish. What makes it special to you, and what memories does it invoke? Does your MC have something similar—or does he/she/they have a particular food aversion? How does he/she/they view food in general?

2. Food as Hospitality. In some cultures, if you are a guest in someone’s house—even for a casual visit—you may be greeted with offers of food and drink. Even if you aren’t hungry, and decline the offer, your host may bring you a beverage and “just a little something,” which may be anything from a plate of cookies to a full-on meal. You partake, of course, because you don’t want to be rude. Such welcoming gestures are not new; the Ancient Greeks had very strict rules of hospitality (“philoxenia,” or “friend to the stranger”), and to break any of those rules, as either guest or host, could incur the wrath of the gods. Look at what happened to the suitors of Penelope, Odysseus’s long-suffering wife: they overstayed their welcome (by years!), abused both their hostess and her household servants, and in doing so sealed their fates—Athena helped Odysseus slaughter them to the last man, and sent their wailing souls to the Underworld. Hospitality rituals (and, conversely, hospitality taboos) are among the oldest societal canons. How are guests viewed in your story? Is any special sort of food or drink offered to travelers or pilgrims?

3. Food as Ritual. Several world religions incorporate food into their worship. As part of Christian communion, participants reenact the Last Supper, in which they partake of bread (usually flat, cracker-like wafers) and wine. Every item on a Passover seder plate is imbued with meaning. One of the elements of puja is offering food to the gods. And at sunset every day during Ramadan, Muslims traditionally partake of a date and a sip of water to break their fast before iftar, an elaborate meal often consumed in a community setting. How does religion fit into your story? What food rituals, if any, are associated with worship? 

4. Food as Tradition. Thanksgiving turkey. Christmas pudding and mince pies. Moon cakes. Wedding cakes. Pick any culture, any holiday, and there will more than likely be several food traditions centered on that festival. Does your world/story incorporate any special celebrations, and if so, are there any traditional foods made to celebrate it? Are any particular foods considered lucky or unlucky, or are there any taboo or “forbidden” foods in your world?

I’m not suggesting you focus your entire story on food (unless you’re writing a food-centered cozy mystery—in which case I’m totally here for it!), but incorporating food, drink, and their associated rituals into your worldbuilding can provide an extra level of depth and realism to your story, and make it that much more vivid and memorable to readers. 

That said, only you can judge if this is something that will work in your story. I love such immersive details as these, but I know some readers find them tedious. The key is determining what works best for your story and your writing style, and finding a balance between small, character-level details and larger, culture-wide inclusion. Personally, as a foodie, I love incorporating food and beverage into my worldbuilding, and use it freely.

Whatever approach you choose, keep in mind that not only is food essential to life, but that it’s also a physical, emotional, and sometimes spiritual experience that includes each of the five senses—sight (it’s been said you eat first with your eyes), sound, touch, taste, and smell. Food is literally a feast for the senses (for good or bad!), and a versatile tool that can aid in setting, character development, and overall worldbuilding.

And now I’m going to go pour myself some dark, malty tea, add a splash of milk—enough so that it billows like storm clouds through the depths of my cup—and enjoy it with a buttery scone with a crunchy sugared top and a pillowy inside pocketed with hot, juicy blueberries. Pull up a chair and join me.

If you have any questions, and/or you’d like to discuss this topic further—or worldbuilding in general—please follow Liz Perrine on Twitter (@liz_perrine).

Lilies on the Moon By Saddie Hopes

For me, storytelling is magical. And the two main ways that I indulge in it are through books and through cinema. I love the movies, including classic films that not too many see anymore. It is amazing that these movies, in the style and character of their times, can still connect and stir us. I have been wondering about this lately, trying to put my finger on what makes them so compelling. And, what triggered these thoughts, actually, was the news that Sidney Poitier passed away.

This was in January this year. Immediately, a lot got written about this trailblazing icon, whose presence and gravitas were one of a kind. He affected you, like you were in the presence of a special life force. I immediately wanted to see one of his movies - had not in a long while. I wanted to feel his celluloid presence. I saw his Oscar-winning charmer, ‘Lilies of the field’. Had actually never seen it before. Just beautiful - capturing so much of life in this simple black and white presentation. And he was supreme, of course.

I also happened to have re-watched ‘Paper Moon’ recently, an old favorite. Tatum O’Neal is wonderful in it. What is it about these old black and whites? Incidentally, the director of that movie, Peter Bogdanovich, also died at the same time as Sidney Poitier. Still need to see his ‘The Last Picture Show’, but have seen and enjoyed his comedy ‘What’s up, Doc?’. Another talented film maker gone.

Peter Bogdanovich had a life and career full of drama and controversy, as the internet can tell you. Sidney Poitier obviously had many struggles, just being an African-American actor in those times. The twists and turns and ups and downs of their personal stories are movies in themselves. And yet, their art transcends their lives and times to capture things universally human and timeless. One can’t explain what they feel they have in common with the African-American handyman (Poitier in ‘Lilies of the field’) or the German Nuns and Spanish-speaking people of a small Arizona town that he finds himself helping. But somehow one relates. Nor can one easily identify with the orphaned, precocious child (Tatum O’Neal in ‘Paper Moon’), who joins forces with a conman selling Bibles during the Depression era. But somehow, one relates. At the core of a movie is, of course, the story and the writing. Added to that is the acting, directing, editing, music, production and more, all of which can make or break a film. However, what seems to make a classic a classic, is its shared humanity, regardless of the humans, their backgrounds or the situations depicted. I find the fact of these universal themes particularly poignant nowadays, with increasing examples of divisiveness between people the world over. When a lot of us can be touched by similar ‘classics’, can we really be that different, if only we let ourselves be honest and feel? Are we all not, at our core, just human?

So, I hope we all read more books and watch more movies, be transported by the stories and remember and rejoice in our commonalities. After all, as the great Maya Angelou put it, “we are more alike, my friends, than we are unalike”.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Saddie Hopes on Twitter @SaddieHopes.

Don’t Worry By Trey Stone

I’m writing this at 1:22 am, on a Tuesday morning, and I can’t sleep.

I’ve struggled with insomnia all my life. It was never a huge problem when I was younger, perhaps because I had no desire to get a lot of sleep or to even get up early, but I have memories of long, sleepless nights spent staring into the dark.

When I began studying in England at the cusp of my twenties, I remember it being really bad. I would lie awake, count hours, minutes, seconds, hoping that sometime soon I’ll be able to fall asleep so that I could be rested and ready for the day to come. I tried so many tricks to deal with it, get up for walks, read, have a snack, lie completely still and meditate, counting sheep, you name it. Just about everything except sleeping pills—I’d even have the occasional night cap, which only ever really helped if I had so many that it ruined my next day anyway.

A lot of my time awake in bed was spent worrying. About the papers I had to write. About upcoming tests. About my grades, my degree, my future, and money. And when I’d been lying there long enough, trying to force myself to fall asleep, I began worrying about not getting enough sleep. About being too tired to function the next day, and then the whole spiral would continue, and I’d worry about my grades, and my degree… It got to the point where I would sit up all night to study and do my papers, because it was the only way I could exhaust myself enough to fall asleep at some point, usually the morning after.

It got immediately better when I was done studying and started working. (I got my degree, by the way.) I think it had to do with not being expected to perform at a job in the same way as at the university. There were no grades to worry about, no tests. Only the slow, relentless churn of the workday, which rolled by at a constant rate, regardless of my ability to stay awake and function. I remember not having slept so well in years.

I’m in a good place now, sleeping wise. I’ve turned my habits around from being a night owl to being an annoying morning person. I get up before 6 and spend my time writing and reading before work, and I try to get to bed early. Staying up late these days does me no good.

But occasionally those sleepless nights will come back to haunt me. I don’t know if people who don’t suffer from the occasional bout of insomnia even understands what it’s like, because it’s not like I’m not tired. I’ll be so tired my eyes hurt, both from being shut and being open, and I’ll be so exhausted I can’t imagine getting up and doing anything. Yet, I’ll never fall asleep.

I think it has a lot to do with worrying. I’m not sure if I can’t sleep because I worry, or if I worry because I can’t sleep, but there’s something there. I’ll worry about where I’m headed in life. Worried about wasting my time. Worried about my art, my writing mainly, but also my music. Am I doing enough? Am I enough? Is it all even worth it? What other things could I have accomplished if I wasn’t spending my time the way I am?

It's an endless array of questions, all of them too complex for me to answer or even understand in my exhausted state. The worst part is, when I wake up—after finally managing to grab a few hours of sleep—they’re all gone.

Every single worry.

They don’t exist anymore in that pale, tired light of the dawn. They’re all washed away, and I am both happy and content with not just my life, but all that I have and all that I have set out to do.

I’ve spent about thirty minutes that I could have spent trying to sleep to write this, and I hope that maybe it can help someone else.

Maybe you don’t struggle with insomnia, like me, but maybe you worry. We all worry, most of us too much, and for no reasons at all. I worry because I can’t sleep and then I can’t sleep because I worry, but I know that it doesn’t do me any good. Worrying never does. Worrying isn’t problem solving. It doesn’t set out to fix anything. Worrying doesn’t change bad habits or create new patterns of behavior. Worrying is just worrying, and it’s utterly useless.

Take it from me, worrying over lost sleep has never made me sleep any better. And all of those worries that used to keep me up at night, way back when—but also now—never amounted to anything. I can honestly say that not a single one of those things I lay there in the dark, thinking about and dreading, ever came true. 

It’s even later now. I’m going to go back to bed and try to get some rest before I have to go to work.

And I’m going to try not to worry about it.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Trey Stone on Twitter @TreyStoneAuthor.

On Writing Advice By Sean Frazier

There are countless authors who will adamantly proselytize their advice for other writers. And they will pass these commandments off as the rule of law. I believe it’s Stephen King who commands writers to write every day no matter what.

Other writing pundits will dictate that you must read voraciously or you can’t possibly be a good writer. If you’re not devouring books like a starving shark then you have no hope and can’t possibly write a good book.

And who are we to argue? I mean, we’re just fledgling authors, scrambling to grab whatever scraps of readership we can. We should totally listen to these paragons of the word, right?

Wrong.

First of all, I’m no expert. I’m not the pinnacle of writing prowess, and I’m nowhere near as successful as many authors.

But I know, without a doubt, what works for me. And I also know nobody else can tell me what works for me.

So, what should you do about writing advice? Well, first off, I acknowledge the irony in me giving writing advice about writing advice. And there is plenty of irony involved. However, what I’m about to tell you is important and I feel many writers have a difficult time embracing the concept. Anyway, here we go.

FOLLOW YOUR OWN WRITING PATH!

There, I said it. Now, what does it mean? Well, that gets a little more complex, because I can’t tell you that. It’s something you’ll have to figure out on your own, but I suspect, if you’re writing, you’re already familiar with some of it.

When someone asks me for advice, I tell them the same thing—follow your own path. I lay out some things that work for me and some things that don’t, but I tell them to find those same things for themselves.

For example, I generally only write on the weekends and in the morning. And I find I must get out of the house to write because, oddly enough, I find far less distractions than if I’m at home. No way will I ever suggest to anyone else that they must do this.

A prime example I can give is a particular book I was reading earlier this year. Several of my friends raved about it and one said it was his favorite book of all time. Its reviews online were stellar and it was a best-seller. So, I gave it a shot.

After three hundred pages, I DNF’d it. I gave up and donated the book to a little free library where, hopefully, someone else would enjoy it.

So, what happened? Well, of those first three-hundred pages, very little happened. There was so much exposition and world-building, and I kept waiting for the anvil to drop but it never happened.

Now, I will say that the world the author built was phenomenal and it had such promise, but when it just never ended, I couldn’t keep reading. I went online for a synopsis and found this book was essentially two books—the first half being world-building with little happening, and the second half was where everything went off the rails and was a nonstop roller coaster.

So, why am I telling you this? Because popular writing advice is “grab the reader in the first paragraph” and this book absolutely did not do that. And, despite it not being to my liking, it’s sold far more copies of any book I’ve written and has an outstanding fanbase. The author waited for over three hundred pages to grab the reader, but it worked for him. It just goes to show you, absolute writing advice is absolute garbage.

Write the book you would read, whatever it is. Or don’t. I’m not the boss of you. There are readers out there for every book, regardless of the rules.

Follow your own writing path.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Sean Frazier on Twitter @TheCleftonTwain.

6 Steps to Quit Your Job By Alex Noonan

Between The Great Resignation and Beyoncé blessing us with the single “BREAK MY SOUL,” it seems like quitting my job of 6.5 years in May could have just been me jumping in on a current cultural trend. But in 2020, I developed a 3-year plan to slowly phase myself out of that salaried position and into self-employment. Things just did not proceed quite the way I thought they would. 

Planning is necessary, though, if you’re not independently wealthy. And, of course, if you were, you probably wouldn’t be stuck in a job you hated to begin with. If you’re not rich and want to quit your job, I can tell you how I did it. 

It’s important to note that I was also able to quit because of my job–that is, a well-paying job with a web development agency. Most of the time I worked there, I made $70k+ annually, a distinct advantage that allowed me to grow a savings account. I don’t believe you necessarily have to work in tech to be able to make enough money to save some of it, but I would never say that people making less than that in the US should have no problem saving the way that I did. Especially now. But, nevertheless–

Step One: Figure out what you need.

I aimed to turn my screen printing hobby into a full-fledged entrepreneurial endeavor. I needed a place to do business, a way to pay for upgraded equipment, health insurance coverage, and a way to cut down on expenses so I could continue to financially contribute to my household.

Our rent went up in 2021, exposing another underlying need: a house. We knew that a mortgage would likely be cheaper, and if we found a large enough home, I would be able to use some of the space for my business. That would mean I didn’t need to pay rent on a separate studio. 

Plus, once I quit, we would no longer have the credentials a bank looks for in doling out home loans. We needed to put this element of the plan into place first.

Step Two: Figure out how to get it–and execute.

My partner and I had been engaged for a couple of years, so we decided to get married in a backyard ceremony in late 2020. Then, during health insurance open enrollment in 2021, I signed up for health insurance as a dependent of my spouse in preparation for my departure.

One of the first things we did after our wedding was open a joint high-interest savings account. It offered 1% interest (now 1.25%), so we put as much money into that account as possible. We were able to put away at least a few hundred dollars every month after the bills were paid. 

With this aggressive savings approach and the interest rate, by October 2021, we had a little over $15,000 saved. We’d spent that summer and most of the fall looking for a house, attending 2-5 open houses every weekend like we had second jobs. 

When we finally found our house, the price was at the top of our budget, and we needed to drain our precious savings almost completely. We both grew up well under the poverty line and had never experienced having that much money before. We were reluctant and terrified to let most of it go, especially knowing I planned to quit my job in a little over 2 years–but the house was a crucial part of that plan. So we convinced ourselves to move forward and were homeowners by December.

With that done and our living expenses lowered and stabilized, we resumed socking away as much money as possible into that savings account. I thought I had a while to do that and use some of that money to help pay for the equipment I needed.

Step Three: Pursue your new future.

I forecasted my last day as January 18, 2023, because that would mark my 7th work anniversary with the company, which felt like a very tidy way to leave. 

In 2021 I began looking for my replacement at my salaried job. I figured I could train this person in everything I did before I left, and I started stepping back from some additional responsibilities I had been given.

Then, in January 2022, a mutual acquaintance introduced me to the state’s LGBTQ Chamber of Commerce director. This chapter was running a program for start-up businesses. It assigned participants to a business coach, a lawyer, an accountant, and marketing specialists; it also provided opportunities for grants, like one to create/recreate an e-Commerce website. I applied for this program and was accepted.

In March, I decided on a whim to look for a conference I could attend for screen printing. I had only ever participated in tech conferences for my salaried job, which were usually dull and attended by people I had nothing in common with. 

I had incredible, validating experiences at the screen printing expo. It was thrilling to feel knowledgeable about and experienced in a topic I loved so much. And I was indirectly reassured in every workshop, talk session, or training that successful apparel decorators are organized, process-oriented people–just like me.

Step Four: Be prepared for anything.

Back at my salaried job, I had increasingly frustrating discussions with the company owners. This was not atypical. In fact, many of the conversations revolved around topics I had been pursuing my entire tenure with the company. But returning to work after the printing expo felt like the textbook definition of “night and day.” 

It was suddenly obvious to me that I could not last until January 2023.

As I got more vocal about my disagreement and discomfort with the direction the company was pursuing, my work environment was growing more hostile. But it felt like something inside me had been ripped open and I couldn’t close it again–I could no longer pretend to care what these weird Libertarian Elon Musk fanboys thought.

Leaving my job early meant losing several months of income, tens of thousands of dollars. So I knew if I was going to do this I needed an emergency backup plan to recover some of that money. And here’s where I have to warn you to proceed at your own risk because… really, all I had was my intuition.

Step Five: When necessary, make a new plan to get what you need.

I had many years with this company and held a leadership position, so please understand this was a bit of a calculated risk.

I went to my direct supervisor and told him I couldn’t do it anymore. We had similar ideas about the company; he knew I was getting sick of the games, so he wasn’t shocked. I told him I was ready to be done that day but could give him two weeks. He sat up straighter and muttered something about his vacation the following month, so I said:

“I will stay for two months to ensure a smooth transition to my replacement in exchange for a severance payment.”

When we reconvened following his discussion with the company owners, I did get a shock:

They. Agreed.

The severance agreement I signed when I left prohibits me from disclosing the agreement's details or the payment I received. But the payment was made to the LLC I established for my new business, providing me with enough funding for new equipment. With my spouse still secure in their salaried job and able to save money, all the pieces were as in place as they could get.

Step Six: Don’t look back.

I went full steam ahead. I formally gave notice and began the process of converting my basement into a print studio. I ordered new machinery and started working on a new website. I got a certificate from the state that allows me to legally sell things. I was a business owner in what felt like the blink of an eye.

My last day in my salaried position was May 31, 2022, and I haven’t received a paycheck since mid-June. Everything feels amazing and wondrous, with a current of terror running through it.

Am I making boatloads of money? No, not at all, I’m definitely losing it. Am I worried about our savings running out, my spouse losing their job, or what will happen when my business funding is spent? Yes, definitely.

But every day I can wake up now and get right out of bed. I’m no longer moaning to myself, “What’s the point?” as I send my 12th, 30th, or 51st email of the day. I have nothing to prove to greedy businessmen. I’m doing work I love to do, on my own schedule, and my point is to feel happy and fulfilled. 

Even if I can’t enjoy this forever, I am grateful for every minute that I have right now. No amount of failure on my own is going to feel as bad as trying to succeed for people who would never acknowledge my work.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Alex Noonan on Twitter @deadeye_l_x.

If I Can Dream: A Life With(out) Elvis by E. H. Allan

The recent release of the new biopic about the life of Elvis Presley, featuring the amazing skills of Austin Butler, has stirred not only my interest in the star, once again, but also has prompted me to look at his impact on my own life.

It would be a lie to say that he had not played any major role in my childhood or high school days, let alone my present early-college years. For context, I was born in 2003. That’s about twenty-five years years after Elvis passed away. Twenty-five years between his last breath and my first. And yet, despite that fact, his life and his music have connected to my own in ways that I hadn’t thought of before.

For those who are new to the King, here’s a little background: Elvis Aaron Presley, born January 8th, 1935, was one of the first superstars of the Rock n’ Roll music genre. You’ve probably heard him a few times by now, with his soulful baritone voice, especially if you enjoy vinyl or music from the 1950s through the 1970s. If not that, then you might’ve seen one of the thousands of Elvis impersonators from across the world, all united in their love for the iconic moves and sound that he had. Understandably, the younger one is, the less likely it is that you’ll know who he was (and for those who fall into this category, I highly recommend a quick trip to YouTube).

I, luckily, am not unfamiliar with Mr. Presley’s body of work. From an early age my siblings and I were exposed to the likes of Queen, Aretha Franklin, James Brown, Bruce Springsteen, and Little Richard. Our trips to the store or park were filled with music, with either my three siblings and I howling along to “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” by Jim Croce in the backseat or trying hard to contain our giggles while singing to the Blues Brothers’s rendition of “Rubber Biscuit.” Out of all of them though, Elvis was always one of the big hitters.

Elvis has appeared in my life in many ways. My Dad shares the same birthday as Elvis, a fact he reminds us of whenever the subject is mentioned. My Nana told me once how she remembered seeing him shimmy on television, and the hysteria that his gyrating hips created. My Dziad Dziad and Diti gave me my first Elvis vinyl; a little radio station 45. My Grandpa taught me the song “Hound Dog,” and my other grandparents laughed whenever I sang along to his songs, as I know quite a few of them word-for-word (or maybe I’m just a funny singer).

So suffice to say, I’m familiar with Elvis.

It wasn’t until I was in high school that I began to develop my appreciation for his music. When you’re young you often take music at face-value - essentially boiling the experience down to “does it sound good?” As I entered into the wonderfully chaotic teenage years, I found solace in music, for I could let myself drift off into a world of emotion, conveyed through sound. I entered high school with an arsenal of classic rock, pop, and some blues. And as much as I learned, in terms of new music, there were plenty of things that did not change, like my love for Elvis.       

Have you ever sat in the dark quiet of the night, longing for a comforting embrace, with tears in your eyes as the opening piano notes of “Unchained Melody” trickle into your ears? Have you ever found comfort in a voice, so broken yet still powerful and alive? Or felt the pain of loss for a man you’ll never meet, who died before you were born?

When I first saw the new film, “Elvis”, in the theatre, I went in with as much excitement and anticipation as those teenagers who saw him live in the fifties and sixties. I had been waiting for months following the release of the first trailers, excited that Elvis was receiving the same treatment as Freddie Mercury, Elton John, Johnny Cash, and Brian Wilson. But there were two moments in particular, out of many, in the film that seemed to grab me by my shirt collar and rattle my heart.

Now, there are some spoilers up ahead, so skip the next four-ish paragraphs if you don’t want to risk it. (You’ve been warned, and I have tried.)

The first was the filming of his ‘68 Comeback Special, or more specifically, the reason why he decided to record “If I Can Dream.” The shock of the assassinations of both Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy Sr. had shaken the country, and Elvis was no exception. In a move that has been cemented as one of his greatest performances, he decided to end his television special with a song written in both tribute to the two leaders and in hope of letting his own thoughts be known.

This scene touched me deeply because it mirrors our present times. Our world is still divided, our country is split and embittered. There is still violence, and in a world where everything is constantly moving and changing, it feels like there is no way out - no “better future.” I never knew that the song was Elvis’s letter to the world, expressing his sadness at the cruel events of his time. I had turned to that video, white suit and all, during my dark days while I was in high school. It felt, as the cliché goes, like someone understood me - he understood me and put it into song.

The second moment was, and arguably is the more important of the two, the final closing shot. As it transitions from Austin Butler as Elvis, singing the famous opening lines of “Unchained Melody”, to the actual footage of Elvis himself, pouring his heart into what would be one of his last performances (and his last television special).

Oh, how I cried when I saw him. Didn’t matter that my sisters were beside me, or that we were surrounded by people who probably saw the man during his time. I cried, albeit quietly, at the sight in the theatre.

“Unchained Melody,” written for a movie in 1955 and made famous by The Righteous Brothers, is quite possibly one of the most well-beloved songs produced from this period in music history. Elvis, who was merely months away from the end, poured his heart into his performance. It is impossible for me to not say that “Unchained Melody”, especially the King’s performance, does not rank in my books. It is well within my top five songs, if not my absolute favorite. It is a song that carries the weight of loss and love - of hope and heartbreak.

Like Elvis, like many people actually, I struggled and continue to struggle in life. While I write this I consider myself lucky, for I’ve kept a daily journal for the past four, almost five, years, and a scattered collection of journals for the last decade. So know it to be no exaggeration when I say that Elvis has played such a prominent role in my life. Of course, interests change, especially in this age of fast-paced internet and content creation. But some things will always stay the same.

Like Elvis.

I know that this has been a bit of a wandering and starry-eyed story, but it's something I’ve wanted to share, and I thank you for reading. I hope that you take a little time to put on one of his songs and give him your ear for a little while. Let him sing to you like he does for me.

Because even in a life where he is not here with us anymore, he’s never truly gone.

Winter Knocks By Alexander James

Russia, Purovsky District

Winter came for them like a hunter--slow, patient. Inevitable. 

“Shut the door, Prishka!”  The howling wind swallowed Father’s voice. Prishka closed her eyes and threw her weight against the barn door, ignoring the splinters digging into her palms from the ancient planks. The storm snapped and snarled around the unfinished boards, pulling them, mocking her pitiful strength. Zimitov and Vlad bleated from the other side. Two goats left, rail-thin and turning sickly. 

“Come on! We have to--we have to close it. Come on dorogoy, we have to hurry.” 

Prishka tried to ignore the glance he threw over his shoulder. He wasn’t frightened, she lied to herself. Father wasn’t scared of anything. She grunted and slammed a shoulder against the door, sealing the barn closed. 

With a gasp of effort, she slapped the rusted metal bar through the latch. 

“Come, come, we must go.”

“Just a--just a moment, Father, give me--” Prishka sagged, hands on her knees. Every breath she took stung her lungs and stole heat from her limbs. White snakes of frost writhed across the crystalline dirt of the courtyard, driven by the wind. The air tasted of snow. It tasted angry. 

“There’s no time. Come.” Father snatched her hand, pulling her forward. She seized the bucket beside her and followed him into the yard, bent against the wind howling from the river. The split-log fence of the yard hemmed in an expanse of desolation--empty gardens, withered tomato vines, puddles long since frosted-over. A few arthritic trees not yet sacrificed to feed their paltry fire. The house, sitting opposite the barn. In the half-light of sunset, everything looked grey. The color, being frozen out of the world. 

“But what about…” She, too, had to raise her voice over the wind. “We cannot just leave her, Father! We have to bury her.” 

She couldn’t look behind her, couldn’t look at the skeletal form lying against the wooden pen. It was only a goat, she tried to tell herself. She should be more like Father when he found the body; shocked, yes, but not sad. Only children became sad when they encountered death. She wasn't a child anymore.

“There's no time, girl. Winter hunts. Leave her.” He squeezed her wrist, hard. She wanted to scream, wanted to tell him she wasn’t a child anymore, but she knew the wind would steal her words...and he dragged her regardless. She cried out, trying to get away, but he held her tight as a vice. 

“Come, now. Come!” 

They fled across the courtyard. Mist pressed tight against the fields, black and glaring in their desolation--she knew there was nothing to see, storm or not. Last year had been a poor harvest. This year was worse. The churned mud and dirt beneath her bare feet had frozen into glass, sharp enough to cut her down.

The front door closed behind her, Father grunting as he slipped the bolts through. The wind rattled its frame, furious at being cheated out of two more bodies. She set the bucket down. At least it was warm inside. Well...warmer. 

“How is she?” Her mother looked up from the rocking crib. In the glare from the soot-choked fire, her features were pinched, stark. Like a goblin wearing her mother’s face. 

“Dead.” Father ran a hand through his hair. He stared through the floor, unable to bring himself to look her in the eyes. “A mouse chewed a hole in the pen, in the corner. She froze.” 

"Couldn't you patch it?" Mother wiped the back of a wrist against her face, smearing wood-ash across a cheek. Father shook his head. 

"Not in this cold. The ice finds a way."

“And the garden?”

Father picked up the bucket, his mouth pulled tight. “Not much. We found a few carrots still in the patch. Like I thought, the potatoes are mostly gone to rot. This is all that’s left.” He raised the bucket for her to see. 

Mother stood, swirling away to glare into the corner. She didn’t like the baby to see her angry. 

“I told you. I told you we should have kept her in the barn, with the others,” Father said. 

“Zatknis!” A dozen more lines carved into Mother's face, when she turned around. “Yes, and risk the other two falling ill? Then we would have three dead goats instead of one! Is that what you want, Alexei? Eh?” 

“For all the good the two living ones do us now. You know as well as I she was our last chance for a kid. And now, what?” 

Prishka expected her to shout, take another cut, another jab in their never-ending fights. Just like last night, and the night before. Since the morning they woke and found the first gleaming touches of hoarfrost covering the yard and fields, ruining the desperate planting of late-September cabbage. 

But her mother covered her mouth, and her barbed words turned to sobs. She turned to the corner and cried into the crooked bookshelf. She didn’t like the baby to see her cry, either. 

With a sigh, Father crossed to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. He didn’t say anything--he just stood there, connected to her. 

“We still have Zimi and Vlad,” Prishka said. She didn’t want to be useless. Little children were useless. She would be thirteen next month. She wasn’t a little child anymore. 

Her mother turned, wiping her tears. She struggled for a smile, and almost found one. 

“Quite so. Quite so, darling girl. Now,” She cleared her throat, wiping her hands on her frayed apron, “Who’s hungry?”  

She turned to the cooking pot in the hearth, busying herself. Her hands trembled only a little. “I found that last onion, dear, it rolled behind the shelf. I’ve got a stew with a little cabbage and carrot. You two, wash up before dinner. You know the rules.” 

The rainwater bucket sat in the corner, beside the empty cupboard. A hammer hung on a ring nearby. They used it to break the thin layer of ice already spider-webbing the top. 

“You missed a spot,” Father whispered to Priskha. He winked, swallowing the hiss of pain as he dipped his hands in the frigid water. His rawboned knuckles turned rose-red. 

“Where?” Prishka inspected her hands, concerned. Mother spent her childhood in the city, and enforced strict manners in the house; no dirty hands or smudged faces at her table. 

“Right there.” He flicked droplets onto her neck and she giggled, flinching away from the cold touch. They stung her skin, this far from the fire. 

“Come on you two, stop lingering. Supper is ready.” 

“I’ll hold Anatoly!” Prishka danced to the rocking crib. “Hello malen’kiy. Hello.”

Baby Anatoly wriggled, kicking and punching in his excitement to see his big sister. A blue knit cap covered the wisps of hair on his head--russet-red, just like Father’s. Prishka slid a careful hand behind his neck and bottom, just like mother taught. “Oh my goodness you’re getting so big already! Yes you are! Yes you. Mother, what’s this?”

Beneath the edge of Anatoly’s makeshift shirt--a sack of burlap, washed and repurposed--a small grouping of red stipples spread across his skin. 

“Oh that? Ah, nothing. He slept oddly during his nap, the silly boy. One arm and leg tucked beneath him. Just a bed rash--don't look at it too closely, darling.” Mother waved behind her. She didn't look up from the pot. Her voice sounded high, unsteady. Like a kettle whistling steam from her lungs, eating her words.  

They ate at the table, pulled close to the fire. Prishka balanced Anatoly on her lap, pretending to feed him bits of carrot or spoonfuls of broth. 

“We can leave,” Mother muttered, hunting in her bowl for a piece of cabbage. “Hook the two goats up to the cart. It’s only a day to Urengoy, maybe two.” 

Father shook his head, holding a hand to feel the heat of the fire. It faltered already, the pale logs collapsing in on themselves. The single window rattled as the storm rushed by. Darkness surrounded them, hungry as the frost. Prishka held Anatoly and tried not to shiver. She scooted closer to the fire. 

“There’s no place to stay, between here and Urengoy. Sleeping outside this time of year…” He didn’t need to finish. The frail goat flashed in Prishka's eyes, lying in the pen outside. 

“What about the Ibragimov’s? We could beg a night’s shelter from them. If we left first thing in the morning, we maybe could get to Urengoy by nightfall.” 

He set his spoon down in the empty bowl, grinding the palms of his hands against his eyes. “They left. A week ago, fled to Elena’s cousin in Korotchayevo. Their harvest was worse than ours, they had no other choice. If they made it, they beat the frosts by a day, maybe less.”

“Well there must be...there must be something we can do, Alexei.” Mother hissed, trying not to look at Prishka. Like the girl wasn't even there. “If we stay here we’ll--”

“You know what I think we need? A story.” His chair scraped against the worn-down pine boards, cutting her off. He reached for the bookshelf. “Prishka, what do you think Anatoly wants to hear? The Pretty Little Mouse? How about Babushka?”

“No, not Babushka. He’s heard that one too many times, he’s sick of it.” 

Mother stood abruptly, piling bowls and spoons in the crook of an elbow and stomping to the wash-sink beneath the window. 

“Oh sick of it, is he? Very discerning taste for an infant. Very well, what do you think he’d like to hear?” Father carried on, ignoring Mother. Against the fire light, his hair looked roan, the color of springtime deer. 

“What do you think, malen’kiy?” Prishka whispered, holding her ear close to Anatoly's mouth. He smelled of cradle, and milk. Easier to ignore her parents fighting, holding little Anatoly. “Tell your big sister, go on.”

Baby Anatoly looked up at her and babbled a toothless exclamation, swinging for her face with an arm, nearly smacking her in the eye. 

“Is that right? Interesting. Curious choice.” She smiled. 

“Well? What’s the verdict?” 

“Anatoly wants to hear about the Count.” 

Father raised an eyebrow. “Is that right?” 

Prishka struggled to keep a straight face. “That’s right. He’s a very intelligent baby, you see.” 

“Just like his sister and mother. Very well, the Count it is.” He reached for the red-bound book, loved to the point of falling apart. 

“Alexei.” Mother whispered from the door to the bedroom. 

“Just a second, Nina.”

“Alexei.” 

Father got up, crossing to the door. "What is it, lyubimyy?" 

He trailed off. They stood together, staring into the bedroom. A second crawled past, then two. 

"What should..." Emotion choked the rest of Mother's words, stealing them from her. She held the towel to her mouth. Father went inside, and Prishka heard the sound of scraping and grunting. They whispered, too low for Prishka to hear. 

“What is it?” Prishka hefted Anatoly on her shoulder, rising to look for herself. She wasn't a little child; she wasn't useless. 

“Nothing!” Mother spun. She clutched a still-dripping bowl with white knuckles. “It’s...it’s nothing. I think...I think we could all use a story tonight, Alexei, what do you say?” 

Father emerged from the bedroom and nodded. Something hid in his eyes. 

“Yes. Tonight of all nights, I think. Very well. Gather around, you three. Prishka, why don’t you hand little Anatoly to your mother and put another few logs on the fire.” 

“Really?” Prishka gasped with delight. “You mean it?”

“Of course. We deserve it--it’s been a tough harvest.  Why not shed a little light in here?” There were only three logs left in the stack, beside the door. The cold sent goosebumps darting across her shoulders as it slipped through the tiny cracks in the doorframe. The wind howled outside.

“We’re going to have to cut more wood tomorrow, Father.” She grunted on her way back to the fireplace. 

“Yes, of course. Tomorrow. Yes.” Father spoke to the floorboards. He caught himself, turning back to the world, to her. “Now then, everyone ready?” 

Mother sat at the table, pulling Prishka and Anatoly close. The fire flickered and grew brighter, pushing the cold away. Prishka hadn’t realized how cold it was, until the warmth caressed her skin. Hadn’t realized she, too, was shivering. 

“On February 24, 1815, the lookout at Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde signalled the arrival of the three-master Phareon, coming from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples…”

His voice washed over them, every bit as warm as the fire. Prishka loved hearing about the Count--she'd only been pretending the baby wanted to hear about it. Father read in a fine mood tonight, a sort of energy running through his fingers. He even did the voices--he only did the voices on special occasions. Soon, however, Prishka’s eyes grew heavy as the orange glow pushed the shadows and cold from the room. Anatoly held one of her fingers in a chubby fist, already fast asleep. Father's voices seemed to blur and blend together, until they were one single drone, humming with the crackling fire in her ear.

She slept. 

She woke to someone knocking on the door. 

Baby Anatoly fussed beside her. Prishka frowned--he normally slept with Mother, on the far side of the bed. The cold found her, even stuffed beneath her blankets. The piles of hay-stuffed burlap didn’t help at all--she felt the stinging touch of winter press against her face, her feet, her fingers. 

 She turned, sure she imagined the sound. After all, there wasn’t another farm for four verstas in any direction, no one could--

Knock knock. 

“Father. Someone’s at the door,” she muttered, hunting for sleep. Father didn’t answer; she craned her neck, peering at the other bed. The bed had been shoved against the wall. He slept still and silent, pressed against the mud-packed planks. Mother curled in front of him, one of his arms draped around her shoulders. Her eyes were closed. Strange--she always rose with the dawn, stoking the fire, preparing nettle tea. Baby Anatoly huffed tiny protestations from half-sleep. 

The knocking. It would wake the baby. 

Almost as if it knew, the knocking continued, insistent. Prishka kicked out from under the burlap, wiping the dregs of sleep from her eyes. The longer the baby slept, the longer the rest of them could sleep. There was plenty of time to sleep, in the winter. 

A pile of heavy fabric slid from atop of the scratchy blanket. She didn't need to squint, as she normally did; a strange light steeped into the bedroom. She picked at the pile, shivering. A shirt, frayed and patched. A dress, the only dress Mother kept from her time in the City. Father's spare trousers. It looked like every piece of clothing they owned, piled on top of Prishka and the baby. 

Her belly grew cold. Something felt wrong. Why would Mother and Father bury them in clothes? Why would they put Baby Anatoly with her? She took a hesitant step toward the other side of the bed. 

Knock knock. 

Baby Anatoly fussed, louder this time. She wanted Mother and Father to sleep more; they never got the chance to sleep late. 

“Yes, yes, I’m coming.”  She covered him with the clothes again, making sure he had room to breathe. 

Outside the window, blue-black clouds choked the sky. Prishka shivered. The air inside the house froze, hungry for whatever touches of heat it could steal. Her breath curled in front of her, thick plumes. The wood coal-bed sat dark and cold, long since died out. She crossed her arms and hunched, stumbling to the door. They used the final chopped wood for the fire last night. The goats could wait--she’d deal with whoever knocked at the door, and cut wood for a fire first. Perhaps she could do it fast enough to have a cheery blaze for when Mother and Father woke up. 

She touched the door handle, then leapt back with a cry. The wood was icy to the touch, so cold it burned her.  

Knock knock. 

The fist against the door became soft now, gentle. Prishka slipped her hand through her tattered dress and opened the door. 

“Zdravstvuyte, little one.” A man stood at the door. His fur-lined coat was patched and frayed. The ragged ends of his hair danced in the wind, black as a raven's wing. His beard was long, unkempt. Even covered by the beard, Prishka could see the lines in his face; carved deep, like the bark of a tree. Like he'd seen a thousand winters, and buried the bodies himself. There were always bodies in the winter. 

 He held a black case in his hand, like the travelling minstrel who sometimes came to their farm. It looked as old as he, scuffed and battered. 

“Hello.” She inhaled. The air stung like bees through her nose, down her throat. 

“Can I come in?” 

“I don’t--I’m not supposed to allow strangers in the house.”  The door burned her hand, through the too-thin fabric of her dress. Her legs shook. She’d never felt this cold before; a cold that made her want to cry. 

The man knelt down, drawing eye level with her.  

“You and I aren’t strangers, malen’kiy. I’ve come to help you.” 

The world outside sat still, silent. Normally Zimi and Vlad were already bleating to be fed. She couldn't hear them. Couldn't hear anything. Fog and frost choked the farm, isolating them from the road. She didn't see a horse, or carriage. Surely he didn't walk? 

“You’ve...you came to help?”

“In my own way. Winter hunts. It is too late for some, and what little time you have is slipping with the wind. Let me in, little one.” 

She didn’t feel her legs move--they were already numb.  She stepped aside. The man brushed past her, silent as the wind. 

“I don’t...I can’t…” She stumbled, trying to think. Something was wrong, hiding just beneath the surface. She missed it. Right in front of her face. She couldn't think.

“Listen to me, malen’kiy, and listen well. The little one is sick.”  He stood by the dead fire, hands crossed over the handle of his case. “He is sick, and he needs medicine.” 

“The...baby Anatoly? No...no.” Prishka shook her head. It felt heavy on her shoulders. She remembered the red stippling across his skin. “No, Mother said he slept strangely."

“She was wrong. Or she lied; either is the same.” He wasn’t unkind, or cruel--he spoke in a matter-of-fact voice, empty of emotion. “Get the child, and as much food as you can carry. Go south. Go quickly.”

A fist of iron froze in the center of her stomach. "What?" 

"You must leave, while you still have time. Winter hunts, little one. Isn't that what your Father says?" 

She wanted to protest; she wanted to whine and cry and say she didn’t understand. But she wasn’t a baby anymore. 

“Okay. I’ll wake Mother and Father. We’ll go.” 

“No.” Prishka flinched at the iron in his voice. He saw, and his gaze softened. “No. I’m sorry, little one. They stay with me. You take the baby, and the two of you go. Your parents stay with me.”

“But...No, but I…” She swallowed. “I need them.” 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. He stood by the fire like a statue, grim and cold.  His fingers didn't drum against his case. He didn't stammer. Prishka swallowed traitorous tears. Babies cried. She wasn't a baby anymore. “They stay with me. And if you linger, you and the little one will too.”

She clenched her fists to keep from crying, and nodded again. She remembered Father, when he found the goat yesterday. Shocked, yes, but not sad. She could be sad later. 

There was a quarter loaf of black bread, a rind of moldy cheese and the potatoes and carrots from yesterday left, all the food in the house. She stuffed them into a burlap sack, and slung it over her shoulders. 

"Why..." The tears came again, to betray her. "What is happening?  I don't understand. I don't--" The floor swelled and warped in her eyes. She felt cut adrift from reality, floating just outside of her body. 

Useless.

"It is an accident." The dark man murmured. The iron faded from his face. He walked to the bedroom--his boots clipped over the raw floorboards, the rough nails in the soles catching on the wood burrs. Mother didn't allow work boots in the house. Prishka almost said so, but something held her tongue. Some secret, clutched in the frost and fog lurking outside the window. 

He went to their sleeping forms. She didn't like the way he stood over them, dark and immaterial in the half-light, like the ravens who squawk from the pine trees in spring. 

"It happens often. It is an old house. Holes in the walls, in the corners, in the windowsills. Frost comes in. Winter hunts. Come." 

Her feet shuffled again, numb and cold. He wiped the tears from her cheeks, turned her with a hand on her shoulder. His voice in her ear lowered until it sounded like the wind whistling over the pines. "See, there?" 

In the freezing bedroom, Prishka finally saw it. What stole her mother's words, caused Father to put more logs on the fire; a jagged hole in the walls, hiding behind Father's back. The planks crumbled from the frost, falling away. He always talked about bolstering the walls. He never had time. The extra clothes for her and Baby Anatoly. The bedclothes so they would have each other, if only for a short time. Winter came for them like a hunter; slow, patient...and inevitable.

Mother and Father knew what waited for them, so long after sunset and so far from dawn. Looking at them, it seemed impossible she didn't notice before. The room clung silent and still around them, anemic without the rising and falling of their breathing. Truth settled beneath the cold. She'd never see Father smile again, never hear him do the voices when he read by the fire. She'd never eat another of Mother's meals. 

She waited. One second, another. Waited for Mother's chest to move, for her eyes to open. She'd cry about how late it was, leap out of bed and start a fire for tea. Or Father, wagging a finger about how long Prishka let the goats go without milking. Any moment now, they'd wake. Any moment, and her heart would start again. Her lungs burned--she held her breath, waiting for them to take theirs. 

Please. 

The seconds ticked past. Mother and Father stayed where they were. 

They're dead. They're not coming back. 

Hot tears, streaming from her eyes. She wasn't a baby, she wasn't useless. The frost still came for her and Anatoly, even now. She had to do something. 

Anatoly cried when she picked him up, one hand behind his neck and one beneath his bottom. He cried for Mother; Mother stayed in bed. 

“Where…” She was crying in earnest now, and hated it. “Where are we going to go?” She tucked Anatoly into a burlap sling, wrapped him as best she could. She wasn’t a baby. She wasn’t useless.

“That, I do not know. But you cannot stay here. Winter has this place--if you stay, it will have you too. Now go. Run.” 

Prishka ran.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Alexander James on Twitter @DrunkScribe.

Finding Inner Strength through Turmoil: How Grief Transformed My Self Awareness, How I View Myself and How I View My Relationship With My Mother. By H.L. Dyer

I want to start off by thanking Gillian F. Barnes for providing me with this platform to tell my story.  Please understand that this piece will have content that could pose as potential triggers for certain people.  This article will touch upon death (namely parental death), medical emergencies, seizures, cancer and discussions of depression and anxiety.  I implore anyone that may be affected by this post to take a break if needed, or to seek help in the event of an emergency.  

This is an article I’ve debated long and hard about posting as it will be talking about my mother who passed away one year ago.  She was the type of person who didn’t like having her business shared with strangers, and I was concerned about respecting this aspect of her even though she’s no longer alive.  And so, after I asked for a sign to ensure that I had her grace,  l am confident that she has given me the go-ahead to write this article.  The main reason for this to be the chosen topic is to aid in my own inner healing, but I also hope in some way it will help inspire others as well who may be going through similar loss of a parent, or grieving a parent going through a long and arduous battle.  

My relationship with my mother was complex, as I imagine most families could be.  There would be moments all throughout my childhood and adolescence in which we were at odds with each other.  But there was no mistaking that at the heart of it all was love.  From a very young age, I understood early on that my parents did everything they could to make ends meet, and there were times of struggle.  But I was well cared for, I was fed and had a roof over my head, I had clothes even if they were hand-me-downs from my cousin.  My parents had divorced when I was young and did what they could to stay friends.  Though, arguments still broke out between them as they’re bound to in such circumstances.  When I turned eleven, my parents decided to try again and moved back in together in a single wide mobile home.  They stayed together for fifteen years and remarried in 2015.  They still had their fights, as all couples did from time to time.  But I’d like to think they made each other happy.  And they stuck together right through the end.  

On New Years Eve of 2012, my grandpa–her father– was struck by a vehicle when he attempted to cross the street.  While this happened, I was spending time with my husband's family (Though he was only my boyfriend at the time).  My parents had gone to the scene of the accident and were on their way home by the time my boyfriend dropped me off back home.  When my parents came home, they told me the news that my grandpa didn’t make it.  While I couldn’t say for sure, to this day my gut instinct was that this had been the catalyst for what was to come.  

While my mom processed her own grief, she helped out her mom who had moments of intense meltdowns to the point of needing emergency care.  My mom, dad and I ran groceries for her even when things were getting tight for us, mom would help sort out paperwork and did what she could to take care of my grandmother.  However, my grandmother favored my uncle above my mom and their sister.  Whenever we would help her out, she would never cease to mention him and his girlfriend and acted rather ungrateful for mom’s efforts.  The stress and resentment eventually got to be too much, and so my mom told her that since my uncle was so highly praised, he could be the one to help her from that point on.

Sometime during that year, my mom went to our nurse practitioner for a yearly physical exam, and they found a pea sized lump on her right breast.  At the time, the lump was benign but our NP (Who I will name Marianne for this article) recommended to keep an eye on it and to have it checked every so often.  Though finances were getting tight, and mom decided to ultimately stop going to see Marianne. Marianne would ask how my mom was doing from time to time during my visits.  And I would usually follow it up with “She’s fine.” or “She’s doing well.”  And she would tell me to let my mom know she was thinking of her and that she should schedule an appointment soon.  

Of course, behind the scenes, she wasn’t fine.  

The lump on her breast had been growing and growing.  And eventually, in October of 2016, the lump had burst when she turned in her sleep.  At the time, it was more of an inconvenience for her than anything else.  But the wound wouldn’t heal over.  My dad and I tried to tell her to get it checked out, but my mom objected to it very harshly.  In her mind, it would cost way too much and she didn’t want us to go bankrupt over something so trivial.  Upon reflection, I do think she was also afraid of the worst case scenario and didn’t want to hear the hard truth.  And so, we bought our own gauze, our own bandages, and every day and night from that point forward dad would change the bandages on her wound.  

From there, things declined rapidly.  She couldn’t stomach food, even the smell of certain things cooking would be enough for her to grab the garbage can beside the couch.  Eventually, she would even throw up water.  Day by day she laid on the couch and withered away.  If I were to look back on those times, I could still very vividly see her bony frame, reminiscent of a living corpse.  And every day I had to keep my head low and went to work like everything was normal.  Every day I kept a mask on and tried to be my bubbly self while in my head I worried  about my mom.  Once the work day was done, I would come home and continue to watch her suffer.  To this day, I still wish that I could go back in time and shake myself, scream at myself to plead to her, to yell, to fight her–to do more–to do something!  And the worst thing about it all was knowing there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it because she was too stubborn to seek help.  And if she was too stubborn to seek help, then it wouldn’t matter what I had to say, nor what dad had to say.  

May of 2019, mom’s wound had fungated, and she was very weak.  Dad and I knew it wouldn’t be long before she would fall asleep on the couch to never wake up again.  At one point, I had the day off, but dad was scheduled to work.  I ate breakfast and went back into my room, I couldn’t bring myself to look at my mom while I passed by her.  As I was getting dressed, I heard dad yell from the living room, “I can’t believe you’re going to just sit there and make us watch you die!”  

At that moment I felt shaken up.  Of the two of them, dad wasn’t normally the one to raise his voice, and it only served to confirm my worst of fears: That she would die soon.  

Once the pit in my stomach went away temporarily, I wandered into the living room to charge my iPod.  Dad had already left for work by the time I sat down across from my mom.  Five minutes of silence went by until mom told me to grab the phone and call dad back home so he could take her to the emergency room.  

I did as instructed, and before I knew it, we were on the way to the ER.  Mom was so weak dad had to carry her into the truck, and then into a wheelchair once we arrived at the hospital.  The doctors asked quite a few questions, and we explained all that happened for the past few months.  They hooked up an IV of liquid nutrients to her body, she was critically low on potassium and sodium among other things.  After they started the IV boost, the doctors left the room to discuss the situation.  When the doctors and nurses returned, they told mom they would have to transfer her to another hospital half an hour away to perform some XRays and tests.  At that point my dad recommended I spend the day with my boyfriend (Who I will name Tyler for this article) and his family to try to help ease my anxiety and to be surrounded by supportive people.  Much later after these events had passed, my dad revealed to me that while I waited for Tyler to come get me, a doctor came into the room and told him and mom to get their affairs in order since they estimated she only had two weeks left.  

When Tyler came and got me, I broke down for the first time since it all happened.  I laid on his chest and cried until no more tears could be squeezed out of my eyes.  Once Tyler explained the situation, his family allowed me to stay overnight with them in a spare bedroom.  The next morning, dad picked me up and took me to the hospital mom had been transferred to.  When we got there, mom was awake with more color to her complexion. The daily news on TV filled the room with hollow background noise. I texted updates to Tyler about mom’s condition, but even with my head down, I could see mom and dad look at each other with a broken expression on both of their faces.  “Do you want to tell her now?”  I heard dad whisper.  I looked back up and that’s when they delivered the diagnosis.  

Mom had stage four metastatic breast cancer that had spread to her lymph nodes and lungs.

The diagnosis was terminal.  

I took the news with a sense of numbness.  I had figured it was likely cancer with how the lump had burst on her, and with the symptoms she had experienced.  We talked with a nutritionist to set up meal plans to get mom’s weight back up, then a financial counselor came in.  She explained that there were programs to help mitigate the financial burdens of chemo and other medical expenses and showed us the options.  After she had left, I could no longer hold in my resentment toward mom.  I snapped at her that had she not been so stubborn she would have found this out sooner.  That she wouldn’t be on death’s door had she just bit the bullet and gotten help.  She wept and said “I know, and I’m so sorry.  I had put money before you all.”  And my heart broke.

During the start of chemo, mom had overheard the doctor on the phone state that she would be lucky to live one year, and yet she managed to surpass the odds.  There were the usual hiccups that would be associated with chemotherapy–hair loss, a metallic taste in the mouth which made meal times tricky to work around, constipation and later on diarrhea when she needed to change chemo prescriptions.  There were also the annoying wait times for labs and wait times for chemo chairs.  Despite everything the appointments had thrown at her, she pushed through them all.  

All the while, I was fighting my own battles.  The years of witnessing mom fade away on the couch and struggling through medications  had taken its toll.  I started to fall into seasonal depression during the winter, which upon self reflection, had eventually grown into a chronic depression as well as anxiety (note, these are self diagnosed.  Always always seek a professional diagnosis if you suspect you have depression and/or anxiety).  Food had become my sense of comfort and I gained the weight I had lost in high school back–and then some. Despite this, throughout mom’s treatments I started to feel hope.  As if there was finally going to be a light at the end of the tunnel.  

2020 came and the COVID-19 pandemic had hit.  Work closed down for a couple of months while everyone scrambled to navigate this alarming occurrence.  It was quite stressful to navigate the unemployment system for relief payments during the closure, as I admittedly struggle with the ability to understand the complexities of such governmental systems.  

In April, I was back to work and masks had become the new normal.  From there my depression and anxiety only spiraled.  I resided in a majorly “red” rural state and town, and so I was no stranger to people complaining about masks and making jokes about them.  Due to the pandemic and the fact I worked in a retail environment, there were body count limits we had to impose.  An employee would stand outside the door of the building and kept the doors shut until enough people left so more people could enter, and masks had to be imposed.  While on “guard duty” I could feel the judgemental eyerolls and exasperated groans for the long wait as the line grew and grew.  I knew it wasn’t me they were irritated with, but with how my personality worked, I still couldn’t help but internalize it.  

And when the people who were unmasked did come through, most were luckily apologetic and ran to their car to grab one, or grabbed one from the container we had outside.  There were also those that walked off in a grumble.  At one point, a couple tried to go through and when I asked if they had a mask, the guy pulled his shirt collar up over his nose and his partner laughed.  The one moment that stuck clearly in my mind however was a woman. She looked to be about mom’s age (about 50’s), and her husband came up to me without a mask.  I asked if they had one.  She huffed and said “I don’t do well playing sheep.”  

I wanted to yell at her about my mom being immunocompromised due to chemo.  I wanted to yell at her that if she thinks that her refusal to “play sheep” was a way to protest against “following the crowd”, she should think about how goats follow herds all the same.  But instead I smiled behind my mask, nodded, and said “It is what it is.” Because, unfortunately, my job was more important than the pain she caused.  

My faith in humanity waned with each case of people that wouldn’t dare be inconvenienced, even if it meant the possibility that my mother–and people going through treatment like her– could die.  I still thank everything that is good and whole in this universe that she never once caught it.  

My faith would only be tested all the more when later that year, mom started to decline again.  The doctors examined her and found that the cancer had spread to her brain.  Mom went from chemo to radiation in order to keep the cancer in check.  

It wasn’t long until my mental health had hit a breaking point and I had a melt down one day.  My mom came to my room to ask a question and noticed my tear stained face, she asked what was the matter.  I hesitated to tell her that I was depressed because all through childhood I was taught by her to stop being overly sensitive, she would ask me if I would cry if the teachers were to yell at me like I do when she shouts at me, and as a child I learned through peer bullying and through my other mental illnesses how to mask my emotions.  

When I finally told her that I was depressed, she asked me, “What do you have to be depressed about?”  As if to ask, “How dare you act ungrateful and say you are depressed?  Others have it so much worse than you.” Like I hadn’t watched her for years suffering and dying right before my eyes and I had to pretend everything was peaches and roses.  And when I tried to explain what was going through my head, that even I couldn’t explain coherently,  she said something that was like a metaphorical slap in the face:  “I don’t understand you.”

At that moment, nothing hurt more than hearing my own mother tell me that she didn’t understand me, her own daughter.  I felt like she had looked at me as if I were a stranger at that moment.  And so, when she left me to cool off, I wept long and hard.  I knew then that she was not a safe person to talk to and vowed  not to open up about my mental illnesses to her again.  

I don’t justify what she said or how she handled the situation.  But after the scars had healed, I made peace with it and forgave her for that moment.  Because while I didn’t have the headspace to consider it at that time, I came to a conclusion as to why she handled such scenarios the way she did.  

I came to realize that it’s because she, too, was broken.  

Whether she would openly admit it or not, her upbringing was one where there was nothing wrong. You didn’t talk about issues because it was no one's business what went on behind closed doors.  Her mother had her issues which only worsened with confrontation, and with how those issues were handled by her father on top of that favoritism that was placed on the only son in the family, I understand now how that generational trauma played a factor into her outlook on mental health.  I think, too, that deep down in that moment she was just as depressed and scared that her body was betraying her progress.  

My depression and fear wouldn’t go away.  I couldn’t bear to watch my mom die in front of my eyes again.  I wanted to run, to escape and never look back.  And so, on Facebook I scrolled through the marketplace to look at listings for places to rent as a form of escapism.  My eyes eventually locked on to a house that was three bedrooms and one bath listed for $925 a month.  My mind had instantly begun to fantasize about Tyler and I moving in together, one room could be the master bedroom, then another could be my writing office, and Tyler could use the third as a video gaming room.  I shared the link to him and joked about it, saying “If only it were possible.”  He then responded, “Why can’t it be?”  

I had my protests once I realized he was serious.  It would cost too much to move out, plus I would feel guilty for up and abandoning my mother like that, no matter how much I wanted to escape her declining health.  Not to mention,  at the time it was in the middle of November, so there was Christmas to think about.  However, after enough debates and back and forth arguments, he suggested we at least take a look at it.  And so, I caved.  For a first-time rental, I fell in love with it.  Though, doubt loomed in my mind if we’d be able to financially make it work.  The second biggest concern for me was how mom was going to react.  One of the things we butted heads for years up until her diagnosis was my desire to apply for a drivers license.  She had told me at one point “Either you can save up for a vehicle, or you can save up to move out, but you can’t do both.”  

As it was, I had finally gotten her to cave on that argument, I figured if I were to bring up moving out she would just get annoyed and grumble, “You don’t know what you want, do you?”  So, one day when it was bitterly cold and there was snow on the ground, I went outside to talk with my dad and asked his advice.  I asked him if there was any chance Tyler and I could pull it off.  Dad said he had faith we could, and that he’d be more than willing to talk to mom on my behalf to get her on board with it as well. That day, they had to go out of town, either for treatment or errands I can’t remember now, but I was wrapping up presents in the living room and begged some higher power to please let things go well.  I then got a text from my dad saying “thumbs up.”  

Amidst the holiday rush, Tyler and I went through the stress and excitement of packing and getting our affairs in order.  We moved in together on December 12th 2020.  To this day, I can say it was the best thing that could have happened for both of us.  

Christmas was bitter sweet, we received a lot of stuff to help with the move-in, though the gifts felt hollow.  It wasn’t that I was ungrateful for the gifts–especially when I knew that my parents didn’t have a lot to give to us as it was. The only thing that mattered to me was making sure the time spent with mom would count.  For I had a feeling deep down in my heart that it would be our final Christmas together.  

Dad made sure to keep me up to date with how mom was doing the following weeks and months after.  The tumor on her brain caused cranial pressure and seizures.  The first time it happened, he was terrified and wasn’t sure what was going on.  Once the seizures started, dad placed himself on medical leave from work out of fear that mom would have an episode while he wasn’t home.  

I paid them a visit one day, and unfortunately witnessed one for my own eyes.  It wasn’t the first time I had witnessed a seizure.  During one of my previous jobs, I was ringing out a customer with epilepsy who felt an episode coming on, so the person that was with them had sat them down on a bench, only to move them to the floor once the seizure happened.  I tried my best to remain composed while I called management over.  However, with my mother, composure was not my instinct. Her shriek of “Oh god it’s happening again!” still echoes in my head on occasion.  Dad instructed me to call for an ambulance while he helped her through the episode.  Her mouth foamed and chest heaved through her convulsions, like a fish that was suffocating out of water.  I was scared she may die while I dialed 911.  It was all I could do to try to settle my panicked voice as I told the operator what was going on and counting her breaths.  

She had come out of the episode by the time the ambulance came.  She felt so embarrassed from the attention she drew up and felt angry at herself.  She apologized to me for the scare as she was being guided to the ambulance.  Dad took me home and headed to the hospital to meet her.  

Whether it was the seizures or the radiation treatment on her brain, I cannot say.  But after that day, she changed.  Mom had hallucinated that her favorite store was right across the street from them when it was really a half hour drive.  From that same store, she bought so much furniture that we could barely fit it all in the truck, let alone have the space to store the furniture at their place.  When she realized dad and I were concerned, she had a melt down and insisted that it was an investment.  I tried to calmly explain to her that we were simply concerned that she was throwing money around without a second thought, in which she yelled at me that she can spend her money however she pleased.  Tyler then took me back home where I cried myself to sleep.  

After that incident, I stopped visiting them as much.  I felt guilty, I knew I had to spend as much time with mom as possible.  But my heart couldn’t take the possibility of seeing her have another seizure.  I couldn’t take seeing her slowly die, nor could I handle the pain of her poisoned mind consuming her.  Tyler and I had planned to go out of town one day when Dad called me up saying that they were putting a hospice bed in the living room for mom’s comfort.  I knew then it wouldn’t be long. So, on the way back home I decided to go to her favorite restaurant to buy her a slice of cake and drop it off.  Seeing mom’s face light up when I handed her the cake slice was all I needed.  

On the 26th of April 2021, dad had asked if I wanted to visit mom. It was a good day for my mental health, so I agreed. When I got there, mom was sleeping.  Her breath labored to lift her chest.  A couple of family friends were there as well to chat and watch over mom. She groaned every so often when she needed attention, unable to speak.  Later in the afternoon, I texted Tyler that I was ready to go back home.  I touched mom’s cheek and told her that I loved her before we left.  

Tyler and I were in the process of doing dishes together when at 5:35 I got a call from dad.  I moved to the bedroom so that I could hear him over the sound of the water.  Mom was gone, he assured me she went peacefully.  I was in a state of shock after I hung up with him that all I could do was sit upon the bed and stare at the wall ahead of me.  I felt numb to everything while I told Tyler what happened.  While Tyler had called his family to deliver the news, I somehow managed to call my employer and notified them that mom had passed away.  They gave me two weeks of bereavement to help me grieve and provided their condolences.

For months I was in an awkward lull.  When I wasn’t filled with a state of numbness, waves of intense heartache punched my chest.  I felt lost, and doubted how I could possibly navigate the complexities of life now without her around to guide me.  One day, I walked with dad and the road we took passed by the childhood apartment he and mom had raised me in.  After he left, I went upstairs to my office and I curled up in a fetal position on the floor and sobbed.  Nostalgia had stabbed through me with a serrated knife. I wanted to go back to being a child, I wanted to forsake my adulthood and go back to building mud pies in the backyard and watching Lizzie McGuire and other shows I loved as a kid, I wanted homework and knee scrapes to be the only thing I had to worry about.  Most of all, I wanted mom back to take care of me.  

September 27th, Tyler took me to the local park and proposed.  Joy had overflown through me, and I became overwhelmed with emotion.  I expressed my regret that mom couldn’t share in our celebration.

The holidays were especially difficult.  Our first Thanksgiving without her, dad had set out a plate of food for her so that she could be with us in spirit.  When I came home later that day I had a melt down for the first time after a couple of months had passed.  I grew angry.  I was angry because if mom had gotten help sooner, she would be here today.  I cursed the cruel irony that through her idea of sacrificing herself for our welfare, she did the most selfish thing she could have ever done.  Because for that reason, and because she couldn’t handle the potential truth of her health, she had left me alone and she had left dad alone.  And that wasn’t fair.

Christmas time wasn’t much better.  I was irritable at every little thing and miscommunication between Tyler and I caused me to snap at him, after apologies and discussions were held, everything was made right again.

Time eventually dulled the pain.  Though I still have my depressive episodes, I had accepted the loss and allowed it to transform my mindset.  Where I’d normally be a happy shut-in, I’ve become more adventurous.  The desire to experience as much of the world as I possibly could had crept in.  At the worst of times, that desire would build to the extreme of the occasional existential crises.  

Work felt stagnant at the same time as it had felt demanding.  And so, I had quit and sought out a fresher environment.  I found a job that took a toll on my mental health and quit within two months.  After a long search, I finally settled into a job that was the perfect pace for me.  The job had made me want to go to work, and my mental health was on an upswing.  Unfortunately, what was good for the goose wasn’t necessarily good for the gander.  I was let go of that job because, according to the position head, I struggled to prioritize customer needs over tasks, and I couldn’t see all of the bigger picture of how the position was to be run.  All at once, my depression came back with a hard blow.  I wondered what was wrong with me if I still had the issue of time management that I had from my first disclosed job.  I reflected on how my upbringing was filled with accusations of laziness when in reality my mind would overload to the point of shutting down.  I thought about how this caused a demand to focus on working hard and how that (as well as my own personality) impacted my social skills.  Once again, I had become irritable just as I had during my stages of grief when I lost mom.   I also had the occasional panic attack over normally common sense things.  It was enough where I grew terrified as to how badly my mental health had become.  I truly thought I had gone psycho, or at the very least was going through an early mid-life crisis.  

And I knew then that I needed intervention.  I had only been to counseling once to work on self esteem issues as a kid, and I remembered it somewhat helped for a time.  Though, it seemed with years of adulthood revealing the harsh realities of the world had only caused a regression.  I sat down with Tyler and did the hardest thing I could have committed myself to do:  I admitted that I needed help.  

He was fully supportive and said that he was glad that I was the one to start the conversation.  Eventually, I told my dad as well.  I explained to him that, while I firmly believed that what we went through with mom’s illness was a way for me to find my inner strength to overcome turmoil,  the trauma I sustained simply couldn’t be healed on my own–nor by my fiancé no matter how much he wished he could.  Dad understood and reached out to someone he knew to poke feelers out for any grief counselors.

 So far, I still haven’t heard about any openings and even a few of my extended family members expressed that they had been looking for therapists for a couple of years, but trying to find resources had been difficult  due to the restrictions COVID-19 has placed on many places.  In the meantime, all I can do is to keep looking and do my homework.  And when I have my yearly physical with Marianne in a couple of months, I fully intend to disclose my mental struggles and ask for professional recommendations.  

Shortly after I was let go from my last job, I found a writer’s meeting event one day and asked my Tyler if we could go.  He said he was surprised but so happy for me that I wanted to take the leap.  Though, it was just as much about distracting me from grieving my job loss as it was about forming connections.  That’s how I met Gillian and a couple of other writers that I clicked with.  Because of those connections, I vowed that this time my breakout novel will be published and that I would stop letting fear hold me back. As we speak, I’m almost finished with my second-to-final round of revisions and then it’s off to be alpha-read.  

On June 11th, Tyler and I got married.  For our honeymoon, we went to Old Orchard Beach and explored the sights.  We recharged with the clean ocean air while we combed the shore for seashells to bring back home with us as mementos of our trip.  We had our summer dose of mini golf courses and went to a zoo in York with a parakeet feeding exhibit. On the way back home, I wanted to check out Victoria Mansion in Portland.  While we toured through the artistically crafted architecture, I became awestruck with the history behind its walls.

While on the long trip home, I wished more than anything that our honeymoon would have lasted forever, that we didn’t have to return to the harsh realities of the world that awaited us.  

Later in the month, plans had been made to go to my very first Renaissance faire with my extended family, which I’m very much buzzing in anticipation for.  I’m glad to say that’s one bucket list item to be crossed off!  

I look forward to seeing what other adventures await me and can only hope that once I get the proper help I need, I’ll be able to dig deeper to become my best self.  For now, I’m doing all that can be done to help me on my way to recovery.  

I started exercising with my husband, we ensure we hold each other accountable so that the both of us can lose some much needed pounds.  Only three weeks into the regiment and I already feel a difference in how I carry my belly.  I’ve also started to control my diet in a more mindful way, and discovered that I’d been lacking sufficient protein and taking in a high amount of carbs with my previous lifestyle.  The balancing act of trying to surplus my protein intake without affecting my carb and fat intake has been a struggle.  

I’ve also started the difficult habit of putting the phone away one hour before bedtime and not touching it during the first hour upon waking.  Last night I had difficulty sleeping, my mind wide awake as I stared up at the ceiling.  I wanted to reach for my phone to scroll through social media, but I had to restrain myself.  Instead, I read a couple of chapters from a writing book before I got bored and put it away only to fall asleep fifteen minutes later.  

I’d also been taking note of my emotions and how certain events correspond to my mental and emotional processes.  This mindfulness has allowed me to determine if I needed time for self care–and furthermore, I had started to reflect on what self care means for me.  

Some days it’s soaking in a bath with epsom salt and lavender scented bubbles, painting my nails, meditation and listening to LoFi beats.

 Other times it’s simply getting tuned into what may spontaneously hit my instincts for the day, be it a drawing idea to put on my digital canvas or to go out and explore the town, or to finally put away the basket of clean laundry that had been sitting around for a few weeks.  

Sometimes I just curl up on the chaise with a plate of cheesy pizza sticks and watch my favorite comfort movies such as The Mummy (1999), Tremors (1990), The Lord of the Rings Trilogy (2001-2003), The Sandlot (1993), Kiki’s Delivery Service (1989), Howl’s Moving Castle (2004) or A Thousand Words (2012).  

My dad and I would meet up almost daily for a game of cribbage as a way to chat and help the both of us find comfort through the lingering grief.

 If Tyler is around and not too tired from work,  we will sometimes play board games or video games together.  We had just recently finished a Co-Op run on an indie game called Haven which was published by The Game Bakers  in 2020.  Watching Kay and Yu’s relationship grow has been the right amount of relatability to brighten up my mood on recently difficult weeks, and flying through their home planet Source was an amazing escape when fleeing from the real world has proven impossible.  

When Saturday nights arrive, Tyler and I would sit down at the dining room table with extended family and we would play D&D as a collective way for all of us to escape everyday stresses.  We had just cleared through part one of the Lost Mines of Phandelver and the next thing in store for us now is to figure out where our next campaign will bring us.  

The hardest part for me, when it comes to self care, is the ability to silence the inner voice in my head telling me to stop lying about and to do something productive.  I’m still very much learning how to enforce the habit of telling myself that rest is productive.  That sometimes, laying in bed, letting the body decompress and not trying to occupy my mind is productive.  The guilt of wasting a day doing nothing still tends to eat away at me sometimes–especially where I can’t help but feel the idea clashing with my desire to live life to the fullest.  But I have faith that eventually, I will understand the balance that I must maintain and things will work out because of that.  

Trying to navigate through the “new normal” is still a learning process, as is the continuing journey of learning about myself and who I really am deep down.  Sometimes it’s not easy.  At this moment, a quote from J.R.R. Tolkein’s The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (1955) comes to mind, “How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart, you begin to understand...there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep, that have taken hold.”  While I may not have the answer, I’m slowly trying to find ways to pick up those threads, and to heal those hurts.  And it’s a comfort to know that I don’t have to go at it alone.  I have hope yet, that in the end things will turn out alright.  

My journey doesn’t end here.  And through the strifes and Shakespearian slings and arrows of outrageous fortune (Hamlet, Act III Scene I), I will face everything head on.  Even if I stumble and fall, even if I wish to run and hide through whatever challenges life may throw upon me, I will fight on.  For the most damaged people are the ones that will blaze through the dark all the brighter with phoenix fire burning in their hearts.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow H.L. Dyer on Twitter @HLDyer_Author.

Rest in Pieces By Sarah Buck

Grief burns low and hot

Sometimes it rages

Others it’s smoldering 

But it’s eternal

Unable to be snuffed out

I stand tall by day

Overwhelmed and overburdened 

With the weight of my work

But it helps me hide 

The pain of your loss and all that came after

If I dwell on it, I begin to drown

Water rushing into my open mouth

Filling my nose

Sputtering panic with every breath 

Feeling the lure of succumbing 

Just because I have survived it

Does not mean that I am thriving 

I want to be ok

I try to be

Is there a choice?

I think about you all the time

The laughs, the tears and the adolescent rage

Wet kisses and bear hugs 

Tough as nails, always in charge

That apple didn’t fall far 

Orphaned, I feel so solitary 

Jealous of the parents others still have

And most sadly take for granted 

My child will never know you

But they will never forget your legacy 

Our relationships were complicated 

Nuanced and full of love

But also seething with a darkness 

A resentment for your poor choices

But more so, their impact on me

I wish I could have said goodbye

But both so steeped in obstinacy, of course I could not get my way

Instead laying bloodied in the grass

A fallen soldier not going gently

Hoping time and nature will heal my open wounds

The sun still rises

The loons call eerily through the night

The saddest of mourning songs, the piano man 

The cycle of life always churning

Butter. Eyes wide shut. Sleep.

A Little Less by Gillian F. Barnes

I have always feared that I am a little less than others. A little less cared for. A little less noticed. A little less liked or loved. This isn’t to say that I don’t come from a family that makes me feel fully loved. Nothing could be further from the truth. This deep-seated fear comes from my friendship and career history. 

Friendships 

When I was younger, I moved a lot. While my stepmum and father chose to settle in New Hampshire (where I ended up spending the majority of my mid-late childhood), I experienced that state as well as Vermont, Massachusetts, Maine, and Arizona with my mother (multiple locations in each). Needless to say, making connections wasn’t easy and the ones I did make, ended. 

In third grade, I met my first real friend group. Three girls with varied interests, all of which I loved dearly. The best of the best in my mind though was E. E and I were practically inseparable until her parents moved her to North Carolina. Since then… we have lost connection. 

Another good friend of mine from high school, J, also moved to North Carolina and lost touch with me. It began to feel like a pattern… and it resulted in me having a lot of close friends, but I was never anyone’s one and only*. 

*I DO have two best friends, but they have multiple best friends, so it is not a traditional setup. 

I had two other super close friends in high school, C and M. C moved away too. M ended up getting some serious abuse from me in senior year (I actually went as far as to verbally cut her off from me) because by the time friend three left me and never looked back, I was completely convinced this is how it was always going to be. We have since re-connected and are closer than ever. 

I began to break that pattern when I met my husband. We had a long-distance relationship for many years (since the end of junior year of high school, in separate high schools). However, in breaking the pattern, I totally took out all of my issues on him. We would break up… sometimes nightly. This continued up until college when he finally broke up with me for… three hours. We have been solid since then. 

In the meantime, my other best friend who I met in college, B, also moved away from me. She’s the kind of person who lights up a room and everyone wants to know. I get openly jealous sometimes of the people who get to be around her. It has been almost five years since I’ve seen her now, thanks to COVID and scheduling, but I have faith that when we do see each other again, it will be like picking up where we left off. 

My friends are scattered and I often feel very alone. My visual artwork used to reflect this, now my writing has stepped in to paint the picture.

Career 

Aside from friendship separations, I have a history of being “second best” in my career. This started right out of the gate post-college. Honestly, it started in college, but I digress…

The first job I ever really wanted had me go through a gauntlet of three interviews. I all but had it (verbal affirmations up the wazoo), when they dropped the bomb on me that the person they were replacing… decided not to leave. Seriously? YES!

Ever since then, it has been a similar story. Things I have heard:

“You’re great, but there was someone with JUST A BIT MORE EXPERIENCE.”

“We decided to promote from within! But you were our top external.” 

“Can we keep your resume on file?” *proceeds to never call*

“It was between you and one other person, but the other person knows someone here.” 

“Honestly, you have too many ideas.”

“We had the offer written up, but then this candidate with 15 years specifically in the area you would be working in came in and we’d be silly not to hire them.” 

I also found a dream job around the corner from my house and it was taken from me due to the pandemic…

Recently, I finally earned a spot working at a place I’ve wanted to be a part of for almost ten years, and I’m incredibly grateful, but years of that kind of narrow rejection have made me constantly look over my shoulder and trust… no one. 

The Takeaway

So when someone offers me something, I still think… “Why me?”

When someone wants to know me, I still ask, “Really?”

When someone tells me I’m successful, I laugh. 

Because, despite beating the odds on a regular basis, I always consider myself to be a little less important or interesting than others. I’ve been told I’m intimidating because of this attitude, so please, keep asking me to do things! Keep reaching out! Keep saying hello. I do want to know you and I do want to engage. Some of us just don’t believe that others want us at all. 

Writing While Working a Full Time Job By Mark E. Gelinas, Sr. (@Elderac)

A question I see frequently on Twitter is, “How do you write while working a full-time job?”

The answer takes more than one Tweet will allow. This is how I do it but it is not a definitive list. As they say, your mileage may vary.

Select Your Priorities

Time is the most critical factor in this effort. There are certain things we must do like commuting, working, eating, and sleeping. While we may be able to adjust these some, we cannot trim too much time without t causing problems.

Most of us do not live alone, so spending time with the people in our lives is important as well. How much or how little this may be varies with our individual relationships. 

Other things we do and not mandatory. Such things include watching TV, playing games, and surfing the internet. These are areas we can reduce or eliminate to carve out more time during the day for writing. 

Set a Time

Setting aside a time to write, whether it is daily, weekly, or something in between provides a structure to our writing efforts. It is a way of saying our writing is as important as our other activities. Then, when the appointed time arrives, start working. 

It is unrealistic to expect that there won’t be situations when we can’t start at the appointed time. However, if the situations happen too often, we need to re-evaluate the time we have set aside for writing.

Start without Them

Once we have sat down to write, we need to get to it. Staring at a blank screen is counter-productive. On a podcast, I heard the quote, “If you are ready to write, and your muse hasn’t shown up, start without them.”

If the words aren’t flowing in your WIP, try opening a new document and write something else. I am not suggesting that we start on a new project, but the process of writing something, anything, gets our brains into the writing mode. It could be stream-of-consciousness, but if we can bend our writing to thoughts of our WIP, all the better. This method is also good for overcoming writer’s block.

Stay Focused

Once we are writing, we need to keep our minds on the work at hand. We should avoid checking e-mail or social media accounts. These are things that can take a few moments when we are not trying to write, but if done while we are writing, it takes our thoughts away from our WIP. Then when we come back to it, we have to spend precious time figuring out where we were and what we are wanting to say.

Avoid distractions as much as possible. I like to listen to music when I write, but it must be instrumental. Anything with lyrics distracts me. 

As we write, we need to make a mental not of what takes us out of our WIP and then see if we can reduce or eliminate those distractions. Some cannot be which may cause us to re-evaluate the time we have set aside for writing.

Seek Efficiencies 

As we grow in our writing abilities, we should seek ways to write better. By this I don’t mean improve grammar and spelling, although those are important, too, but rather finding ways to get the words on the screen. 

The word processor I use will offer to take me where I left off. I find this convenient. However, as I type, I tend to backspace and correct those underlined words. It would be more efficient if I waited until I was done with the section and then do a spell check.

Being efficient may be as simple as having a dedicated computer with our WIP on it. It may be turning off the WiFi on our laptop. It varies with everyone. The key is to improve the process so the time we spend writing is more about writing than getting to writing.

Self-Care

It is perhaps counter-intuitive to list this. But there are times when we get so caught up on what we are doing, we let self-care slide. Finding more efficient ways to do self-care is acceptable, neglecting self-care will eventually come back to haunt us. 

Summary

Writing while working a full time job is all about time. Finding ways to make the most of the time we have will help us get those words down.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Mark E. Gelinas, Sr. on Twitter @Elderac.

Being Present in the Moment By Tif Farmakis-Day

They say you can tell a lot about a person by looking at their shoes, the miles they’ve walked, the journey that lays ahead and so on. It’s a motto that’s been drilled into our heads, yet despite the old adage, how often does a person stop and look down… or up for that matter? How often do we take a moment for ourselves, to slow down and observe everything around us?

One way to be in the present moment is by noticing your surroundings, yet so many people are caught up in the past or the future. It’s too easy to worry about what happened yesterday or fret about what will happen tomorrow. What affect does this have on one’s life? Is that even a way to live?

I found myself floundering about what to write for this very post. As I stared at my blank piece of paper, pen in hand, all I could think was how much I needed to get done before I picked up the kids from Summer Camp. All the unfinished chores around the house, the offer I submitted for my latest buyer, the supplies I needed to get for my painting class next week. Thought after thought… and none of it pertaining to the task at hand. 

Then it dawned on me. Why does every day have to an exercise in survival? It’s too easy to get lost in the hustle of life and get so caught up in your own inertia, you forget to take a moment for yourself… to simply slow down and ENJOY. 

As I stopped to ponder this, a brightly colored Cardinal flew by my window and perched on the bush in front of my home. I was taken aback by its splendor, the vivid red feathers and bright orange beak against the cool green background. This bird was so close, I could see every detail. See its stomach go up and down with each breath, the individual feathers ruffled by the wind and the glint of its eye. Did the bird notice I was there? Was it bothered that I was intruding on its moment? 

Sitting peacefully, seemingly without a care in the world, I envied this bird. Then I realized, had I continued to get caught up in all those little problems I created for myself, I would have missed this moment. Missed seeing that beautiful bird, perched up in my bush. Was he a reminder from a loved one? “It’s time to slow down Tif!” Perhaps? Or perhaps it was entirely coincidental, either way it was a beautiful moment and mine alone to enjoy.

It’s time to stop prioritizing the chaos of life. Embrace the now and most importantly, embrace yourself.  Remember to slow down occasionally and live in the present. Take the time to appreciate where you are, what you’re doing and who is with you. Savor each moment as it passes, because before you know it… it will be too late. To quote Ferris Bueller: "Life moves pretty fast; if you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it." 

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Tif Farmakis-Day on Twitter @tifdoesart.

A Piece of My Heart By Candace Byrnes

I sat in my gynecologist’s office slightly nervous about a relatively invasive but brief procedure I was about to undergo.  As with any time I visited the doctor, the white lab coat fear set in-and up goes my blood pressure (BP).   The nurse comes in to take all my vitals; and it was running high, but also abnormally high for someone who was training at the time for what would have been her fifth marathon.  My (now husband) boyfriend, Steven sat patiently waiting for me in the waiting roomblissfully unaware of my nerves and what was going on with myblood pressure.

The nurse waited to retake it for a few minutes, trying to induce calming thoughts while we sat there.  Fast forward, it came down to a safer place to have the procedure, but still higher than she wanted to see.  About 20 minutes later, all is done.  Or so I think.

Procedure complete, I am walked out into the waiting room, where I am told to stay a few minutes as she wanted to take it again- just to be sure it had come down even further post procedure.

Well, it hadn’t and now she suggested seeing my Primary Care Physician or going to the ER “just to get it checked out.”  As nothing was adding up, she said, I just want to be sure we keep you healthy.  I let her know that I would call my Primary and she (knowing that I was likely going to shrug this off as I felt completely fine) said she would call her-and they would discuss the best course of action.  She goes back into her office to call.  Iam pretty sure its even higher now, as I am even more nervous for what could be wrong.

5 minutes later, we are being told there is a consensual agreement I should get to the ER “just to get it checked out.”   This (along with Steven being there) became a big blessing for me, because you can bet I would have driven myself home thinking this was “just a fluke.”  

We pull up to the Portsmouth ER at around 5pm sometime in late Summer 2016 and there I sat wondering how on Earth an otherwise healthy 36 year old was sitting here.  I cried as I was hooked up to all the machines (heart rate, blood pressure, EKG)and now my heart was racing a bit out of nerves… and there was my BP- now at 200/100.  If you don’t know what that means (pay attention), this is something classified as Grade 3 Hypertension and is very dangerous.

He stays with me the whole time, holding my hand. I realized something about human touch that day.  Not only did my BP go down (not enough, but it went down), but my beats per minute did-when we hugged or when he put his hand on my chest to calm me- it was incredible to see happening in real time.  Fast forward to 4 hours and no real movement to my BP later, the doctor gives me Lisinopril (blood pressure medicine).  I now have the lowest dose of BP meds they can give, it comes down to a safe level and I am released.  With a follow up already scheduled to meet the cardiologist who had been assigned my case (she is wonderful, by the way) and a laundry list of tests that I would undergo in the coming weeks to understand the WHY, we left and I was exhausted and still a bit confused.

It started to make sense to me, as I learned something else that night.  Not only did I sleep better than I had in AS LONG AS I COULD REMEMBER, I also felt more relaxed.  And here is where the real reflections that continued over the next several weeks started- a few of them went as follows:

• one time, during an 8-mile run (which should have been relatively easy for me), I had to walk as my chest felt tight. I brushed it off as I thought it had to be just because I was over-heated or wasn’t training enough.

• I felt anxious all the time and I had always chalked it up to a high-stress job. I never realized that wasn’t “actually”normal- also a fun fact I learned is that anxiety is a byproduct of high blood pressure.

And then, post meeting my cardiologist,  it was onto all the tests to try and find the cause.  3 Day EKG, sonogram of my liver and kidneys, echo and echo stress test-all which ultimately led to an MRI.

First came the frustration.  

I remember looking down at the EKG I had to wear for 3 days, and I just started to cry.  How did I go from not thinking I was perfectly healthy, to THIS?  Walking around with electrodes taped all over my chest and a carrying pack which was recording everything.  I felt defeated.

Then came the fear.

After all other organs showed perfectly normal functioning, it was time to look at my heart. I aced the echo stress test.  If you don’t know what this is, you are basically hooked up to a heart rate monitor as you are on a treadmill which increases in incline and speed gradually-it is measuring how well your heart reacts when it is stressed.  I can’t remember the exact minutes, but the incline and speed were both pretty high.  And my heart even recovered normally after that amount of work.  What WASN’T normal, when looking at my heart, was the how enlarged my aortic valve was, causing a slow leak.  I could see the concern on the technician’s face, as he pointed to the screen to show the doctor.  He would then take a closer look at the recorded results and order an MRI to confirm the measure of how enlarged it was with a clearer picture.

And then the relief.

Months after all the tests and follow-ups, my cardiologist confirmed that, while enlarged, I was still in a “safe” zone where I wouldn’t need to have it replaced or have a sleeve put over it (both of which she talked about as if they were the most common procedures in heart medicine).  She did want a second opinion, so I also heard the same from my second cardiologist at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston.  He said because we caught this when we did, I could potentially live a long and healthy life with it just as it is.  I was told no more marathons (that made me both sad and glad for very different reasons lol), and we laughed that he wasn’t used to advising his patients to exercise LESS.  I have tests done each year to make sure its stable-and very luckily, 6 years later, all is still stable.

I still cry (yes, I know-a lot of crying here) when I tell this story, when I think of all of the “what if’s”…  What if I had ran that marathon?  Would I have even made it TO the marathon?  I do try to share it whenever I can, and that is why I became a Volunteer for the American Heart Association-their work has led to so many advancements in heart medicine and I can attribute why I am here to some of them (along with the very important people I mentioned in this story).  

If I can change just one person’s life-give them a piece of my heart to save theirs.  Then I know that is on very important purpose for the time I am blessed to spend here on this Earth.

The First Glass of Water By Alex Woodroe

The first glass of water appeared long before I was even thirsty. 

I’d woken up in the middle of this vast and unrelenting desert surrounded by nothing but dead shrubs and even deader grains of sand. There was nothing around me, and nothing inside me, either. When I tried to summon my name or any details of my life, the only thing I could remember were the books I’d read in high school. How strange. Not even the high school itself, nor the teacher who’d made me read. Only the books.

I guess I’d finally discovered the one situation in which high school literature had some value. Being lost in a desert with no memories and no thoughts except On the Heights of Despair.

When after a few steps I stumbled onto that tall glass full of cool clear water, I didn’t take it as a sign of anything strange. I just assumed the most normal thing that my head could possibly assume — that I was only steps away from civilisation, a pub or a school or something. That someone had walked into this desert for a moment of peace with their glass of water and, after spending a minute sat on the edge of a dune thinking, they’ve left and forgotten it there.

Never mind that the water was still cold. Never mind the frosty dew dripping down the side of the glass.

So convinced I was that salvation lie right around the corner, I didn’t even drink the water. I rushed up a ridge to a vantage point to look around—and found nothing. Only more desert. Figuring it must have been the wrong way, or deliverance was hidden behind some strange angle of the geography, I sped back down to the glass of water and started searching in a spiral around it. Ever broader my spiral went, until I was turned around completely and could no longer find my starting place or the water that, by this point, I would have thoroughly enjoyed drinking.

The sun was high, but it had been for a while and I wasn’t the sort to navigate by it. Instead, I rejected my fear and denied my anxiety, picked a point on the horizon that looked most likely, and started walking to it.

The next time a glass of water appeared before me, I drank it so quickly it barely wet my throat, then only briefly looked around for any signs of life before carrying on forward. Only after the memory of the coolness of the water was long gone did I stop to wonder; where had it come from? How could it have stayed so cold? What if it were poison?

I was still holding the glass and looked at it as if to ask it, who are you? Why are you here? But it was the plainest and dullest glass I’ve ever seen in its flawlessness, and now was getting warm and disgusting to the touch. In a fit of panic, I flung it into the distance, hoping it would land on something with a thud and the crash and reveal my salvation to me. Instead, only the desert winds howled at me as if to ask me those same questions. Who are you? Why are you here?

My feet soon grew heavy and every breath I drew seemed hotter than the last. I tried to probe my mind as much as I could for any possible reason why I’d ended up in that situation; any reason why anyone would hate me enough to put me there, any reason why my own memories would betray me, but I could remember no people in my life nor flaws that I may have been guilty of. I suppose there must have been some of both. 

Before long, my mind had drifted right back to the glasses of water, this time not in an accusation, but in wondering when the next one would arrive.

Wasn’t it curious how quickly I’d grown to expect something that had no reason for existing in the first place? Was that all it took, two times before a miracle became something I felt I was owed? Maybe this hell was something I deserved, if that was the kind of person I was.

My resolve not to think about it only lasted for a handful of minutes. As soon as my brain relaxed back into doubt and paranoia, I found myself trudging forward through the wall-like density of the incandescent air solely from desire to reach the next refreshing drink. I could focus on nothing else. Every breath I drew wished it was a gulp of water instead.

My hands felt like claws and my feet hardened aching hooves. I pushed my body as far as it would go and when it collapsed into a crumpled heap, I shoved it up and pushed it forward again. So focused was I on my hurtle forward, I nearly kicked the next glass right out of existence. I caught my fumbled step just in time and succeeded in only spraying sand into it, though I drank it down eagerly just the same. The moment the bottom was dry, I was already thirsty again, and knew I wouldn’t make it another stretch if the intervals kept getting longer.

Three times. That was how many repetitions it took for my head to start extrapolating logical conclusions, and the most logical one was that the next glass would take even longer to show up. Would I laugh, and call myself a fool when it didn’t? Or reach some new arbitrary conclusion that pointed to my certain death?

My body was so heavy and weak. Under the influence of more than a little stupid anger, I snapped a twig off the embarrassing husk of a plant nearby and stuck it in my mouth, thinking I’d chew on it and feel a little relief. The bitterness of it choked me, and I spat it into the sand, moisture vanishing long before it could leave any imprint. It was like the desert was a funnel that sucked life out of our world and sent it someplace else. 

I was going to die, and yet I walked on. Why?

It was almost easier to, now that I’d accepted death. It was easier to take every step knowing that there was no ulterior motive, no purpose pushing me forward. Every step was a step unto itself, and that made it lighter than if it had been a small piece of something greater.

I found that the next step was lighter and the one after that lighter still. Up ahead, nothing changed, but my will to get to that nothing became greater. And just like that, before I knew it, another glass of water had appeared.

I studied this one carefully before picking it up. I picked it up, and studied it some more. I drank it with the poise and refinement of a connoisseur on a whiskey tour. I sloshed it around in my mouth and breathed in through my nose to enjoy every honey golden tone. 

Had it been faster to appear at this time, or had I just done a better job of distracting myself with my own thoughts before it got to me? There was no way of knowing. It could have been two hours or twenty. The sun was still high in the sky, but it was clear by now that this meant nothing. That I was not in any normal desert. That I was not on any normal land.

So I walked on, this time expecting nothing, knowing I was in control of nothing. Knowing my choice was either to keep walking, or stop, and that I could do the latter any time, but might stop just short of the next glass of water. And in that knowing, finally, at peace with walking.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Alex Woodroe on Twitter @AlexWoodroe.

SO…UM…WINTER? YOU SELF-PUBLISHED…? By Winter Krane

If you read my Please Reject Me blog, you'd know I'm a big fan of traditional publishing. So, it's probably surprising I struck out on my own. But if you haven't, I'll make this clear- I've had a lot of respect for self-published authors, but I didn't have any interest in taking on all the extra tasks associated with publishing a book. With five kids and an autoimmune disease—I wanted all the help I could get.

What happened?

Well, Dreaming in Subtitles happened.

Let's back up. When I shelved my last (rejected) book and started writing another, I had every intention to repeat the process. Nothing went the same, though. The first oddity was my beta readers were extremely positive. Now, positivity is nice and all, but I try to cultivate beta readers that are willing to lovingly rip me to shreds. It's never a good feeling to be torn down, but I view it as a necessary part of the process. I did get some excellent (gut-wrenching) notes, but they were more straightforward to fix than usual.

I was still in the midst of the (perplexing) process of getting hard feedback when I got an email congratulating me on winning the Kay snow award from Willamette Writers. The first chapter of my book landed me a chance to go to the Willamette Writers Conference- an experience I would not have been able to afford otherwise. Even now, I can't express what a dream come true that was.

This is where I had my first chance to pitch my book to agents. And where I first discovered Dreaming in subtitles had a big problem—the same one that, later on, seemed attached to many of my rejection letters.

This book was impossible to categorize.

Was it YA? The protagonist lives her life again as a teenager—but you "can't" have a 30 something as a YA lead. A crossover is a hard sell to convince the industry on. What category was it in? Time Slip? No-that falls under the Sci-Fi umbrella. Alternate history? No, it can't be because the time changes aren't on a large enough scale. I felt like it was closest to Magical Realism, but even that was hard to explain.

In short, I'd written a well-received categorical failure.

My beta readers were still coming through with praise, and I was quickly aware that this book wasn't going to do well with anyone but readers.

Easy fix--shelve Dreaming in Subtitles, write the next book, and possibly come back around to publish it once I'd become more established. But DIS was about a 30 something woman going back to the '90s. If it came out in twenty years, it wouldn't feel right to the readers. Plus, I couldn't see how the book would be rewritten when the MC was older due to the book's scope.

Not just a categorical failure, but a ticking time bomb.

It's one thing to write a bad book, another to write something people like and still be dead in the water. The worst part? How could I be sure the next few books I write wouldn't have the same problem?

The funny thing is, I already had a cover. I always draw as I write, and I'd hoped that my art would go along with my book as a package deal in some way. I knew I'd be assigned a cover by a publishing house, but I hoped to ask if they could use my art anywhere, even if not in the book, maybe just on my website.

I also have a wildly supportive husband who took me by the hand said we could save up for an editor.

And who was I writing for? The industry or readers?

No matter how I dug my heels in, it looked like being an indie author was the best fit.

That's how it all got started. It took two years, but we hired the perfect editor for my book. Then, finally, I was joyfully overwhelmed with a wonderfully marked-up manuscript that I could sink my teeth back into.

I still think self-publishing is a harder route if you're looking for pre-publication rejection like I am, but in the end, what works best for the book is the most important part.

So yeah, I self-published! Even punishment gluttons like myself can be Indy authors.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Winter Krane on Twitter @WinterKrane.