I am inventing new and creative ways to get myself out of going back to writing. Why? Well…I don’t know. Maybe it’s the overwhelming sense that as of February I haven’t released a book in a year, or that I’ve been too busy to procrastinate so I have the undying need to catch up?

All in all, things are coming from it—creative and wholesome worldly things.

For instance, I am practicing pointillism with Sharpie pens. Which is basically stabbing a piece of paper a million times in order to make a picture out of all of those tiny little dots.

I’ve also picked up learning American Sign Language and have to say that my retention so far is 100%, though, to be fair, I’ve only done two lessons so far.

And why have I decided on ASL? Well, I started learning it with my grandfather a few years ago who had been growing increasingly more deaf. When he got sick, we stopped, and I never picked it up again. But, now my interest is renewed and I’m in full practice mode, husband included.

Creativity needs an outlet no matter what and even though my outlet isn’t currently writing, I still think about it all of the time.

I’m also growing from my new experiences.

That has to be worth some points, doesn’t it?

Happy New Year!

I wish I could concoct something profound out of the ether today in celebration of adding a +1 to the count of our lives, however…I am just about off of vacation and my brain refuses to leave its imaginary island early.

Things didn’t end on a fantastic note last year, despite all of the best laid plans I had charted, mapped, demanded of my life, and I am well on my way to accepting that. The chant of “this year has to be better” has been on my lips, and thus far, it feels exactly the same. I have also accepted that things feel the same until you make them feel different.

So…

“New Year, New Me” is a saying that has left my vocabulary, because let’s face it…you’ll always be the same you, it’s just how you attack your goals, and nothing feels quite like the perfect restart than the 1/1/XXXX.

For me? My plans have already been altered by a week because I chose to delay them and my goal for this year is to not suffocate myself by being rigid and punishing my lack of motivation on the backside. Can we say “vicious cycle”? Also, a friend has charged me with the idea that anytime I say something negative about myself I have to bump it with two positives…

And if that isn’t a big enough goal, I’m not sure what is.

So here we are in 2019, same me, sitting here in pajamas I stole from my mother after I took a shower at her house because my hot water heater decided it was also done with 2018 and sacrificed itself to the swiss cheese gods. I have just purchased my planner, a notebook I didn’t need, and I believe the rest of my focus this week will be planning the rest of the month, organizing my office, and preparing myself for Monday.

Because that is when the work starts, and this same me works on being the best me possible.

I’m not going to make excuses for my lack of blogging, it is what it is. Forgetful, neglectful, lazy. It happens.

Maybe too much? But when I get taken out of routine—which has been happening, a lot—bad things happen. Like I forget to do what I probably should be doing in order to get more interest from future publishers?

If that’s a thing?

I kind of hope it’s not because clearly, if I can’t keep up with blogging every week then timelines and I are not the best of friends—punctuality is important kids. Or so the world makes you believe.

I’m not going to lie and say I don’t prefer Gandalf’s view on time, or that I haven’t fantasized about going away for a month, throwing away all of my clocks and only doing things when I feel like it. Circadian Rhythm and all that. I feel like it’d be incredibly freeing (and disorienting) to not live by the tick of a clock.

Anyway, back to this whole blogging thing.

I have things I need to do/accomplish/etc. and sometimes a lack of motivation to do so. Being in a writing slump for a few months has taught me absolutely nothing about myself I didn’t already know, but committing to NaNoWriMo, having some disagreements with my writing, then finding my way is helping me more than I could imagine.

I feel good.

Now all I need is the motivation to take down my current books, change up my website to reflect future goals and just keep swimming. (That’s a joke, but also fact because I’m going back to the gym today with the singular purpose of turning into a fish.)

However in all of my darkened lameness and insecurities there was a decidedly bright and, well, shining moment.

I did vote.

Yay.

A stiff breeze can derail my motivation. This week that started off with a strange wave of progress was upended by a simple power outage event. Pesky storms knocked over a neighbor’s tree that decided a power line would be a good place to rest, and bam, there went day three of some damn fine progress.

I think my brain recognized this pattern of feeling good, progress then a sudden and abrupt end when I miss one thing on the list of things to do, or as the original deadline passed me by, and decided to remind me that it has been a reoccurring thing my whole life…because it made me dream about it.

Take school for instance. I’d be going along great, be motivated, then miss one thing. One assignment, one class due to illness and it was like I could never get it back. There was some mental block that kept me from going forward, like some odd wave of embarrassment that said “well, you’re behind now, screw doing the logical thing and going back, catching up and continuing.” And it wouldn’t have to be something big, but it would suck every atom of motivation away like a black hole, and there I’d be. Stuck in a rut (really a grave, depending on the situation) with no where to go. I don’t know why I never asked for help, or simply explained this to someone to see what we could do…other than that choking embarrassment I had developed for whatever reason.

So, yes…my dreams for the last two nights have been stark reminders (as I’ve been thrown back into high school and college both evenings) that this is not something new…and perhaps remind me that I can change this pattern, no matter how difficult it may be.

So, I was going to skip this blog post, because it’s Friday and I am supposed to be posting on Thursday, but then thought that was absolutely ridiculous. The day doesn’t matter in the end, just the fact that I make an effort is good enough.

Growing up is hard, man.

Years ago, too many years ago, I picked up a series of books in high school from the library. It was known as the Darkangel trilogy by Meredith Anne Pierce. They were high fantasy novels, and apparently very popular, having quite the following.

I devoured those books. Read one a day even though I was in school, no doubt hiding them away behind textbooks until I could read freely between classes, during lunch, and when I got home to lay on the floor with a pillow and continue.

On the third book, I was hooked, heart beat racing, eyes searching for the ending I’d been waiting for and instead, ended up heartbroken. I mean I was a teen aged, sobbing, hiccuping mess. Because that woman decided to end a trilogy in a horrible way. It was that day I decided that even if I wrote tragic stories, there’d be no way I was ever going to drag someone through multiple books only to crush their hopes and dreams.

When I thought of these books the other day, I couldn’t remember the name of them, just that I had written them down in the back of one of my journals and that I hated them with the burning passion of a thousand suns. So, I looked in my journal, found the list of books, then found them on Goodreads. Now, as much as I wanted to write a heavy handed review, it was many, many moons ago that I read them…and what if I had just been overreacting as a child?

It is safe to say, that after reading some of the reviews on Goodreads for the third book, I was not alone.

Validation feels good, man.

I flipped through a few pages of my journal, just to see if there was anything else relevant, perhaps some “dear diary” entry that expressed my utter sorrow on completing the trilogy, and instead, I found a bucket list.

It was written in high school, had some common things that I’d imagine to be on most people’s lists when they’re fourteen and desperate to figure out what the world is really like. But to my utter surprise, and growing joy…the number one thing on my bucket list had nothing to do with anyone else. It wasn’t getting a boyfriend, getting married, or having a family of my own…but it was something utterly selfish, determined, a dream that I wanted to come true more than anything else…

1. Write a book.

Sometimes when you’re accomplishing your dream, you forget how much you wanted it, how much you loved the idea of it. It gets lost in the politics, in self doubt, in the muck of everyday life and even when accomplished it doesn’t feel like it’s enough. But to my younger self, if she could see me now?

You better believe it’d mean something to her.

I wrote a book.

Validation feels good, man.

In a few days it will be Malefica’s one year anniversary of publication. A “Book Birthday” as it’s called which was also released on my birthday. It was a bucket list kind of thing, I wanted to publish something before I was thirty, and made it by the skin of my teeth.

As first books go, it sucks. Not the kind of suck of “it’s not redeemable,” because I still love the story, it just sucks in the “I was nervous, it was first, and rushed, and…and…” way, so I’ve decided to update the book, and its sister.

I know that moving in a backward direction when it comes to most things is a negative, but I find myself unable to take pride in my work, and that’s a problem. I’m shy to begin with, but when someone asks me what my book is called and I give a nervous laugh and try to convince them not to purchase it instead of supporting myself, that’s a problem.

One that I’m going to rectify.

So…this is my official announcement—Malefica is about to get a serious upgrade, or two. As a matter of fact, the “duology” of books will no longer exist as they are known now. Malefica and Damonium will keep their current covers, their backbone story lines, but will be losing their names, grow more detailed (in the case of Malefica more than Daemonium, who I am far more proud of) and expand into something that I can wave at the masses and tell them to give it a chance without adding the subtext of “take pity on me, I was so young and knew so little.” (Because, you know…I was so young a year ago.)

And they’ll be getting a twisted sister in the form of a triplet to make this series a full trilogy.

It is important as an author to have a backlist of books that I’m sure will always be embarrassing in some way, but ones that you can be proud of as being your first publications. Ones that can be enjoyed for what they are—a beginning to a long career of doing what is loved.

These books will also be pitched to a few bigger publishers, so it will be at least six months (give or take, here’s hoping for the take) before the updated versions are re-released, and the last book is published. I am hoping the wait is worth it, and this new trilogy finds a comfortable home and stamp of approval.

So, hello, book birthday, and goodbye Malefica and Daemonium.

Hello future investments and endeavors.

Hello learning and growing.

And hello:

The Malevolent

The Demonic

And….

The Corrupt.

So I was wondering when you’re considered to no longer be a new author. A year? Two? Does it depend on how many books you write, or how many reviews you get?

This curiosity comes from a place of feeling like I do now, as an adult. Am I really an adult? I mean, honestly? Sure, I’m married, I pay bills, cook and clean, have a house and a dog and a car…but I don’t really feel like an adult and I am days away from turning thirty-one.

As an author I still feel like I’m wading in the kiddy pool. Floundering under a waterfall that is both refreshing and condescending because I can swim in more than a foot of water, damn it. And who put floaties on me?! At the same time, if you throw me in the deep end I’ll probably just cry and sink because I am positively unsure of myself.

I know stuff…and things. But not a ton of stuff and things? My talents (if you can call them that) are placed firmly in the writing category of the book world. I suck at editing (also known as I’d rather be slow roasted in the eternal flames of a thousand suns than edit), I cannot graphically design anything, I don’t know how to format, and if you ask me to summarize my book…when I open my mouth all that will come out is a screech of despair.

And how does one actually submit a book to anyone?

So, please…dear authors or experts, or anyone that knows anything about anything…am I an adult in the book world yet? Or should I take my 2.5 publications and sit in that foot of water? And how do I get promoted?

These are the questions I need answered in my life, currently.

Note: In case this has never been explained before, a 15 minute challenge is a writing challenge where you give someone a location and a color and they have to create a story based around those two things on a fifteen minute timer. It's a good warm-up and can lead to interesting results.

Color-Teal/Location-Classroom

The color was offensive. It was offensive to the eyes, to the brain and to most everyone who had to look at it and suffer. It could have, perhaps, been better if it wasn’t for the drone of the professor who held no regard for the interesting and wore a suit that clashed with the hideous teal of his backdrop. The room could have been bearable if the students hadn’t been packed in like sardines, sucking up what little oxygen there was and leaving behind heat and silent misery.

She stared intently out of the dingy window on her left, chin in hand, elbows resting on the brown desk she was lucky enough to snag and wished she were anywhere but there. The voice of the professor was little more than an annoying buzz in the back of her mind which wondered far away from that repulsive room to somewhere untouchable by all else.

He watched her from across the classroom, his hand moving over the sketch pad with gliding effortlessness. He penciled her short brown hair, the jade earrings that dangled from her lobes to the plain red t-shirt she sported. The desk was a brief line, in the way of what he wanted, forgotten as soon as the stroke was completed so he could move down past her jeans, to her sneaker covered feet, dusty and used. He craved to know where she was, staring out of that window, desperate to join her. The noise coming from the professor’s mouth was clear as a bell, but it moved in one ear and out of the other as he continued to create and wonder.

Blue eyes watched his beautiful hand move across the white crisp paper with an ease that made her ache. She was attempting to pay attention to the lecture, but her eyes kept finding the young man drawing the short-haired girl by the window. She considered what he was so captivated by and wished, only for a moment, he would look her way and notice her. Time ticked by as the simple portrait blossomed with life and seconds compacted into minutes until they had all but run out.

“There will be a quiz on this tomorrow.” It wasn’t the voice alone, but the shift of bodies, the scraping of chairs that drew each one back to reality.

Three pairs of eyes focused, three heads turned and looked to the front of the class, and all were blinded by that hated teal.

I have depression.

It’s a medical condition, hereditary, I’m not medicated because most of the time I wrestle it to the ground, muzzle it with some good music and try to live by the rule of “fake it ‘til you make it.” The words “I’m fine” are ones I state often during the times where my depression instead muzzles me and wrestles me to the ground, and are often untrue. I’m very rarely fine when I say that. I am usually moments away from melting into a puddle of useless goo, or am strung together so tightly that I could either break into a million pieces or scream myself hoarse.

Very rarely do I allow myself to decompress in a way that would be unhelpful to those around me. I tend to hovel myself away where I wallow and work things over in my mind to an unbearable level, have a good cry and start the upswing.

Being a writer means that these downticks of depression really get in my way. I mean…they really get in my way. Everything is horrible, the world is ending, I’m never going to get anywhere, no one cares to read what I write…and all of that may be true, but if I do what my depression asks me to, it absolutely would be.

Throw in the towel, it says. You’ve published two books, it’s a good stopping point, it lulls. You’ve set out to do something, and you did it, now you can just…stop.

It’s like there’s a shadow that is comfortably sitting on my shoulder, hissing the words into my mind, which then repeats the words to me over, and over again, because in these moments my brain is nothing but a parrot for the negative.

I guess it’s ironic then that my author tagline is “pulling stories from shadows”, because I have my own personal shadow that I really should start funneling off of. Only if it were that easy, only if I wrote something that could be entwined with these strong emotions and this negative energy to twist it into something tangible, something other than whispers and grating emotions that could wear a person weary, all the way down into the bones.

If I could manage it, I’d like to write my depression, bind it into a book and every time it decides it’s going to sit on my shoulder I’d be able to take that book and hurl it across the room.

Yell at it.

Tell it no — very sternly, like speaking to an animal. Finger pointed and everything.

Things aren’t always that simple, however, and though my depression makes me think of a great many things, writing those things takes energy that I never have in the moment. And when that moment is gone? No one wants to go back to it, they just want to run away from it, put it behind them, leave it in the dust and the dark where it belongs.

Take their moments to breathe, while they can.

You see the thing is my depression is right. I set out to do something. I set out to become a published author by the time I was thirty, and I’ll be thirty-one in about three months and have published two books and written in an anthology for charity. It’s over, thirty came and is on its way out, my books are at a good stopping point, I could just quit.

But what my depression doesn’t understand, what sometimes I feel like I don’t understand about myself, when I know that I’ve hit my goal and it still feels like there’s nothing to celebrate, and I’m left wondering why I’m doing this then? It’s because I’m not done.

I want more. I want to write more. I want to see more of my books on my bookshelf. I won’t be pinned down or settled until I write the words down into my bones where the weariness has set in, until they can snuggle right down in with the cracks of depression and give them a pat, a nudge, the finger, anything.

I want my writing to define me, for myself. When I wake up in the morning, even on those depressed days I don’t want to hear my mind whisper first “I’m depressed”, I want it to whisper “I’m an Author.”

And if the depression comes after it? That’s okay, because it will no longer be what defines me.

The question that you must ask yourself at the end of the day, when everything is feeling hopeless, pointless, dark or muddied is…what do you want to define you? And whose ass do you have to kick to get there, even if it’s your own?

Sirenby Jo-Anne Joseph3.5 Stars

A Catchy Read for A Dark or Rainy Day

As strange as it may be to say, the quotes in between certain chapters of this book was my favorite part about this read. For me it was an added bump that made me want to continue to turn the pages and was styled very appealingly. Unfortunately, I had the considerable twist well figured out when I hit just over a quarter of the way through the book, which was no surprise as I am well known as the spoiler of well-wrapped gifts in my family. I was compelled, however, to continue to read on to see how it would end and am happy to say that I was not disappointed.

Though there was one place where I had to go and read back a bit to make sure I was understanding something correctly for a scene/memory jump, it was easy to follow along with the flow of the story as the struggle of the characters unfolded.

Because of this book, I will be looking into other books by this author and very much look forward to seeing how she continues to grow in the future with her writing!

Blurb:

Nothing in life is ever monochrome. I discovered that a long time ago, And with all such lessons, I learned it the hard way. Dark cannot exist without light. Night can’t occur without day. Despair can’t flourish without hope. I couldn’t live without her, She can’t survive without me. She was meant to be my protector. It was us against the world. Allies. Partners. Instead, she became my worst fear. I allowed that despair to grow and fester. I let it mar me, then, almost destroy me. I realized something had to give. This time, there is no turning back. When the siren calls to you, You unwillingly answer. Question is… Would I survive the fall?

About The Author

Jo-Anne Joseph is an indie contemporary romance author, dreamer, doer, artist with a flair for creating stories about the seemingly impossible and second chance romance. Along with a passion for writing, she is an avid reader and enjoys painting and coloring. She also has a deep love for poetry and prose. Her lifelong love affair with words started at a young age and resulted in her debut novel Infinity.

Jo-Anne is a business professional by day and also writes on a volunteer basis for on-line publication Still Standing Magazine and the website Glow in the Woods. Her articles have been republished in several newsletters.

Jo-Anne lives in Johannesburg South Africa which provides the inspiration for the settings in her novels, with her husband Brian and their beautiful son Braydon.

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.

Maya Angelou -

Sea of Thieves has taken over the lives of me and mine. But mostly mine. He is getting to live out a childhood dream due to the creation of a game from Rare Ltd. and Microsoft that allows you to create a pirate, sail on a sloop or a galleon on missions to destroy skeletons, collect items (pigs, chickens, and cobras you have to play music to so they don’t spit in your face), and dig up buried treasure with detailed “X marks the spot” maps.

Sunken ships and hidden reefs to explore, messages in bottles, and real time canon battles to sink other pirates who may attack you or try to steal your loot have sucked my husband into a pretty (albeit still buggy) world and I find myself excited for him and the prospect of the future.

With the soon release of the movie Ready Player One, adapted from the 2011 novel of the same name from author Ernest Cline (which is on my watch and read list) we are now living in an age where the premise of Science Fiction stories and ideas are becoming reality in cases and it makes me excited to be alive in a time where not everything is so exciting. We are living in a world where technology now gives life to works of fiction that could never be created before in a realistic way, and where we can slip on a headset like the Oculus Rift and walk around, move, duck and cover in games that our brains perceive as a great deal more realistic than any other form of entertainment to be had until now.

Aside from the ongoing morality, violence, and equality debates about this subject matter, as a female gamer who has played violent games since I was a young age, and not done terrible things because of it, I can say that this is an aspect of the future I’m looking forward to more and more. This is an adventurous step forward for humanity that doesn’t equal to being destructive towards others in the real world (for us grounded people), or the environment and can make the dreams of some individuals into heart pounding realities. It’s a technology that can be used for greater purposes, for the essential “good” of humanity as a whole if people have the vision to utilize it correctly.

I’m sure that I had some point to this, bookish even that was going to be grand, but it was lost as I was texted by two people, messaged by one then began to read the news because I have the attention span of a raccoon around shiny objects.

More later.

An uphill battle is what I’d call writing. A struggle to keep your feet under you, breathe at the appropriate times and remember to drink water, not flavored by coffee beans and heated to a cozy temp.

In this struggle we grasp at blades of grass, roots, anything to help us claw our way up to the finish line by way of talking to others, posting things on social media, using the internet as a happy distraction, reading article after article and collecting books like “The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Writing a Novel” (Yeah, I totally own that.) They give advice, tips, “rules” on what to do, what not to do, how they’ve perfected their craft, how you can too…even though writing is personal, and there is no golden ticket to the end with fame and fortune.

And as most of those articles about writing help state, it’s important to have a support team to assist in pushing, pulling, shoving, and dragging you up that hill, or simply talk to you smugly from the top until you force yourself to stumble up there just to pummel them. But what the articles don’t tell you, is that even with this lonely business, even with the support team helping you build a solid foundation, sometimes it won’t be enough for your heart.

If you’re writing, if you’re doing what you were born to do, if you are trying every day, even if it’s just to get out of bed, someone, somewhere is proud of you.

I am.

I know the struggle, I live it. I stare at that hill—that’s really more of a mountain where the peak is hidden by the clouds—and I’ve felt the hollowness of the realization that even if my support team loves me, and is proud of me, they don’t know how much this endeavor really, truly means to me. Sometimes it feels like they’re not excited enough when I release a book, or don’t understand my wild mood swings when it’s crunch time and I’m a chicken running without a head.

But just remember, you’re not alone. There are people who understand what you’re going through, who are struggling right next to you.

I’ve got two books down and I still absolutely do not have the hang of this…

At least I have thirty-ish more to go to practice on….

Dearest Moonchild (that’s me),

You have been complaining about editing for three days now, and I am tired of hearing about it. It’s not as if it’s not easy to add in the corrections that are already given to you, scan over your work and fix the repeats and the annoying little things that got by during writing. If you’d do this, you could let loose, add in those scenes that you need to adjust and then send it back to your editor for a second round of red ink. Do this, get it over with, and stop complaining.

Sincerely,

The Rational Side of You

I miss my grandfather.

It’s not every moment of every day, but I guess for me it’s not supposed to be that way. He wasn’t my father, we didn’t live right next door to each other but I miss him in those moments so much I wonder if my heart won’t fracture in my chest because of it.

Sometimes I get angry because he’s not here for me to talk to, I get upset because I have questions I want to ask him that I’m sure I trust no one else to answer.

Things remind me of him, random things that catch me so off guard I lose my breath in the moment and struggle to maintain an even look on my face.

When I’m at his house though, I don’t miss him nearly as much. I’m surrounded by his mountain, his garden, the pond he built in the backyard where the fish he picked out still swim. I can sit in his chair, the comfortable leather one that was rarely taken over by anyone else. It kind of hugs you, so it too makes me feel more at ease. It’s like he’s just gone golfing and is about to talk through the door at any moment.

I have a recording of him singing, of him talking, more pictures than I can count on both hands and both feet - more memories than I can shake a stick at. I have books that he’s given me, I see the birds outside and can name them only because of him. And I still have things from him I can learn from, I can grow from.

In his last months of life, I got the privilege of being by his side, of holding his hand almost every day, of being the little girl that used to call him her hero, to being the grown woman, a “hero” he looked for when he was nervous about things happening around him.

We got to be scared together, we got to be sad together and while I was comforting him, he was comforting me.

“I had a good life.” He’d say.

God, don’t I know it.

You’ve lived more in your one lifetime that most could live in two. You learned everything you could, and helped so many people through your years I now wonder how you managed it.

You raised three very different, very wonderful people who grew up to have their own families who I might be bias to say are all wonderful in their own ways.

But I miss you.

I can’t tell you that I have finally written a book - you can’t read it. You can’t see the second oldest grandchild who is about to graduate high school, who stood so bravely at your memorial service at my side, or the way she held me up no matter how she was feeling herself, always checking on me. Or how fast your grandson is growing up, almost taller than your wonderful wife - who has to be the strongest person I know. You can’t see your youngest granddaughter’s artwork, her creativity who is growing like a weed herself, which you’d marvel at.

I can’t ask you what kind of tree is in the backyard…

About faith…

How I can possibly fix a shattered relationship with someone who I will always love no matter if I learn to forgive them or not.

I miss the way you always said “thank you” every time someone kissed your bald head.

I miss your laugh.

I miss the way you danced with your wife, and the picture I took so many years ago isn’t enough for me even though you both are smiling your best smiles.

I was finally old enough to appreciate everything you could have taught me, to hear all of the stories you had, to recount all of the stars in the sky with you.

The time we get is never enough, it never will be - but I’ll see you again. One day I’ll become the stars too and you can teach me all about the next adventure.

I love you more.

Life never ends, it just changes.

There are things as children that we are taught by our wonderful, hardworking parents - look both ways before you cross the street, don’t touch the stove, no, don’t put that piece of metal in the light socket - but there are some things that maybe I was taught and have forgotten or things that I wish I had been taught. So I figured I’d share them…

-“People can change.” I’ve heard those words many times in my life, and always with a positive spin. Change is good, people can change, therefore give people a chance because they could become something greater than they were.

However, what wasn’t also drilled in me is that people can change in the opposite direction. A friend who used to be close could have made a poor decision in life and decided not to live up to the needed standard for you to maintain the friendship. A family member that used to be someone that you revered slipped from that spot with how they’ve treated you over time. People can change, and it’s okay to let them go if that change brings you to a place where it’s harming you to attempt to stay close with them.

-“Why do I have to see them?” “They’re family, they’re your blood.” As a child I saw my family as the ideal sort of family. Sure, there were ups and downs because everyone in my family is in fact human (beside the dogs) but from the perspective of kid me, the close-knit relationships were amazing.

I’ve heard the phrase over and over again that family is family because of blood, because of roots, and family is supposed to take care of family for these facts and I never gave it much thought until I was older, until my view was expanded past my own family and experiences.

You see, my husband was adopted from a woman that clearly wasn’t family to his own but his adoptive parents took care of him, raised him, and tried their best to do what parents do…but the words “they’re blood” is meaningless to him.

You could point out a cousin twice removed that he’s never met before in his life and he’d shrug with indifference about never meeting them and move about his day. It isn’t the fact that he’s uncaring of their existence, he just doesn’t see the need to go up to someone who he’s never spoken to in his life, who he’ll likely never see again and run down a line of pleasantries just to appease the argument that family is family, which is apparently supposed to mean something.

On the other hand there is the perspective where you take a person who you grew up with, who is your blood, who morphed into someone far less recognizable to your younger kid self, and there is this constant struggle of guilt over the fact that they’re “family” that there has to be something done to maintain the relationship, that blood is “thicker than water” which apparently means there is some eternal, non-scientific tie that binds you together, that obligates you to put yourself in a position that you wouldn’t do for a mere acquaintance. Whew, that was a long run on sentence…

Those examples bring me to a point, a very specific one that I’ve been pondering for a while based off of my own personal (very personal opinions, so please, take it as such and if you happen to agree or if it helps you with something, then yay!) views of family. Blood is indeed thicker than water, that’s a scientific fact, but it stays in a persons own, self serving body and genetic code aside is about as meaningless as said water.

It doesn’t define what “family” is, in the emotional sense.

A common ancestry path is only relevant for which woman you popped out of, to the woman they popped out of and so on and so forth and can tell you that that dresser over there was owned by your great-great-great-great grandmother so it might be worth some money (unless you’re the kind of people who deep into their “Yeah, I’m Irish!” roots and traditions, but seeing how I’m an American mutt you have to keep in mind we don’t really have much of those traditions.) Or to see if you’re more likely to have twins down the line, or high blood pressure.

Getting off point again. But really the tl:dr (means - too long;didn’t read) point of this is, is that family is what YOU make it to be, and who you make it out of. Family is your Mom and Dad, or just one parent, or no parents. It’s your husband and wife or kids, or just your best friend and their parents. It can be a group of friends who have no relation to you what so ever…leaving out the people who are defined as “family” because of their genetic disposition to yours.

But the most important thing of all? Just because “they’re blood” doesn’t mean you ever, ever have to sacrifice yourself, your well being, or your emotional state on their behalf. A one sided relationship, or a harmful relationship where you’re the only one trying to improve isn’t something to hold onto for any excuse be it your good intentions, your past feelings, or for the sake of that other person.

Do not be someone’s stepping stone for any reason.

People can change, and it’s not always for the better.

Bonus: - “Don’t eat the cookie dough, you’ll get salmonella.” Seriously? I’m going to take my chances with the salamanders or whatever.

I’m sure there was a coherent thought in there somewhere, I just hope it actually made sense among the rambling.

I'm a YA author, right? So it's only natural (not being all that old myself) that I'd start to utilize what resources are left to me to promote myself, and others on social media, yeah?

So I'm using that as an excuse to create a tumblr, which I have to say will probably give me TONS more entertainment than this website will (because who doesn't like pictures/gifs/videos of cats?) In doing so I know I am possibly enslaving myself to more reasons for procrastination but let's just say we're doing this for...science?

For...love?

For mental health reasons!

It's so addictive...

Because everyone wants to know about the animals, I present to you, Io - the wonder mutt and "his" cat, PK - who's named Predator Kitty.

Today I am feeling rather adult and accomplished as I have slowly but surely edited this site to make it my own. It's not the biggest deal in the world since, after all, the site basically does everything for you as you go along, but I did have to adjust some things and thus we have the (mostly) finished project.

So far today I have figured out how to edit this, that I cannot drink coffee on an empty stomach, that if I go to bed too early I have strange and sometimes horrifying dreams, and the exact date on which my first novel will be joining the ranks of so many others in the stream.

It may not float, it may sink right to the bottom but it's still mine.

I have accomplished something tangible.

I, K.D. Martin, am an author.

More to come later!