Sometimes I lose my way...

Do you believe it is never acceptable to put yourself first? Do you feel guilty if you don’t jam forty-eight hours of tasks into a six hour period? Do you force a brave smile and try to meet everyone else’s expectations even though you’re so exhausted you’d rather curl up in a corner and wish the world away?

If any of the above describes you, perhaps you’ve just lost your way.

I’ve come to realize life is much like making your way through a treacherous swamp. Sometimes what looks to be the safest patch of green grass turns out to be a sinkhole and before you know it, you’re up to your nose hairs in despair.

Despair is dangerously toxic. Complete loss of hope is fatal.

After surviving an abusive childhood, I still struggle to navigate this swamp. Even now, heavily armed with a supportive spouse and wonderful children, despair sometimes creeps in and poisons me. Hope leaves me and I wonder if my parents had a point. Maybe the world would have been better off without me. Maybe I was the greatest mistake they ever made.

Then just when my head is about to disappear below the surface, a firm gentle hand nudges me onto safe solid ground. Be it God, fate or my guardian angel smacking me on the back of the head to get my attention, I’m pulled free of the soul-sucking quagmire, given a good shake to ensure I’m listening and settled back on the path. I’m always left with the distinct impression that I have work yet to do. And to successfully complete that work, I must do as follows:

Take care of my body. I know it sounds simple but to a sedentary desk diva who lives on coffee, junk food and maybe one healthy meal a day, this was a big step. I’m happy to say I’m a month into my membership at a local Curves (women’s only gym) and three weeks into a nutritionally balanced diet. I feel more energized than I have in a very long time. It’s amazing what the right food and exercising with good friends can also do for the mind. Please don’t tell my doctor. He’ll just do the I-told-you-so dance. The jokes on him though. The healthier I get, the less he sees me.

When I leave the day job and go home, I leave work at work. My workload cares less if I live or die. Why should I grant it the power to kill me?

Give myself permission to be flexible. It’s okay if I don’t write every day and churn out a novel every three months. I started writing to escape stress and leave something behind once I’m gone. I’m thrilled to have four books published and a fifth under contract. I adore my readers and appreciate their kind words and support more than they’ll ever know. So, it’s okay to let the stories ease into “being”. Stories can’t be forced. Quality over quantity.

Be still and listen. Sometimes the answers can’t make their way through all the day to day chaos clogging up my mind. I disappear into the woods, breathe deep and listen.

Realize what really matters. What happens if the house isn’t spotless every single day? What happens if all the clothes aren’t washed and the sink is currently housing a day’s worth of dishes? What happens if I don’t take care of all these things before I collapse into bed? You know what happens? Nothing. They’ll get done eventually. I love exploring old cemeteries and reading the epitaphs. I can’t remember a single one that said: In loving memory of her clean house, starched clothes and spotless china.

Above all –watch for others who may have lost their way. Maybe I can help guide them to solid ground. After all, sometimes even a simple smile can light up a dreary swamp.

Don't get caught up in the "what if" game

February 18, 2011. Friday. A BIG day for me. I’ll always remember it. You see, on this wonderful day in my little world, I became “real”. My paranormal romance with The Wild Rose Press, BEYOND A HIGHLAND WHISPER launched into the world. Yay! It is released!

*Happy Sigh*

And then I start playing the “what if” game. I hope most of you aren't like me. I hope you’re so self-assured that nothing ever shakes you. But if you're not, then you know exactly how the game goes.

A wicked little voice whispers in your ear and nibbles away at any amount of self-esteem you ever thought about having. The voice plows through your fields of imagination, sowing noxious, stinging weeds.

1. What if nobody buys my story?
2. What if somebody DOES buy my story but doesn't like it?
3. What if I don’t get any reviews?
4. What if I DO get reviews but they’re bad ones?
5. What if I don’t do enough promo?
6. What if I do so much promo everyone cringes when they see my name?

You get the idea. I honestly believe in a previous life, I was a little dog who raced in circles snapping at his own tail. What will I do if I ever catch it?

Luckily, my husband and two daughters are all accustomed to this behavior. They shake their heads, roll up a newspaper and swat me. “Snap out of it! Look at everything you’ve accomplished. When are you going to start believing in yourself?” You should hear them.  The way they harmonize this mantra is very impressive.

I tell them I'll probably always be this way. Childhood demons and old habits die hard. Besides. Believing in me is THEIR job. I'm lucky they do it so well.

And since they are so very supportive, for their sakes, I will do my best to stop playing the "what if" game. I'm going to trade up and don a new and improved "whatever will be...will be" mindset. 

So. If you’d like a wee taste of my new story, here’s a bit for you to enjoy:

Beyond a Highland Whisper excerpt:


However, tonight Latharn was different. He didn’t go any further then the hungry possession of her mouth or the desperate, crushing embrace. Nessa sensed he needed this night to be different. His body tensed beneath her touch, he restrained his caress as if he wanted her to reason rather than just shatter into mindless bliss.

He raised his head and gazed into her eyes. Nessa flinched at the depths of pain and frustration etched in his face. He struggled, trying to communicate, to connect with her deepest emotions without the use of words. He took his palm, flattened it against his heart then placed it upon her chest. His brows drawn together in a questioning frown, he tilted his head and waited for a sign that she understood.

Her lower lip quivered at the very obvious gesture. Nessa whispered and covered his hand with hers. “Are you telling me you love me?” Her whisper caught in her throat.

One corner of his mouth pulled up into a relieved smile as Latharn nodded and brushed his lips across hers. He took a deep breath as though steeling himself against his own deepest fears. He took her hand and repeated the heart touching gesture from her chest to his. Then he raised a brow and awaited her answer, anxiety filling his eyes.

A lone tear escaped down her cheek as Nessa stared at her hand splayed upon his broad chest. “You know I love you,” she murmured with a moan. “I just wish that you were real.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, pulling her into his arms to cradle her against his chest. Holding her close, he stroked her hair as she gave way to tears.

Enjoy your days, my friends, and remember - whatever will be...will be! :-)

Buy Links:
The Wild Rose Press: http://tiny.cc/l68th
Amazon: http://tiny.cc/55d9j

Sage Advice

How do the very young become so very wise? My six year old granddaughter and I sat on the porch swing, enjoying the refreshing autumn breeze on a Sunday afternoon. She'd found a wondrous rock, all smooth and shining with the most interesting indentations around the circumference of its egg-shaped surface. This special rock exuded magical properties.  It was a wishing rock. She informed me we needed to hold this lucky rock against our foreheads, close our eyes and make our wishes. The rock allowed us each three wishes. I didn't know how she knew this, but such sincerity shone in her clear blue eyes, I didn't doubt her a bit.


She held the rock to her forehead, closed her eyes and made her wishes. Then she pressed the cool stone of promise against my brow so that I could make mine. I made my wishes. Who wouldn't take a chance at a little extra luck? I opened my eyes and asked her what else we should do to make certain our wishes came true? Did we need to keep them a secret? What were the wishing rock's rules?

Her eyes widened and she stared at me. "YaYa, don't you know the secret to making all your wishes come true?"

I squirmed a bit beneath such scrutiny, reluctant to admit the truth. "No. What's the secret?"

"It's easy," she said. "All you have to do is believe in yourself."

My heart swelled at the sincerity in her tone.  Such wise advice coming from one so young. She knew the secret and I didn't. I thanked her for teaching me such a simple lesson that I wish I'd learned long ago.

I'm a cracked pot and I'm proud!

How many times have you received those chain emails?  You know the ones.  They've got a cute story or some kind of neat saying and if you forward it to so many friends then good luck will beat down your door.  I tend to receive a lot of such emails.  I don't mind.  Sometimes, they're pretty cute but I rarely take the time to send them on.

However, the other day my daughter sent one that I found particularly touching.  She called me a cracked pot and I was honored. The following is the parable the "crack pot" email held.  If you've already seen it, I think it's worth repeating.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

An elderly woman had two large pots, each hung on the ends of a pole which she balanced across her shoulders.  One of the pots contained a crack while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water.  At the end of the long walks from the stream to her house, the cracked pot only arrived half full.  For two full years, the woman fetched water daily, bringing home only one and a half pots of water.

Of course, the perfect pot swelled with pride, boasting of its perfect performance.  The poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection and miserable that it could only do half of what it had been intended to do.

After two years of what it perceived to be bitter failure, one day by the stream, it spoke to the woman.  "I am ashamed of myself, because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your house."

The old woman smiled.  "Did you notice there are flowers on your side of the path, but nothing grows on the other pot's side?  That's because I've always known about your flaw.  I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back, you water them.  For two years, I've been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my simple table.  Without you being just the way you are, there would be no beauty to grace my house."

Then the email explained the obvious moral of the story: Each of us has our own unique flaws.  But it's the cracks and flaws that makes our lives together so very interesting and rewarding.  Accept each person for what they are and look for the good to be found within them.

So, I'm proud to be a cracked pot creating a path of beauty in this world.  How about you?