She asks after her grandchildren and great-grandchildren when we talk on the phone. I had a bit of a moan about one of my daughters-in-law last time Mum and I chatted, and she reminded me of how we were often at loggerheads when my boys were little.

Mum constantly advised me on parenting, often in a very forceful manner. “She won’t listen!” I told my husband. “We do things differently nowadays, but she insists she knows how to do it the right way, and I’m wrong. We fight all the time. I dread her coming to the house. And we used to get on so well. I don’t think our relationship will survive it.”

It did.

Back then, babies were laid on their side in the crib, with a pillow behind them to stop them rolling on their backs, a bumper pad all around. Mum insisted Heath should be on his stomach. When we stayed with her, I’d check on him and find him on his stomach and have to turn him. Asking Mum to not roll him was a waste of breath.

He formed the delightful habit of banging the back of his head against the wall. Mum said he’d damage his brain.

I was alert the entire time we stayed with Mum when the boys reached the crawling/standing up stage. No gates to stop them crawling upstairs or falling down them. No safety knobs on the cooker to stop them turning on the burners. Not only were knives and other sharp objects left on the kitchen counters, Mum kept a little step in the kitchen so she could reach the top cabinets. My boys soon learned how to get up on it.

Mum said, “You grew up all right.”

I responded, “We didn’t grow up, we survived!”

Heath was tired every evening around six or seven o’clock, but I kept him awake until nine. He’d only nap for an hour, and then be up the rest of the night. Mum said I was cruel. Tom and I went on vacation to Scotland and Wales when Heath was 10 months. I called home after two days. “I’m exhausted,” Mum said. “Heath was up until two in the morning.”

I said, “You let him fall asleep in the evening, didn’t you.”

These are just a few examples of how we disagreed.

But now I’m a grandmother and I’ve turned into my mother. I am somewhat hampered in the “trying to correct obviously deficient parents” department, because I don’t have daughters. I do have daughters-in-law. Do I agree with every aspect of their care of my grandchildren? Damn right I don’t. But they are not my daughters and I don’t feel I can come right out and say anything. I make subtle little comments, usually to my grandchildren. Mum did the same. I recall her saying to one of my brother’s boys, “Poor little chap. No wonder you’re so cranky in the morning, as late as you stay up every night.”

So there we were, thirty years later, chatting about it in a light-hearted way. “Weren’t we silly,” Mum said.

A mother and a grandmother, I see both sides now.

There are always exceptions to every “rule,” but grandmothers don’t, as a rule, think their daughters or daughters-in-law are stupid and incapable of caring for their children. They don’t interfere for interference sake. No matter how they try to guard their tongues, they can’t help butting in now and then. All of us are positive we know best at one time or another. Perhaps your mother drives you crazy, sticking her nose in where you don’t think she has a right to be. But perhaps, if you look at it from both sides, you’ll see she is driven by a grandmother’s love for her grandchildren.

Mum and I laugh about it now. It’s just another in endless examples of how kids don’t understand their parents any more than parents understand their kids, this time in the context of young mothers, their mothers and parenting. What a shame we have to grow up before we understand our parents’ motivations, but that’s the way it is and will be. I know I often said to myself, “I won’t do/say/act that way when I’m a mother.” And of course, when I became a mother and faced the challenges, I often did/said/acted just as Mum had.

Mum and I were not at odds all the time. She was my rock in so many ways and still is. No matter our differences, she gave her children the most valuable commodity in the world. A mother’s love. A grandmother’s love.

And for the past fifteen years, a great-grandmother’s love.

I’m looking forward to the time when she’s a great-great-grandmother. We’ll watch the interaction between the latest generations and know just what they’re going through. And we’ll probably give each other knowing looks and have a jolly good chuckle.

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Spring came early this year.  I don’t look at a date on the calendar to tell me when spring arrives. Spring arrives when the first wild onion blooms in May. But Mother Nature fooled us. Wild onion bloomed the middle of April and is already dying. Normally, snow is just disappearing from the bottom of the driveway and snowdrops and daffodils are poking from the soil. Now, daffodils, tulips and hyacinth in full bloom are rioting down there. Perennials seem to sprout up overnight. And the damned weeds.

Mother Nature has disrupted my schedule.  I’ll have to get out and work on the garden soon. Not to mention doing something about the state of the house.

In Demon on a Distant Shore, Tiff Banks waxes lyrical about sunshine. “Sunshine is marvelous, not only because we need it to survive, but for how it makes us feel.” Right now I’m cursing the sunshine. It cheerfully illuminates the dust, grime, cobwebs, dirty windows and all the trash the animals bring inside on their furry bodies. So spring cleaning is also in the works.

I hate anything that takes me away from writing, but real life can’t be ignored.

Fortunately, I’ve just finished my first edit of Mindbender, so I can take a break and attend to some of the mundane stuff. Mindbender is my first love, my first book. Published in 2008, I unpublished it when I realized my writing was less than satisfactory. Then Whisperings distracted me, but I’ve always meant to get back to Mindbender. It’s soft sci-fi/fantasy. You won’t find any highly technical scientific terms you don’t understand. There are no epic space battles. It’s about people who are on a quest that challenges their self-perception and personal values, who are not always correct in their beliefs and assumptions, and if you’ve read Whisperings you know I like to write about folk who are not what they appear to be.

I have to go now, gather my mops and brooms, buckets and dusters. If I can remember where I left them last year.

Melissa A. Smith

A common question people ask a writer is what made them decide to sit down and start writing in the first place. For me, it was grief.

While in high school, I wrote. I had taken journalism and the teacher loved my writings. Two pieces of my work had been published in two different school publications. I was also asked to join the staff for the school paper, but declined. I just didn’t like writing the things wanted for a paper. I liked creating stories to take you places. Inventing new worlds and people to live in them. I stopped writing after getting out of school and didn’t start again for several long years.

December 2008 had started like any other December before it. I was out shopping for those perfect gifts for each member of my family, and loving every minute of it. By my side was my shopping partner. My mom. My best friend. This year was a little different, as we made our rounds trying to get most of her shopping done earlier than her normal pace of slow (she was known to be out shopping as late as Christmas Eve), because she was set to have her final knee replacement surgery on the 19^th. That day was also the last day of work I had before school let out for Christmas Break.

We had almost done everything she’d wanted to have done, done. But there were still a few things to gather, like stocking stuffers and things of that nature. She went in for her surgery and everything went great! The last time she’d been in the hospital, for the first knee 6 months prior, she’d contracted hospital-acquired pneumonia. Her doctor, wanting her to be healthy for the rigorous knee therapy that follows two days after surgery, released her the following day. The 20^th.

Wanting to forgo giving you all the details, I received a phone call early on the 21^st. A phone call no one wants to get. My father, who’d awoken to find his partner for the past 34 years gone, couldn’t make that call. The responding police officer had to do it for him. Pneumonia had taken her from us.

So started my decent into grief.

We were supposed to do some shopping before I took her to physical therapy that day. We were supposed to do a lot of things during my break, because she too had it off for recovery.

Instead, I had to help my dad organize a funeral.

During the year and a half that followed, I read over 230 books. All while working full time and tending to a family.

It was the start of summer vacation in 2010 when I’d run out of books to read. I dove into spending time with my boys and vegging at the pool daily. I thought it had been long enough, and maybe the grief wouldn’t be so sharp. I was wrong. Without having someplace for my mind to wander, to live in, I was a mess of tears.

It was then I’d woke up in the middle of the night, leaving a dream that made my brain buzz. I tried to shake it off, leave it where I found it. In my dreams. But it wanted to be let out. So I sat down in secret and started writing.

At first when my family noticed my switch from books to the computer and all my constant typing, they asked what I was doing. I lied. I told them I was writing to my sister who lives in Texas. At first they bought it, but as the typing went on, they were puzzled as to why I didn’t just call her and talk to her. Again, I lied. But this time I said she’d asked me to write down some things about our mom.

While they still were puzzled by all the clicking going on at the keyboard, they left me alone.

Three months later, I’d written and finished my first novel. Cloud Nine. During that time I also started on another story which I finished and released four months later. 

While writing started out as therapy for a grieving soul, it is now something I must do to keep all the exciting characters quiet. I love it! I only wish it could have developed without such dark beginnings, but nonetheless, my mother would be proud.

******

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My first few months as a new mother in England were difficult. When I came home with my son, my husband had flu. He couldn’t help in any way. I thought I had to carry on as always, keeping the house clean, doing laundry, shopping, as well as caring for a new baby. I hemorrhaged, although not seriously enough to get treatment. My baby didn’t feed well, he stayed awake most of the night. I was exhausted.

At the local Well Baby Clinic, mothers sat in a circle with their babies, with the local nurse in attendance. One by one, they talked about their children. When it came to my turn, I said, “He’s awful. He won’t take his milk, he never sleeps. Sometimes I wish I’d never had him.”

The nurse looked at me and said, “Mrs. Welch, what a terrible thing to say.”

Yeah, that’s all the help I got.

Around about that time a sensational story made headlines. A little girl had died of child abuse. All the warning sign were there, but the social services professionals who visited on a regular basis ignored them. This was the first time child abuse made headlines in modern England.

I thought, “There but for the grace of God go I.”

If I had a little less patience, more stress, more anger, that mother could have been me.

So when I started work at a child abuse prevention agency 17 years later, I already knew not all child abusers are evil monsters. Yes, some are, but most are parents who are at their wits end, those who can no longer cope with enormous pressures most of can’t imagine. Or they just don’t know how to properly rear a child. Or they treat their children the same way in which their parents treated them, because they know of no other way. I learned that many of these parents just need education and a few supportive services.

April is Child Abuse Prevention Month. I urge you to support nonprofit child abuse prevention services.  Families that complete prevention services don’t go into the welfare system in the first place. These services make all the difference, and not only in the life of a child, and his family. They save money for our state and nation.

When a child is removed from the home, these are only a few of the services that come into play:

Children’s shelters.

Foster care.

Counseling.

Therapy.

Police.

Courts.

Parenting Classes.

Anger Management Classes.

These services are paid for on a state and federal level, and can be needed for years after the child returns to his home. Dealing with the aftermath of abuse costs state and federal governments thousands of dollars, per family. Prevention services, on the other hand, are cheap by comparison.

Please, give to your local agencies. When government feels the crunch, it cuts funding to needed community services. I’ve never understood that, but that’s the way it is. Small, local agencies are closing or having to drastically reduce services. So give a little now, and save a lot. Give a few dollars and save your state thousands. Give a few dollars and save a child.

A Prayer for Children

We pray for children who put chocolate fingers everywhere, who like to be tickled, who stomp in puddles and ruin their new pants, who sneak popsicles before supper, who erase holes in math work books, who can never find their shoes.

And we pray for those who stare at photographs from behind barbed wire, who can’t bound in the street in a new pair of sneakers, who never get to go to the circus, who live in an X-rated world.

 We pray for children who bring us sticky kisses and fistfuls of dandelions, who sleep with the dog and bury the goldfish, who hug us in a hurry and forget their lunch money, who cover themselves in Band-Aids, who squeeze toothpaste all over the sink, who slurp their soup.

 And we pray for those who never get dessert, who have no safe blanket to drag behind them, who watch their parents watch them die, who can’t find any bread to steal, who don’t have any rooms to clean up, whose pictures aren’t on anybody’s dresser, whose monsters are real.

 We pray for children who spend their allowance before Tuesday, who throw tantrums in the grocery store and pick at their food, who like ghost stories, who shove dirty clothes under the bed and never rinse the tub, who get visits from the tooth fairy, who don’t like to be kissed in front of the carpool, who squirm in church and scream in the phone, whose tears we sometimes laugh at and whose smiles can make us cry.

 And we pray for those whose nightmares come in the daytime, who will eat anything, who aren’t spoiled by anybody, who go to bed hungry and cry themselves to sleep, who live and move, but have no being.

 We pray for children who want to be carried and those who must, for those we never give up on and for those who don’t get a second chance. For those we smother . . . and for those who will grab the hand of anybody kind enough to offer it.

 Ina J. Hughes.

THE MAGIC WITHIN AND THE LITTLE BOOK THAT COULD

That’s what I’ve been calling The Book of Lost Souls, the book that started my path to publication. I’ve always loved to write. I’ve always loved the way imagination and words blend on a page, the way they transport a reader to faraway worlds, or right next door, where witches live. From the time I was very young, books were an amazing world to me. There was no greater joy than going to the library with my mother whose love of books knew no measure. When I was very young, my mother read to me every night. As I grew older, we’d talk about the books we were reading.

Even as a young child, I knew I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. But, writing wasn’t what paid the bills. I got a regular job and life went on, although I still dreamed of writing. My father always told me to believe in myself and to never give up on what I firmly believed in. A few years after his death, I took up writing again. My mother, who was now ill and who had moved in with my husband and me, was happy to read what I wrote, or to set the table in order to give me a few more minutes of writing time.

And so I wrote and edited and revised. Just before the book was ready to send to agents, my mother died. I set the book aside. Writing was too painful, too full of memories.

But, the stories in my head wouldn’t let up, and so after a few years I started writing again. This time, I wrote about a teen witch named Ivy and her life in a small town, and I quickly fell in love with the story and the eclectic group of characters. I think of it as Buffy meets Harry Potter. When I typed the last line, I actually felt a pang of sorrow—I didn’t want to say goodbye. Ivy and her story became The Book of Lost Souls, and after polishing it up, I sent it off to agents. Plenty were interested and requested the full manuscript. Unfortunately, most of them thought the book was too light. Too cute. Too Disney. They offered to read whatever else I had, as long as it was darker. Darker sells! Or so they said.

So, after two revisions for two separate agents that eventually didn’t pan out (they said the book still had a lighthearted feel to it that wouldn’t appeal to publishing houses), I set The Book of Lost Souls aside and started working on an outline for a much darker book.

It was around this time that the economy began to collapse—hard—and I was given the pink slip on Friday the 13^th, right after I had completed a project that saved the company $400,000 annually. Say goodbye to eighteen years of loyal service! Suddenly, writing a darker, more dystopian book about the afterlife on top of losing my job seemed too much to take. Still, I recalled my father’s wisdom of believing in myself even when no one else did. I wrote and finished the next book, Don’t Fear the Reaper, in about seven months.

Still unemployed despite literally hundreds of applications, I began to worry we would lose our home or deplete our savings before I found a job. My career in IT was gone—off shored as they call it. I also wondered if I’d ever see any of my books published. I was so close to getting an agent so many times. Agents wrote back: You’re a strong writer. Or, The Book of Lost Souls is a great story and is well-written, but it’s not for me.

Nearly every morning, my inbox was filled with rejection letters from jobs and agents, yet I tried to stay positive. I kept repeating my father’s words to believe, to never give up. For every rejection, I sent out twice as many applications, twice as many query letters. I just tried harder.

I had been querying Reaper for about three months when I got an editorial letter from one of New York’s biggest literary agencies who’d had The Book of Lost Souls for nearly a year. A year! But, the letter was so enthusiastic about the story and my writing that I sat down and made every last revision they suggested. I turned it in and waited. Months went by. In the end, they rejected the story—not because they didn’t love it, but because in the year and change they’d had the manuscript, another client had submitted a proposal for a story about a teen witch. Conflict of interest, they called it.

And that was that. My novel, the book that was finished, was dumped for someone else’s book that hadn’t yet been written. Somewhat angry and depressed, I set The Book of Lost Souls aside. Again. By now, I was at the end of my rope. I was still unemployed and out of unemployment benefits. The only work I could find was the occasional short-term computer job, some tech writing gigs, or dog-sitting. Nothing full-time, and certainly nothing we could count on.

If the near-miss with Super Agency wasn’t enough, I found myself running into similar situations with Don’t Fear the Reaper. Now, agents were saying, Too dark! But, you’re a talented writer and we’d love to see other work. Or, You’re capable of incredibly incisive scenes—the opener is still one of the best things I read all year. And, my personal favorite, In this economy…

It was then that I learned about self-published authors such as Karen McQuestion and Amanda Hocking. I decided to go indie as well, starting with The Book of Lost Souls. What did I have to lose? A lot if I didn’t figure out a way for our household to stop hemorrhaging money. The only problem? I had no idea where to start. I sent an email to Ms. McQuestion, in the hopes she could point me in the right direction. She was so incredibly kind! Not only did she reply, she sent me a wealth of information on self-publishing. Today, she shares all that information on her blog. I’m incredibly grateful to her.

I got a cover I could afford with the help of another indie, Sam Torode. Two editor friends went over my work. Finally, I formatted the book and the rest is history. I uploaded The Book of Lost Souls in early March, and it’s been getting consistently great reviews ever since. As for being too lighthearted? I receive emails all the time from people who love that the book is funny, upbeat, and clean.

Within my first five weeks of self-publishing, I hit three best seller lists on Amazon. Me. An indie author without a publicist or a big agency or publisher behind them. Just me, my computer, my loving husband, and the devotion of two dogs at my feet.

I’ve been asked if there will be a sequel to The Book of Lost Souls. The answer is yes. Two more books, maybe a third. I just haven’t thought that far out yet.

And the other, darker book? After some revisions, Don’t Fear the Reaper debuted in late September 2011. On its first day, the book reached lucky #13 on Amazon’s Hot New Releases, Children’s Fiction, Spine-Tingling Horror. 

I’m only sorry that my parents aren’t here to see this. I took my father’s advice and my mother’s faith and reinvented myself. I still dog-sit and take on small computer jobs and tech writing gigs to help keep us afloat financially. But one day, I hope that my hard work will pay even more of the bills. Until then, I’m at peace with the way things are. 

Henry Ford once said, “If you think you can, or you think you can’t, you’re right.” Great advice. And so, The Book of Lost Souls, the book that nearly wasn’t, became the little book that could. I’m a firm believer that hopes and dreams are something to hold onto and fight for. Believe in the magic that is you. Keep your dreams close, and set your imagination free.

I’d like to dedicate my section of this anthology to readers everywhere—words alone cannot express how much I appreciate you believing in me. You’re every bit as much a part of the magic as Ivy herself. 

So, thank you, Dear Reader. Sincerely. Because, every author with a story to tell writes with you in mind.

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Createspace: The Book of Lost Souls Don’t Fear the Reaper

Would the so-called E-book revolution would be such a success without the Indie author?

Amazon’s Jeff Bezos says:

“I am emphasizing the self-service nature of these platforms because it’s important for a reason I think is somewhat non-obvious: even well-meaning gatekeepers slow innovation. When a platform is self-service, even the improbable ideas can get tried, because there’s no expert gatekeeper ready to say “that will never work!” And guess what – many of those improbable ideas do work, and society is the beneficiary of that diversity.”

Who are the expert gatekeepers? Until now, readers have relied on Big Publisher to tell them what they should read, and they sure have slowed innovation.  Look at some of the rubbish they churn out just because it is (ghost) written by a celebrity. I shall refrain from naming those books, but I’m sure everyone has their favorite “what is this trash?” example.

“Kindle Direct Publishing has quickly taken on astonishing scale – more than a thousand KDP authors now each sell more than a thousand copies a month, some have already reached hundreds of thousands of sales, and two have already joined the Kindle Million Club. KDP is a big win for authors. Authors who use KDP get to keep their copyrights, keep their derivative rights, get to publish on their schedule – a typical delay in traditional publishing can be a year or more from the time the book is finished . . . .“

More than a thousand authors on Amazon’s KDP, and thousands on Barnes and Noble and other E-tailers. Do you think they have an effect on the E-book Revolution? I do. Not all are new writers taking advantage of the ease of self-publishing. Traditionally published authors are self-pubbing their backlists and works rejected by Big Publishing. And although some new authors may self-publish because they have been rejected by trad publishers, they are becoming the minority. Writers are deciding to forego the pleasure of submitting dozens of queries, receiving rejection letters, and if they do get a deal, waiting years for their books to appear in print and giving up 15% to their agent and considerably more to their publisher. They are publishing now, finding their audience now, and making money now. And as most self-published authors will tell you, the financial benefits are far outweighed by knowing someone out there enjoys their work.

“Kindle Direct Publishing is good for readers because they get lower prices, but perhaps just as important, readers also get access to more diversity since authors that might have been rejected by establishment publishing channels now get their chance in the marketplace. You can get a pretty good window into this. Take a look at the Kindle best-seller list, and compare it to the New York Times best-seller list – which is more diverse? The Kindle list is chock-full of books from small presses and self-published authors, while the New York Times list is dominated by successful and established authors.”

Yes, readers benefit from self-publishing platforms such as Amazon.  They can preview a book and see reviews from other readers. And if they download an e-book and decide they don’t like it, returning it is as easy as pressing a button. They are snapping up self-published works. One man’s meat is another man’s poison is never truer than when applied to individual taste, and while I may hate a particular book, a thousand other readers will love it. Although there are the few who vilify everything Indie because it is Indie, the discerning reader makes up his own mind, and discovers gems.

Would the E-book revolution be as successful without the self-published author? You may disagree with me, but I don’t think so.

“Mouse” photo by Rob Bouwman l  Dreamstime.com

I think it’s time for a Rambling post! In this one, I hi-lite my lack of intelligent brain cells.

I haven’t written anything since I published Demon on a Distant Shore and I think lack of activity is affecting the gray matter. You know how it works – what you don’t use, atrophies. Take this morning, for instance.

My sister’s birthday is coming up. She’s in England, so I have to get the card mailed now. In fact, I’m a little late getting it off. So this morning, I realized I forgot to get a card for her when I picked up several birthday cards yesterday. I keep a supply of cards for different occasions, so looked through them, but didn’t see anything suitable. Great. I didn’t want to drive all the way into Ogden for one card and hoped the local market had one I liked. I’d have to take a pen and return address label and prepare the card while I sat in my car.

I needed to check her address, because I can never remember the postal code. I booted up my laptop, found my address book and started to jot her address on paper. But as I looked at it, I wondered if had the wrong house number. I had recorded #3, but was it? Mum’s address is #3 – did I duplicate that for sister’s address? Is her address really #4. Damn!

I went into Facebook and messaged my niece. “Is your Mum at #3 or #4?” Then I impatiently waited for her reply, watching the clock.

While I waited, I went in the kitchen to sip my soda, and saw the lovely card I bought for my sister at least two weeks ago, propped up beneath the phone so I wouldn’t misplace it.

Duh.

The address was still a problem, though. How can I forget my sister’s address? It’s ridiculous! I decided to use MSN maps for a visual of her street. I’ve used it before and it actually did a better job than Google Earth. If I looked at the row of terraced houses, surely I could spot which one was hers. But the aerial view didn’t cooperate on my laptop. I couldn’t get it to shift around so the camera faced the front of the terrace, not the back.

I went into the office and booted up the desktop. Checked Facebook again, but no reply from my niece. Found sister’s street using MSN and I was able to shift the view so it faced her house.

I still couldn’t figure out which was her house. There appeared to be six houses in the terrace.  Her house wall is darker than the others and I thought that would help me identify it. But two of the houses had darker facades, and bushes could hide another front door,  making it seven houses.  Or maybe one of the houses has two doors at the front, making it five or six houses. Counting houses from either end of the terrace was no help at all.

Going back in the kitchen, my gaze rested on a large manila envelope.  I needed an envelope to store some papers, didn’t have a new one, but found this used envelope in the cupboard.  Squinting, I moved closer. The envelope was originally from my sister, with her address on the back.

Sigh.

So I guess I’d better start writing again and kick my brain back in gear.

Paper, Pen, and Chocolate

“Mom!” a voice yelled from the other room. “Make her stop!”

“I didn’t do anything!” another voice yelled before I could even get up to see what was going on.

I sighed and struggled to get off the couch where I had just started writing a scene. Four months pregnant with our sixth child and the varicose veins were already causing problems for me. I wondered where my husband was hiding that he couldn’t handle this.

Fortunately, the yelling quieted down. Instead of checking on them, I made an Executive Decision. I snuck into my closet, grabbed some Hershey’s chocolate from my stash, and slipped into the bathroom where I ate it with the lights turned off. Nobody would find me there.

Flicking on my flashlight, I took out the notepad and pen I had stashed in the magazine rack and wrote down some thoughts on the scene I had been writing.

The quiet lasted 3.5 minutes. Then my time in the bathroom was up. I crept back out to the living room where I settled a new argument, secretly wishing I could go back to the bathroom.

Now, you may ask…Married with how many kids? And you write books? WHY? HOW? Let me tell you.

From the time I was a little girl, I have had two dreams. One: To have a large family. Two: To be an author. There was a time not long ago when it seemed neither would come true.

Maybe it was being an only child that allowed my imagination to run wild and my mind to create stories; it definitely made me wish for a big family of my own. It’s lonely to grow up without a sibling.

In school, writing was my passion. I wrote constantly. I’d slip my story under a notebook in class and when I was supposed to be taking notes, I’d really be writing my story. At night when I was supposed to be asleep, I’d hide under the covers in bed with a flashlight, pen, and paper.

Time went on, and although I had many stories written, I was too chicken to do anything with them. So, they sat. When I fell in love and started a family, writing got pushed to the side. Sure, I still loved it, but I never had time. Deep down, I was mad at myself for not at least trying to do something with them. But, at the time, I felt I couldn’t. Family came first.

My dream of having a large family wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be, but it had begun to come true. We had two beautiful little girls and wanted more. Unfortunately, I suffered through many miscarriages over the years. After having a number of tests done, I was diagnosed with a blood disorder so complicated that I have no idea what it actually is except that it can cause miscarriages. Getting pregnant had never been an issue; staying pregnant was. When I didn’t get and stay pregnant for over a year, the depression got worse.

Losing a baby is a devastating thing to go through; losing six is downright depressing. There’s no amount of crying, begging, negotiating, or praying that brings them back. Believe me, I tried it all. It didn’t matter how many people told me it wasn’t my fault–I blamed myself anyway. Finding out that it was due to a blood disorder made my guilt that much worse. It was my fault. My body’s fault anyway. Then I started asking myself: Why do some of my babies live and others don’t? What did I do different? I had children before I started medication for the disorder, and I’ve had miscarriages since getting on the medication. None of it makes sense and it’s still something I struggle to understand. I was in such a deep depression; it was like my creative button had been turned off. I had no desire to write.

When we finally “gave up” and decided that we’d be a family of six, we found out I was pregnant again with our fifth daughter.

This pregnancy was much harder on my body than the others. I found myself on the couch most of the day with my legs up. It was around this time that some online friends found out that I loved to write and encouraged me to share my stories. I did so nervously and they loved them! I reached deep down and found the courage to start submitting queries to agents. Each time my hopes were smashed to pieces.

My husband started talking about eBooks and self-publishing. I wasn’t too sure about going that route. I wanted to see my books in print, so I could hold them in front of my face. I wanted to smell my book. But, as time went on, eReaders became more popular and I figured…why not?

So, here I am, with five children, trying to find the time to write, while juggling mom-duty, wife-duty, household chores, errands, and more. During the earlier part of this year, you could find me up until the wee hours of the morning writing. You see, that is the only time it’s quiet enough to get anything done. Three a.m. is the time when all little girls are sleeping, the husband is snoring away, and my mind is clear. I can throw myself into a character’s psyche and let my imagination flow. Everything was going perfectly. I was getting a lot of writing done and then we got a surprise. Baby #6 was on the way.

As happy as we were, this put a serious damper on staying up until three a.m. I just couldn’t do it. My one-year-old is at the age where she needs to be followed around and supervised constantly. If I don’t, I find my computer monitor has become a coloring book.

My four-year-old is in between the “play with me” stage and the “playing alone” stage. The older three are in school, which provides a break for me, but since my four year old adores her older sisters, it makes it hard. She’s constantly whining for them to come home.

It’s hard enough juggling the four younger ones, but throw in a hormonal teenager and chaos ensues. Dealing with her has made me positive that my mother cursed me for acting out as a teenager. Not a week goes by that I don’t find myself in tears over something she does or says. Like the time recently when I told her I was pregnant again, she made nasty comments accusing me of ruining her life. Or the time I had to punish her for kicking her sister, and she informed us that she could run away and be adopted by her friend’s parents.

I’m sure you find yourself wanting to ask how I get a minute to myself. Or how do I deal with no time alone? Or what if I get an idea during the day?

Remember that stash of chocolate in the closet? I simply get some, slip into the bathroom, and take a few minutes. Sometimes I just think. Sometimes I jot down a few ideas on that hidden notepad.

As crazy and chaotic my life is, I wouldn’t change a thing. And it sure gives me plenty of things to write about.

So, when life hands you lemons…toss them out, grab your stash of chocolate, your writing materials, and head for the bathroom. You may just end up writing a book.

This is one story from Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. To read all of the stories, buy your copy today.

Also included are sneak peeks into 25 novels!

My young adult drama, Damaged: Natalie’s Story,

is one of the novels featured.

 Amazon

Apple iBooks

Barnes & Noble

Smashwords

 Find out more about Talia and her books:

http://taliajager.blogspot.com

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http://www.twitter.com/taliajager

http://amazon.com/author/taliajager

Julia Crane

Moving to the Middle East

Separation was normal in my marriage. My husband was in the military, and usually gone six months a year. We had adapted quite well to the schedule. Of course, we had the normal period of adjustment when he would return, but that was part of the lifestyle. We were looking forward to his retirement, and being able to spend more time together as a family. That didn’t work out quite as we expected. My husband was offered a job in Afghanistan that would set us up to really retire. The kicker? It would last a year. We thought the sacrifice would be worth it, so off he went. One year became a year and a half.

While he was gone I took care of our small business, running a gym. I loved it. It was very time-consuming, but it was also very rewarding. It started to wear on me only when my pre-teen children complained that I was always at the gym, and never had time for them. Finally, I told my husband that it was time for him to come home.

He put in his notice and started a stateside job. Though the new job still required him to be gone for six months of the year, the absences were in manageable blocks of two weeks. When he was home, he would take care of the gym and I would have time off. It was perfect.

Then he got a call from a friend, with a job offer that was just too good to turn down…in Dubai. We discussed it, and decided he should take the job, even though we had a new one-year-old.

Not long after my husband left for Dubai, I was at the breaking point. I felt trapped with the business, our teens, and a one-year-old always needing my attention. I had no personal space, and I’m a person that requires time alone, or else I get cranky.

As luck would have it, the new job offered to bring family members over to live in Dubai. My first thought about moving to the Middle East? “Yeah, right.” However, I researched Dubai and was surprised at what I found. The country seemed very modern, and the schools sounded good.

So I told my husband, “Ok, we’re coming.” While I was both nervous and excited, I was ready for a change, and moving to the Middle East sounded like just the adventure I needed.

When we got off the plane in October, the hot air hit my face and it felt like I had walked into a sauna. I thought, “Uh oh, what have I agreed to?” Yes, the heat is hard to handle, but you learn to live your life around it. We do most things early in the morning or after the sun sets. It is very much a nighttime culture. The city is beautiful and the Arabian Sea is breathtaking. I have grown comfortable living here, and easily call it my home. Though I can now see myself here for a few years, there are of course many things that I miss about America, and most of them involve food. Some things are just impossible to find: I’ve searched high and low for a Butterfinger, with no luck.

After a couple of months of enjoying my newfound free time, I eventually started to twiddle my thumbs. I was used to being busy, and with all the free time I needed to find something to fill the void. I saw an article that went into detail about how e-books had flung open many doors for writers. I thought that was interesting, and I mentioned it to my husband and he said he had also seen many articles saying much the same thing. I jokingly said that I was going to write a novel. My husband, who believes I can do anything, thought it was a great idea. I have always enjoyed writing even though I had not written much since having children. As a teen, I used to mail short stories to magazines and such, and like most avid readers, I always dreamed of someday writing a novel. Now I had my chance.

That same night I sat down to write, and the story quickly formed in my mind. I knew I wanted to write a young adult novel that would involve my Irish roots. The story just seemed to form itself: I would get ideas at random times and rush to write them down. It was frustrating at times, because I need relative quiet to focus. As you can imagine, with two teens and a two-year-old, finding quiet time is not easy. I wrote most of “Coexist” late at night when everyone was asleep. It took approximately three months to write the first draft, while the revision and editing process lasted longer than the initial writing.

A great part of the writing process for me has been interacting with other writers. I have met some amazing people from online writing groups and chat rooms. I learned a great deal in a short amount of time. I don’t think this undertaking would have been nearly as fun without the community I have found. Moving halfway across the world has allowed me to have both more time with family, and the ability to pursue a dream I’ve had since a child.

***

This is one story from Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. To read all of the stories, buy your copy today.

Also included are sneak peeks into 25 novels!

My paranormal romance novel, Coexist: Keegan’s Chronicles #1,

is one of the novels featured.

All proceeds go to breast cancer research.

Coexist: Keegan’s Chronicles #1

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Barnes & Noble

Smashwords