Even before I labeled myself a writer, when something was on my mind, written words were usually my mode of expression. Although, over the years I also chose to express myself in other creative ways like dance, music, and digital arts. This gig as an author, when I reflect, is the one art I've never abandoned.  I think when I'm eulogized at my funeral, my family and friends will label me a bunch of things, but what they read will be some of my own words as a memorial. 

I hope so at least.

That's morbid, huh?

Anyway, lately, I've been blocked from writing fiction. This happened to me a few years ago. When it did, I found writing about life helped me purge the words that were begging for release. Lately, I've noticed I'm doing the same thing.  I'll be randomly twiddling my thumbs wondering how I can be productive.  A thought will pop in my mind, and I'll just start writing about it. The next thing I know, it's all come full circle into something I didn't realize I'd even been keeping contained.  Writing is cathartic.

About a week ago, this happened to me. The topic was my kids, and like most of my posts, was a reflection with hopes for the future.

I've submitted articles for publication to different places in the past, experienced rejection, but never one to give up, I hit the button to send this to The Mighty without even a second thought.  What's another no?

That was the attitude I had when I found out I was pregnant with Noah and had convinced myself I didn't care if the test was negative.  It seems, sometimes, when we give up on trying for matters that mean the most to us, the restriction we felt from the pressure allows us to climb the stairs of hope with the destination of our dreams a mere step away.

Friday of last week, I found out The Mighty was going to publish my story, and on Wednesday that happened.

I hope you'll take a minute to read it and share it with your friends and loved ones.  

I learned a lot of people don't really care they are treading on my dreams, so they don't tread lightly. It's not necessarily a bad thing. It just is what it is.  The best thing I can do for myself when I fall is to brush myself off and get back up.  No one else is responsible for me not reaching my dreams other than me.  I can wallow in self-pity, or I can try harder to prove everyone wrong.  That's what Heartfall is about—and so much more.  

There is a heavy anti-bullying message, and since I've been through plenty through the years (both as a dancer and an author), writing it was cathartic and most definitely therapeutic. For those two years while I was getting rejected and struggling to find my lost voice, I studied the craft of writing, and I'm confident it shows in Heartfall.

I learned a lot about myself while writing Claire's story.

Heartfall is about Claire realizing her strength, her beauty, which is largely dependent on discovering who she is and growing her confidence and self-esteem.  While writing it, I finally could see all those characteristics in myself again.  

Through Claire's story, I discovered I'd not lost my voice.  I had never found it to begin with.  I've got it now, and I'm holding on to it tightly.

This quote isn't just because Claire and I are dancers (or in my case a former dancer), but also because as I began Claire's story, I'd just come out of remission for Intracranial Hypertension. I was having debilitating headaches. (Or rather a continuous severe headache since it wouldn't really ever go away except while I was asleep, but it often woke me up.)

By the end of April, I had my fourth spinal tap in less than a year.  Despite being maxxed out on Topamax, my intracranial pressure was the highest it'd ever been. Struggling with IH has made me appreciate that quote now more than ever.

​ In the midst of that crisis, my next novel was started on April 20.  Out of the Storm was a challenge from Georgette Geras to see if I could write a story based on a chapter she'd started writing herself. She gave me a character name, a title, and that chapter. I immediately felt a connection to it, and I decided to give it a go thinking it'd be fun to write a short story or novella with readers as a group collaboration.  

But by the time I finished it in mid-July, it'd developed in to my longest book yet.

Writing it was one of the coolest experiences I've had (and a great honor).  While I wrote the rough draft on Wattpad, I pulled it and sent it to a couple of agents.  After more rejection, I've decided to move forward with my plans of self-publishing it.  It releases January 31, 2017.  

A few people have said Heartfall and Out of the Storm are two of my best books.  So, I've struggled again trying to figure out what I'm doing wrong because both have been rejected by agents and a small press publisher.  When I think about giving up or when I wonder why I'm still doing this, I remind myself I was good enough, at a much weaker point in my career no less, to get an agent.  I remind myself several publishers requested my full manuscript of Skipping Stones back in the day.  I read through the quotes about all the rejection some of the most successful people in the world have endured, and that's when I recognize I've not faced a fraction of the denial they did.  I'm still paying my dues.  

Ultimately, with every rejection, I go back to what I learned from Heartfall about validation and self-worth.  ​

When I lost my agent last year, I knew her letting me go was a blessing even though it was devastating.  I knew unless she let me go, I'd never do it even though I thought about it multiple times.  It was like I had wrapped all my hope up into her.  And by doing that, I lost a part of myself in the process if that makes sense.  We both knew it.  I was lost.  It was like having laryngitis every time I wrote for two years.

Looking back on the last year, it's clear her letting me go was the best thing she could have ever done for me.  And no matter how many times I tell myself I don't need the validation, I still want it.  I want an agent.  I want a publisher.  I want to hit lists.  Those were goals I set for myself four and a half years ago, and not meeting them makes me feel like a failure.

With that being said, over the last week or so, I saw both of the quotes below.  I really am starting to think I'm right where I'm supposed to be—self-publishing.  Dory is so smart.  I'm just going to keep swimming. ​

So, after I finished Out of the Storm, I had brain surgery in August.  No biggie.  But let me back up a little.

I was told in June, when I was not responding well to medication for the intracranial hypertension, I needed a shunt.  After much discussion about the newer alternative procedure of stenting, my neurologist felt a shunt was a safer choice.  Besides, not everyone is even eligible for a stent.  You have to have venous stenosis, and the gradient has to be large enough to qualify.  I knew my MRI showed stenosis, that my MRV didn't show whatever would have been bad, but that was all I knew.  My doctor admitted he'd never had a patient get a stent, but agreed to research it.  He was concerned about clotting and the fact they are so new there are no long term studies.  

He called me later that same afternoon and told me he just didn't feel comfortable with it.  My exact words when he told me the next time he saw me, he expected me to have a shunt were, "That's a hard pill to swallow, but okay."  Because I wanted so desperately to feel better.  I needed to.  I could barely care for myself, let alone my children.  Each day that passed, the pain intensified.  Some days, I couldn't get out of the bed.  Others, just going to the grocery store resulted in a five hour recovery nap.  I don't cry over stuff easily, and I think I'm pretty tough, but sometimes it was all I could do.  It just made my head hurt worse, though.

The thought of having my skull opened and a non-removable device implanted that has a high rate of complication and infection was on my mind constantly.  I kept trying to tell myself I'd been scared to get my central line, but it'd been the best decision I'd made medically for myself.  This was different because central lines can be removed.  

Truthfully, I've never been more terrified about my health.  There was something nagging me.  I couldn't help but worry if I had that surgery I'd end up in a worse situation.  There were plenty of stories like that on the message boards I visited on bad days or when I wondered if my insomnia was from my medicine or if anyone else had their teeth rot out from Diamox (turns out my issue was just plaque, thank God, but the answer was yes—horrifying since I have a phobia of the dentist).  Sometimes, I'd go to the groups when I just wanted to remind myself that, as much as I hurt, there were people who were so much more severe than me—to be thankful.  

Regardless, something in my gut just kept telling me a shunt wasn't right.  I have the utmost respect and trust for my neurologist.  So, I made the appointment with the guy he told me was the best.  

This doctor was about to go out of network with my insurance company.  A surgery got cancelled, so they were going to work me in the same day.  I was rushing to their office when I got a call he'd been paged into emergency surgery.  Thankfully, the PA ended up seeing me, but that meant I didn't get the answers I was hoping for immediately.  

After several follow-up calls from me, the PA finally told me the doctor did not feel comfortable putting the type of shunt my neurosurgeon and I agreed on for anatomical reasons. I'd researched all types of shunts, and I knew the kind he was suggesting carried even more risks for complications.  I went back to those support groups I mentioned above, explained my situation, and asked where I should go given my geographic location.  The answer was loud and clear.  MUSC was one of the top programs for the condition in the world.  And it just so happened, I was going to be there a few weeks later for a signing.  After explaining to my neurologist what happened at the first appointment, he sent my referral and records.  Charleston was able to see me the day before the event.  It was perfect.  

And so I headed to the home of my first female character, Gabriella Gerhart.

At that appointment, we went over the facts:  I'd lost more than ten percent of my body weight (which is often the best treatment), was clean eating, had gone and come out of remission, and had tried every medication unsuccessfully.  Since diagnosis in May 2015, I'd had four spinal taps and two hospitalizations in addition to two MRIs and an MRV.  Since all my previous studies had consistent evidence of stenosis, he recommended I have an angiogram to confirm I was a candidate for a stent.  We never even discussed a shunt.  They were able to schedule the angiogram for the upcoming Monday after the signing.  Even more perfect.  And scary.

They couldn't put me to sleep or give me pain medications because it affects the pressures, so I was awake the entire time.  It was one of the most painful things I've experienced, but at the end of the day, I had an answer.  The narrowing on my right side was likely causing all my symptoms:  headaches, seeing spots, excruitiating pain behind my right ear, ringing and pulsating in my ears, nausea, dizziness, and the list of pretty much every other brain tumor symptom applies.  Intracranial Hypertension is also called pseudotumor cerebri because the symptoms are like a brain tumor, but there isn't one.  The doctor felt like blood was backing up from the stenosis causing my brain to swell, and thus, increasing my intracranial pressure.

Ten days later, I kissed my babies goodbye and left to head back to Charleston with tears in my eyes.  My mom joined us this time.  We went to The Oyster House, which used to be A.W. Shucks (it used to be one of my favorites in Charleston, and I wrote it into the This Series) for my last meal before surgery, and then early on August 5th, I headed to MUSC to have brain surgery.  

A stent was placed on my right side.  Immediately upon waking up, the pain behind my right ear was gone.  The vision issues were improved, and the pulsating in my ears was gone.  Crazy amazing, right?  I spent a night in the hospital where they performed neurologic checks every hour before coming home.  

The first two weeks were really rough, and I slept a lot.  The third week was the best week.  The fourth was rough again.  I worried I'd still end up needing a shunt. 

I was dying to get back to work, itching to write, but still not fully recovered, I decided to revisit The Auction since it was essentially already written.  I wrote it two years ago for the limited edition Pink Shades of Words.  I'd sent it to my agent when I had one.  It was rejected, but I know now why.  The plot was solid, but the writing wasn't me.  It was writing during that period when I was so, so lost—so full of self-doubt and lacked confidence as a writer.  

So, I went back through it and improved it. In the process, I more than doubled the word count and made a new goal for myself: to start and finish the series within a three month period. 

My goal was to make them all novellas, so I figured it was attainable and not overachieving too much.  But I'd just had brain surgery, so I'm not sure my judgement and ability to make decisions was the greatest.  More on that in a minute.

At my one month follow up in mid September with my neurosurgeon (still weird to say *my* neurosurgeon), he told me we could start weaning me off Diamox, that it was likely my pressure was now too low and the cause for some of my lingering symptoms.  He also told me to increase my caffeine.  Seeing as I was caffeine-free, that was easy.

I noticed I felt the best on half my dose, but wanted to see what I'd be like completely off.  I failed the trail, and I was anxious and eager to go back on that happy dose.  I'm mostly headache free, but still have ringing in my ears along with dizziness.  Knock on wood, I've only taken a nap once or twice since fully recovering.  There is a chance I may need a stent on the left side.  We'll revisit that in a couple of months.

Back to books.  With the headaches under control, The Date, book two, was the easiest novella for me to write this year. I wrote it in two days.  Two days.  I'd spent two years trying to have this story come to me, and voila.  It was gushing.  More confirmation that the quotes above were right.  

Let me just say, as a writer, the past year has been so enlightening.  I'm not kidding when I say I've learned so much.  Not just about the craft, but about how my brain works (biologically and creatively).  The Promise, book three, was not nearly as easy.  I was really struggling to put all the pieces together.  It'd been a long time since I wrote a series, and it's not like I was waiting to release them all once they were written so if I needed to change something, I could.  The fear I was writing myself into a corner was, at times, paralyzing.  

One of the most important lessons has been that when I'm blocked, it's usually because my plot isn't right.  There's no need to sit and stare at a blank screen.  That's counterproductive.  The best way to zap it is an impending deadline and going back to the drawing board.  Once I figured out the twist, which is the biggest high for me when I'm writing, I was good to go.  It was a longer novella than the other two.  The Promise was my favorite of the series by the time it was all said and done.  Maybe because it was the hardest.

Until...The Secret, book four, came along.  I swear its goal was to kill me.  The Saturday before my Tuesday deadline, I thought I was going to fail, not meet my goal. But then I realized I wondered if I was self-sabotaging myself—letting anxiety and a little bout of depression win.  Was I like Claire hearing all the rejections over and over again in my head?  Was I letting the voices saying I wasn't good enough win? And that's where good friends come in—virtually knocking some sense into me.  They believed in me when I couldn't believe in myself for a minute.  And it was only a minute because I had too much work to do if I was going to succeed. 

After being blocked most of November, I wrote 27,000 words from Sunday to Tuesday to pull off completing that book and the series.  The Secret is longer than Broken, which I wrote in two weeks.  It's a full length novel.  There were just minutes to spare before my deadline with my editor.  Out of the past year, I think this professional achievement is one of my greatest—even if I'd not finished—because I didn't give up.​

And lastly, the Taylor Swift quote is the dedication in The Secret. I spent two years being haunted by words I couldn't say—by The Auction and an unfinished Magnolia Grove.  And interestingly enough, that's pretty much the basis of the entire Magnolia Grove series. It's the consequences that come from not Speaking Now.  Did you see what I did there?  Fun fact, I'm rewriting Broken in first person present tense (so much better this way).  Did you know it was inspired by Taylor Swift's Enchanted?

In conclusion, maybe the biggest reason I wrote so much, was because I worried I was going to die this year.  And when I wasn't worried about death, I feared I was going to, once again, lose the ability to tell my stories because of my brain condition.  I didn't want anything left unsaid. I can say with certainty I truly lived life like I was on stage—and instead of dancing—I let my words do the performance this time. 

#SheBelievedSheCouldSoSheDid #Dreams #TaylorSwift #Enchanted #SpeakNow #LiveLikeYouAreOnStage #Heartfall #OutOfTheStorm #ThisSeries #Broken #JBMcGee #IntracranialHypertension #IIH #PseudotumorCerebri #Magnolia Grove #Success #Validation #Motivation #Inspiration #ThankYouForYourSupport ​

This is long.  Just something I felt led to write.  It's kind of me rambling into the computer trying to process all my thoughts.  It's a reflection.  I'm not the best blogger, but there are times when I'm just compelled to write down my internal thoughts, to document something that happened, or to share a personal story.  Sometimes, I write them for you.  But most of the time, I write them for me.  This one is for both of us. 

I made Jonah go to the grocery store with me.  (That right there should alert you to how this is going to go.  Do kids and grocery stores ever get along well together?)

He was none too happy at the mere thought.  He's started wanting to stay home by himself.  And he thought today would be the day I'd let him, but there was no way.  I'm not ready.  "But Noah."

"But Noah's older."

"But not by much."

"But by enough."

The whole two minute trip, he fussed and pouted.  When we got there, I told him he needed to take Noah's chair because I couldn't get his out (They are single file in the van, so his is blocked by Noah's).  He told me he wasn't going to take it.  He wanted his, and he was quickly losing it.  When I said no, he started kicking, slapping himself, crying/screaming (although it could have been louder, and I'm thankful it wasn't).  Without much warning, I took computer time, knowing it was likely to escalate the situation.  But hoping on the small chance it would do the opposite.  Ain't nobody got time or patience for all that.  I hadn't even made it into the store, and I was no optimistic at how this was going to go.

I gave him one last chance to get in Noah's chair.

Now, let me tell you.  Giving him this choice made me a tad nervous.  A few weeks ago, he fell in the grocery store and hurt his wrist when he decided he'd walk.  Then, I worried he'd complain halfway through our shopping that his legs were tired.  And not just complain, but boycott walking by sitting in the middle of an aisle while I have a cart full of groceries.  Or start screaming like he'd just done in the car and put on a show that would upstage any toddler.  

But there was no way I was going to force him to ride.  That could result in him operating a 450 lb vehicle and using it as a weapon.  HA.

If he was already on the verge of pitching a fit like a toddler in the parking lot, I only imagined what he could do in the store.  

Turning to him, I dropped down to his level, took his chubby little cheeks between my hands, and said, "Are you walking or riding."  He wouldn't look at me.  He was staring straight past me. "Answer now or I'm choosing for you."

"Walking."  He stomped off.  I muttered something, not that he could hear me, as I shut and locked the van, thankful the child is meticulous about looking fifty times from left to right as he crosses a street.  

I don't know how to explain it, but I have serious grocery store anxiety when I'm alone.  After everything we've been through, there's always worry and fear that someone is going to fall apart in the middle of the store or something.  And it's usually Jonah.  It's like walking on eggshells around your child, but knowing your steps need to be firm and leave impressions like a dinosaur stomping on the ground.  Is that a good analogy?

There was no way I was backing down even if it meant I broke the eggshells.  As terrifying as that idea was to me.  

The Salvation Army guy was smiling, ringing his bell.  I know he'd seen it all.  We were in the first handicap parking space.  "Good morning.  Merry Christmas."

I smiled back, and for the first time since arriving, exhaled.  

Jonah, I don't think he even saw the guy or cared.  He. Was. Really. Angry.  And marched ahead of me into the store.  I watched him go the opposite direction of where I was headed without even paying attention to where I was.  I wondered if he honestly thought he could just go where ever he wanted without me.  Would he?  It only took a second for him to figure out I wasn't following him.  Nope.  I knew his game, and I wasn't playing.

I think that must have made him even more angry because he pushed the cart in a passive aggressive kind of way.  I did that thing with my eyebrow my mom used to do to me with a single word said in a whisper that's as cold as ice.  "Stop."

None too happy, he did.  Of course, that made two of us on the none too happy front.

We got to the bread section, and he wanted the opposite bread I had a coupon for.  I caved and got both.  Clearly, we were in a power struggle, and that was something I could give in on.  He really liked the kind he wanted.  The kind I had a coupon for was an unknown purchase, so I wasn't sure if he'd like it or eat it.  We don't buy bakery bread often.  Only on special occasions, so I hated for him to not like what we got when he wouldn't get it again for a while. 

But then he wanted a different kind in addition to that, and when I said no, he went back to being grumpy—albeit civil.  I huffed, thinking about how much more grocery shopping we still had to do.  Thinking about how I wish I had made us all go as a family yesterday so Chad could have dealt with his antics, thus giving me a break for a bit.  I'm with them 24/7.  Then, for a minute, I considered what it would have been like if I'd just let him stay home by himself.  Peaceful grocery shopping.  Kinda.  Because I would have been worried he and Noah would have killed each other while I was gone.  This behavior was proof as to why there was no way I was trusting Jonah to be without adult supervision anytime in the foreseeable future.

In the produce section, he totally turned the corner.  He wanted to pick the lettuce.  I told him it was too high, but he could get the cabbage.  I asked if he saw a scale, and he knew exactly where it was because Jonah's observant like that.  He weighed it, and we spent some time there talking about how to figure how much that cabbage was going to cost.  Suddenly, my worry about how long the trip was going to be vanished, and I would have been content to spend twenty minutes there in the produce section teaching my kid, with him eager to learn and being sweet.  I wanted to preserve the mood he was in that exact moment forever.  If I could bottle it, I'd do it.  When Jonah is like that, I just want to squeeze him and never let him go.

It was like he was having fun, but then he realized he was doing math.  "It's Thanksgiving break.  Why are you making me do math?"

"Because it's fun, and it's necessary.  I have a coupon, and I need to make sure I spend the right amount.  You need to know that I'm not just picking up a cabbage.  I'm rounding $0.48 to $0.50 and then I'm multiplying that by the weight on the scale, which was 2.5 pounds.  The cabbage is $0.48/lb and we got 2.5 lbs.  How much money is this cabbage going to cost me?"

Once Jonah got the answer he was proud.  

"That's a great cabbage.  A lot of cabbage.  It better be good."

"Are you going to try it to see?"

"No."  (He says he's allergic to vegetables.  I had to try.)

I told him I needed an organic tomato.  He couldn't find them, and finally, I showed him the label of one.  "What does this say?"

"Organic tomato."  

"Good. Pick out the best looking one."

He explained how he picks the best tomato.  We reviewed the list, and he helped me pick the rest of the items I needed.  When we passed the ice cream, he said, "Is that on your list?"

"I said, "No, but the temptation is always very real.  We have to resist."

He laughed.  "But Daddy has some in the freezer."

"I know.  The temptation is very real, but I'm resisting." (Chad probably could eat two cartons of ice cream and not gain weight.  I could eat a spoonful and gain ten pounds.  That's not fair.)

The rest of the time in the store, he was PERFECT.  Absolutely perfect.  At some point, I said, "How are your legs?"

"Why are you asking me that?"

"Because I want to make sure you're okay."

"They hurt a little, but I'm good."

When we were checking out, he was putting the G2 that Noah gets through his tube on the conveyor belt.  "That's a lot of Gatorade."

"Yep, sure is."

Then, he counted them, and I showed him how it was an area model, and he could use multiplication to solve it faster than counting each one.  He said, "I failed my multiplication test a couple of months ago, but I think I could do better now."  (He gets to make it up this week, so it was no coincidence I chose that skill in the grocery store.)

"How much do you think it's going to be?"

We made our guesses like we always do.  

He helped me pay, and as we were walking out, a man had taken an empty cart with him.  His wife said, "Why are you taking that?"

The guy laughed as he brought it back in, stopping us from exiting.  "I don't know why I was taking this thing out there."

I smiled.  "It makes a great arm rest."

He chuckled.  "That must be it."

The Salvation Army guy was still smiling, ringing his bell.  He laughed a little at the commotion, and when I made eye contact with him, it was like relief washed over me.  "You have a great day."

"And you do the same."

It was amazing how things changed so quickly.  How I'd gone into the store fearful and frustrated, but was leaving relieved, hopeful, grateful, and just plain happy.  

And Jonah was too.

Of course that all could change in a split second or with the utter of one sentence.  When we got inside and were sanitizing our hands, I said, "Don't forget about your ten minutes when you get home."

"I haven't forgotten that I lost the computer," his voice was calm, even, and completely reasonable.  I think there may have even been a tinge of disappointment.  Hopefully with himself.  Hopefully, he was reflecting on how he could have made better choices.

"Good.  Other than that little fit before we went inside, I really enjoyed grocery shopping with you, Jonah.  Thank you for your help."

He smiled.  

There's probably only one person who has a stronger will than him.  

Me.  

Jonah can be a perfect little angel.  But he also struggles with behavioral stuff.  We've been told it's secondary to mitochondrial disease.  

There was a time when I wouldn't have dared step foot in a grocery store with Jonah alone.  For more than a year, we couldn't ride alone in the car with him (thank goodness Chad had a work at home job that he could do from the car when needed).  Our doctor told us we had to have two adults at all times.  One to drive.  The other to keep the driver and Jonah safe.  Jonah would unbuckle his seat belt, hit, bite, kick, try to open the doors (thank God for child locks).  Noah went through a similar phase, but not as bad.  

There's a fine line to understanding it, to handling it.  As a parent, to go through it over and over is traumatizing too.  And so much is talked about with this disease, like gut dysfunction, dysautonomia, muscle weakness, sleep apnea, fatigue.  But no one ever talks about the psychological stuff—how all this affects someone dealing with a chronic, life-threatening disease every single day of their life.  

Imagine having zero control over your body, being hooked to machines to sustain your life, taking over 20 doses of medications/pills a day, to being hyper aware of every cough in Target—walking a different direction to avoid it—and then leaving early because you're afraid you're going to get sick.  Sometimes, I think the temper tantrums and acting out are unavoidable, secondary to fatigue, but other times I think it's a power struggle—a battle of the wills.  Sometimes, our attitude and behavior is the only thing in our lives we can control.  Determining which one, making the right choice on how to handle it, is sometimes impossible. 

Out of all the things that someone could judge, this is the scariest one.  No doubt I screw up.  Exposing how I parent what seems like normal kid behavior, but is so much more, takes courage.  These are some thoughts that constantly run through my mind:  Is someone thinking I am a terrible parent for letting him have the bread he wanted?  Do they think I'm a terrible parent for sharing this?  Are they saying right now what they would have done if they'd been me even though they have no idea what it's like to be me because this is just a moment in time?  Should I have given him more punishment?  Was it too much?  Is the bag boy who goes to school with him (his school is grades 4-12) wondering why and how he can walk in the grocery store today, but uses a wheelchair at school?  

It's hard to open up as a parent of a special needs child about the medical stuff that most people can see and understand.  It's especially difficult to share something like this because so many people think they have the answers.  We've tried pretty much everything, so I'm not asking for suggestions, criticism, or even praise.

I guess the reason my fingers immediately started typing this post when I sat at my computer (originally was going to be a Facebook status, but it's hella long), is when we can come out of a fit like that, it makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, I'm doing right by him.  And documenting it allows me to capture the good and the bad, gives me hope during the next bad time that may not end quite so nicely, and also hopefully gives me a reflection point in a few years where I think, "Wow, we've come so far."

And who knew the solution to a battle of wills would be math?  I'm not sure what the final score was for us, but I know we both won this one.

This week, as we reflect on things we're grateful for, I'm thankful for my boys and how far they've come—for this reflection point.  And I want to let other people who are dealing with similar difficult children you are not alone—there's hope.  

Now...book stuff...

Speaking of math, if you've read all this, you should know the Instafreebie giveaway for Heartfall is going on through the 23rd.  $2.99-$2.99 = 0.00 ;)

I hope you have lots of teachable moments this week with your kiddos minus the temper tantrums.  Take time to reflect.  Take time to appreciate the good things.  Grow and learn from any bad stuff.  

Be open to working through differences with the people you love.

​It would have been easy for both Jonah and I to harp on the anger and frustration we were feeling in the early part of our outing.  

​But, instead, we chose to find some common ground in common core in the grocery store.  ;) 

Happy Thanksgiving Week!

​JB
<3 

I wrote this yesterday (and then edited it a bit today), and I thought I'd put it here so I'd have it forever.  But also so it may encourage, uplift, and support other parents who are in the same amusement park I've been in for the last almost twelve years as the mother to two children with mitochondrial disease, a chronic and life-threatening genetic condition my husband and I unknowingly passed on to them.  Yes.  We have it too.

When my youngest son was born and we were still in the hospital, but he wasn't eating right and sleeping too much, the neonatologist in charge of his care told me that just because his brother was sick didn't mean he was going to be.  That, frankly, I couldn't live my life waiting for the other shoe to fall.  He told me he was the healthiest baby he'd seen that day, one of the healthiest in the hospital.

He was wrong on both accounts.  Jonah was not healthy, and since his birth, I've been praying that the other shoe doesn't fall.  And when you do that, you're inevitably waiting for it to fall--living in fear that it will.

One time, in a mito group, someone compared being a special needs parent to being stuck in an amusement park. You're at a park with your friends. Sometimes, you're on rides that make you so sick. You can't wait to get off them. You have a few moments in between rides where you recover. Then, you're right back on another one. It might not be as bad as the last one, but it tosses you around. You might even lose a shoe on the calmest, most soothing ride—the swings—because even that one takes you high in the sky, you know you eventually have to come down because the roller coaster is next. You're high for a second, unsure of that exact moment when you'll reach the peak, and then all your hopes free fall in a split second. 

And as if that isn't bad enough, every so often, one of your friends leaves. Their ride is over. Their child is gone. 

So, regardless of how horrible some of these rides made you feel, how many times you lost your stomach, you get back on each of them over and over again, praying you never have to leave the park like your friends. And that hurts like hell. 

You feel like you have to live for them as well as for your kid, so you put your hands up in the air as you climb that hill on the roller coaster.  You're scared because you know so well that the fall comes next, but you still enjoy every slow notch.  You soak in the beautiful view from atop of the world. You scream and smile when you go down it even though your stomach lurches and you may swallow back bile. On the Tilt-A-Whirl, you hold on to the side so you don't smother the other person. You try to protect each other, to cherish what you have. Every. Single. Moment. And you hang tight to that one shoe you have left, hoping it never falls off.

Because the park has one of those signs that says no entry without shoes.  But you're already in.  So what happens if you lose them while you're there?  Will they kick you out?  Will they loan you a pair?

The unknown is the scariest part.  And each ride has an element of that.  The whole park does.  

I don't know if this is any comfort. But you're not alone. Remember, there are lots of friends in your park. Sometimes it may feel like they are playing hide and seek.  There are games there.  People do have fun.  You'll make new friends too.  Even when you can't see them, just promise to remember they're probably just on another ride.  Or they may be losing their last shoe.  Find them, hug them, help them, love them.  <3

In 2015, the first edition of The Auction (Magnolia Grove Series #1) appeared in the limited edition Pink Shades of Words anthology.  Since it was unpublished, I have revised it so many times because I love Holden and this story.  But I didn't want to re-release it until I could tell all their story.  

Gosh, truth be told, I've been dying to tell this story.  I got excited because at some point during one of those revisions I actually heard more of their story, and I started the next book (The Date).  But the words stopped.  There was something about the plot that wasn't sitting well with me.  I was missing something, and I never could identify what it was.  I shelved it...again.

During 2014-2015, I especially struggled with my self-confidence as a writer.  To be honest, I have re-read the original story, and being on the other side of that self-doubt, the old version was painful for me.  It wasn't up to par with my capabilities.  Maybe it was because of writer's block.  Maybe because there was too much going on personally for me dealing with a child who has a life-threatening condition.  Maybe it just was forced because it wasn't their turn.

Regardless, I've kept it in a file with the hopes one day I could get it to a point where I felt good about re-releasing it.  

That time is now.  
​
I'm so in love with the new version, even more in love with Holden, and over the moon with what's happening in The Date (releasing October 29).  The plot is solid.  The words are gushing.  This is the high I missed for so long.  I love writing.  I hope you're going to love reading it.

She’s not laughing. She’s not even smiling. “Did you pay someone off to be able to sit with us?”

“You think I need to pay someone off to be assigned to your table?” I place my hand under the long tablecloth and on her thigh. Her legs tighten as her eyes widen. “Well, do you?” My fingers lightly wander up her leg, making their way to her exposed pussy. Damn, her skin feels like satin beneath my fingers.

Shaking her head, she swallows. Her eyes are hooded, and her lips slightly part. Her hand captures mine, moving it to my leg instead of hers. “Perhaps you should find your original seat, though.”

I chuckle. “This is my original seat.” I grab the place card in front of me and flip it around so she can see it. “Says so right here.”

She blows out an unsteady breath and shakes her head before smoothing back her hair.
​
“So, let’s cut to the chase. Tell me all about your package.” I know all about her package. “I mean, the one that’s up for auction.”

In addition to the new, sexy covers, big changes are coming to the series. For that reason, I have disabled the This Series Box Set. Let me expand on this for a minute because there are several factors that went into that decision.

Before the ‪#‎BrainExperiment‬ (what I call the brain surgery I had on 8/5), I started rewriting Broken on Wattpad (http://my.w.tt/UiNb/XMempCoBYv). You can read the rough draft as I write it. My plans are to finish this, and then go straight into rewriting Mending.
​
Also, since the new covers were done, the books in the This Series eventually need to be reformatted. I'm going to wait to do that until after the new versions of Broken and Mending are available before doing that.

So, the box set right now is pretty much a hot mess. It does not include Forever, needs new formatting, and has the original versions of Broken and Mending. Again. I'm not interested in reformatting it until all the changes have taken effect. I am also hoping to offer a paperback version of the entire This Series for a limited time once the changes have all been made.

Broken is around 50,000 and Mending 55,000 in their original forms. But my books now are more like 90-97k. I don't think I'll add that much to them, but I do expect them to grow a decent amount.

I've allotted the next 3-6 months for this project because I don't want to push myself. If I finish before then, great. That being said, if you want an original version of the box set, you should probably hop on that as it will disappear very soon.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CVK103S