Burnout Wears Lip Gloss Some Days

Good Wednesday Morning Peps! We are halfway through the week. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I feel like I’m somewhere between “I’m going to get shit finally done today” and “Why do I have so much to do today?” Questions, most of us parents, ask ourselves before we start the major overhaul of our homes. 

With school now in full swing around here, I’m week 2 into having the Gremlin out of the house during the day. You would think moving through the house would be easier. It isn’t. Mostly because I’m still battling exhaustion, depression, and burnout. An uphill battle that has me feeling like the worst version of myself, even though no one else sees the fight. 

Burnout isn’t always messy. Sometimes it gets dressed, throws its hair up in a mess bun, prays the clothes are clean and pretends it has its life together. Because God forbid people actually see the mess our lives really are, and fully understand we are holding it together with hopes, dreams, and a caffeine addiction. Hell, some operate off pure damn rage and spite. 

That’s the default version I run off of more often than not. The one who folds laundry like a champ, checks things off lists, and still looks presentable enough to trick the world into thinking she’s thriving. It’s the “I’ve got this” version that I’ve accepted is all smoke and mirrors. That only a very slim amount of people knows where to look for the cracks.

Here’s what it really looks like:

Waking up at 3am because the Gremlin needed something or the meds burned through his system too quickly, and your brain decides to stay awake even after they’re back asleep, because we aren’t sure if we or our partner will hear the alarm. Then it's “where’s the socks?”, “That shirt doesn’t go with those shorts.”, “Did you check his backpack?” and that’s all before coffee has passed your lips. 

Then you find yourself either starting your day or laying down for just a few hours. But by the time you rejoin the land of the living shit has gone sideways, it's now noon, and the bus will be back with the little in less than two hours. OR you find yourself sitting in silence at 8 a.m. because it’s the only quiet you’ll get all day. 

Already negotiating with yourself about which fires can actually burn a little longer before you deal with them. Mapping out zones in your head like you’re planning a military operation. Zone 1 (the kid’s room, bathroom, hallway), Zone 2 (living room, staging ground), and so on. Oh, and let's not talk about that story line that has been playing in your head like a bad 90s jingle.  

Burnout wears a tank top, ripped jeans, falling apart sneakers, and just enough eyeliner to keep anyone from looking too closely at fractured puzzle pieces. Burnout wears lip gloss when I fold two loads of laundry and put them away like it’s proof I’m still a functional adult. 

It wears lip gloss when I tell myself I’ll write for forty-five minutes and then tackle another corner of chaos. It wears lip gloss when I walk into the living room, gather every misplaced piece of laundry, and drag it all into the kitchen staging area, so I can trick myself into believing I’m making progress. It’s not screaming at the top of my lungs for help that honestly will not come. 

From the outside, it looks productive. From the inside, it feels like I’m dragging myself through molasses in -40 weather. The lip gloss is just the cover. The shine. The illusion. That keeps my ass sane when this crazy shit is my life. This is my monkeys and circus, but no one ever said I was actually in charge when they were running with scissors. 

That’s the sneaky part about burnout; it doesn’t always look like collapse. It doesn’t always look like falling apart on the bathroom floor or crying in the car. Sometimes it looks like a one-woman wrecking crew who gets 75% of the house wrangled by bedtime. Sometimes it looks like competence. Sometimes it even looks like success.

But the shine wears off. And when it does, what’s left is the part I have to remind myself is okay: the unfinished rooms, the skipped chores, the writing that waits until tomorrow. Because pretending I’m fine doesn’t actually refill the tank. And these days I’m running through spoons and fucks like there is a dump truck of both sitting in the yard.

Burnout in lip gloss is still burnout. And no matter how good I get at disguising it, I don’t have to prove anything to anyone. I don’t owe anyone my explanations, time, or energy. I do owe myself honesty, grace, and a little credit. Some days, “good enough” is enough.

So, when you find yourself on the other side, trying to catch a break, know you are not alone. Shit happens and as long as the kids are fed, they have clean clothes for the next day, and the animals didn’t end up with a surprise haircut, its fine. Everything is fine. The world is on fire, but it was on fire yesterday so its fucking fine.

Now go get you something to drink, sit in peace for a few more minutes, then rock that bitch like it owes your ass money. I’ll catch you tomorrow or the day after.

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble.

This Book Betrayed Me… In the Best Way

Hey Hey… It’s Tuesday Peps. How’s it going so far to start off your week?  I’m hanging in there as always trying to hit the grind between house and work. But I have had a question floating around in my noggin for a few days now that I would like to present to the class. It’s something I was asked by one of our new followers over on Hold My Pen Promptcast. 

How much thought do we put into the words we write? And what makes a scene difficult to write?

Most of us can relate to the painstaking, gurgling hours we put into each and every story or submission for the show. While most of the time the words just fall out and we have to make sense of them before presenting them to the public, some scenes hit us like a freight train, making it hard to deal with. 

I, personally, have been accused, on more than one occasion, of either using my stories as therapy or putting my characters through unnecessary pain. I see it as making, especially my female characters, relatable. We have all been through some shit and were still standing when the dust settled. Like Rose from Destined for More or Piper from Crossroads, things happen so quickly and choices have to be made. 

Most of those situations revolve around “do I lay down and take it” or “do I stand and fight”. My chicks don’t just stand and fight. No… No… Hell NO. They take the situation like a bull by the horns. Timid at first but once they find their footing on unstable ground, they hit and hit hard. Normally with some sort of need for self-preservation, but it's a 50/50 split.

So, really quick before we move on. How would you answer those questions? 

Now, on to the story that wrecked me in the most perfect way. And before anyone asks, it's nothing I’m currently writing. Not yet at least. It's actually something one of my friends wrote. CR McCormack. She writes the Dolan Syndicate series. Now, mafia books are one of my guilty pleasures that I swore I would never write. Because of her I did so without realizing until I was so far in I couldn’t stop myself. 

Her, I think My Neighbor is a Mobster, is the perfect mix of Hallmark meets GoodFellas. But it was Mobster and the PTA, which is the only one in the series that isn’t a romance. That sucker punched me in the gut. Big intimidating Mobster playing parent to a 6-year-old. And while he grumbles through damn near the whole thing. You can tell he loves her and cares about her. Which is one thing we have somehow lost sight of in literature. 

Not everything has to be sex, lust, drugs and rock-n-roll. There can actually be a plot, respect for the other, and still have the begging if it's written right. You can also still show these heartwarming moments that are still very much “touch her and die”, with a “this is my family, and no one hurts my family”. 

While you're deciding on your next book choice, consider checking out CR’s stuff. Link Listed below.

https://books2read.com/ap/RWrO9N/CR-McCormack

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble

Plotting, Like Productivity, Is a Lie I Tell Myself

    I swear I started my weekend with the best of intentions, as I always do. We all have that mantra “I’m going to get the laundry done, I’m going to get the kitchen cleaned, the office is going to get handled…” You know the shit we have been too busy during the week to keep up on, even though it's been a steady ass battle. 

Saturday, as much as I tried, I got nowhere with anything that wasn’t writing. That was mostly due to some last minute projects I had to button up for others during the week. And while I don’t regret a single moment of helping these authors, my writing assignment for Saturday’s show was still only half done. And while I’m known for finishing it up at the final hour, that puts me in a panic mode that is hard to come out of prior to the show.  

Then we come to Yesterday… Sunday… the day of rest and family time for most. Not in this house. Sunday seems to be the only day where everyone is home and still mentally checked out from the week before while setting up for the next. This is the day most promises get broken for the amount of work actually displayed. 

For example: Hubby starts around Wednesday giving me the song and dance of what all he’s going to get done the coming weekend. Either he sleeps the weekend, does half the damn chore and then “ohh shinies it”. Or sits and watches anime with the “I’ll get to it in a minute.” But I stupidly thought yesterday would be different. 

We have both been running on the under recommended amount of sleep for a bit. But when we got up Sunday we had a solid 5 hours. He was supposed to start laundry and I was starting on the office. Why the office? This is where I spend the vast majority of my time working from home and piloting the ship of this family.

Let’s face facts here. If the rest of the house has gone to hell you can bet your ass my office is ten times worse. Mainly due to it becoming the catch all the rest of my house has already become. I looked around my office to get a mental game plan before I started. The shelves, the desk, the piles of “I’ll get to that later” junk, and thought: Today is the day. Which is what I do with every room as I try my hardest to conquer. 

But it wasn’t until I knocked over a large pile of papers, that I had fucking had it. And while cursing in my head, I vowed there would be no more knocking things over with my elbow. No more stepping around the same damn stack of papers, piles of laundry, doom boxes like it’s a piece of abstract furniture. No more of treating my space like a dumping ground instead of the creative environment that it's supposed to be.

And you know what? I actually did it. I hit it hard, made a real dent that you can visually see, and got more than half the office done. For once, I was proud of myself. The Gremlin even helped like the little rockstar he is. Mostly just taking his toys back to his room instead of being in here but hey a win is a flipping win.

Which was short lived. How? Well, I went to ask my hubby a question about something, and he was nowhere to be found. Not at the table, not on the couch, not helping Gremlin pick up his room, and not in the back hall handling laundry. While I was waist deep in papers, he decided to go lay down and take a damn nap. He literally waited until I was knee-deep in chaos, snuck off to bed, and left me running the ship solo.

And when did he finally decide to join the land of the living? 11:30pm… I already had Gremlin fed, bathed, and sound asleep for school this morning with over half the office cleaned, while he had been passed out for nearly 10 to 11 hours. His only response once he saw what I had done…. Why didn’t I work on the living room and dining room (it’s one big room) instead of my office. And would I lay out Gremlin’s clothes before I went to bed.

Then this morning, he pulled the ultimate betrayal: turned off my alarms so I couldn’t get out of bed at 7:30am. Like my productivity depended on his sabotage. Spoiler alert: it worked. I didn’t crawl out of bed until almost noon.

Which brings me to the realization in my writing life that I’ve been avoiding: plotting is a lie.

I plot my days like I half ass plot my books. I know what needs to be done or where I’m headed in the story. It's meticulous in theory, an absolute trainwreck in practice. I’ll sketch out the perfect arc: clean the office, finish laundry, feed everyone, write 1,000 words. Sounds great on paper. But in reality? The characters (aka, my family) improvise their own damn lines, the subplots (like Hubby turning off alarms) come out of nowhere, and the neat story structure goes up in flames before the first act or even draft is over.

But here’s the thing: even when my plotting fails, the story still moves forward. The office is cleaner. Gremlin was taken care of. I may not have followed the script, but I still wrote a chapter in the chaos that is my life.

So maybe, plotting isn’t really the lie. I just keep forgetting it’s supposed to be a suggestion, not a guarantee. Because lets face facts… we like to think we control the characters, then they say hold my beer. Chaos. We are all Chaos. So… What’s the lie you keep telling yourself? I can’t wait to hear it. Drop it in the comments below.

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble

What I Learned from My Kid This Week: First full week.

    It’s Friday, y’all! And I’ll say it's been one hell of a week. Gremlin just completed his first full week back. And while I’m always worried about him being out of my sight, something has kinda changed for both of us this year. I don’t know if it's because he’s been in the same school since kindergarten or maybe even because, during the teacher swap, he got the same amazing teacher he already had. Whatever it happens to be, has us settling into the old routine like seasoned pros around here. 
There are some things I have learned from him so far this school year.
Lesson #1: The backpack is a black hole.
    Every day, I unzip it expecting to find homework or maybe a snack wrapper. Instead, I find mystery objects that I’m not really sure anyone knew were there. For example: a rock…. It wasn’t a big rock. But when I pulled it out of his backpack, he started going 90 to nothing jabbering. So “very important” rock. 
Lesson #2: Routine is a loose suggestion.
    If you have been around for a minute, you know the Gremlin has a war on sleep. Whether that be on school days or not. So, we do our best to set him up for success. Clothes are laid out each night, shoes and backpack are together in his room, and everything is picture perfect for hubby to handle the morning and put him on the bus. Funny how this is where we start the week. 
    By Wednesday into Thursday, Ares is waking up fresh as a Daisy, while we are running around like chickens with no heads missing a foot. Can’t find any of his new shirt, his new jeans have a mystery stain by the ankle, he is refusing everything but dunken sticks for breakfast, and he had to wear a pair of my husband's socks. Why cause no one knows where the 40 (not even joking) pairs of his are.
Lesson #3: Kids are better at boundaries than we are.
    Gremlin has no problem indicating, “I’m tired” or just “done” for the day. He comes home might or might not have a snack. Has me put on his movie. Then climbs into bed with the covers thrown over his head. This is the “do not talk to me”, “look at me”, or “try to engage” unless you want the wrath of a 4’6” titan. There is a hell of a lot of FAFO in that child. 
    Meanwhile, I’m over here ignoring my own exhaustion because laundry doesn’t fold itself. I’m starting to think maybe he’s got it figured out.
Lesson #4: Even little victories count.
    We had smiley faces all week. Which means he did what he was told, followed directions, and didn’t have a meltdown. WIN across the board. And Yes, I did get him ice cream for when he gets up from his nap.
    The truth is, sending your kid back to school isn’t just about them learning. It’s about us learning too. To adapt, to let go, to embrace the chaos, and maybe even take a break when we need it. Some of these kiddos, like mine, have no room for BS. Yes, due to the nature of his nonverbal, we struggle bus it a lot of days. But then there are days when things just click. 
    So, here’s to week one. We survived… and we’ll do it all again Monday. Hopefully, with a better game plan and some extra minutes of sleep. Have a great weekend guys. See you on the show tomorrow night on Twitch. 7c/8e Hold My Pen Promptcast.
Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble.

Ink, Rage, and Reclamation

Happy Thursday everyone. How's everyone's week going so far? Are we hanging in there? Good. If not, chin up, shoulders back and remember you're a badass. Today, we are starting a new topic for Thursdays. As in I have thought about it, and now I’m actually going to do it. LMAO. Thursday’s are going to be titled Ink-Stained Secrets. Also, If you read to the end you will be able to see what each day’s topic actually is. Alright on with the show.

Some if not most days, the pen feels heavier than it should. For what pours out of that ink is a world that I have cultivated, characters that chose me to tell their story, and real life issues everyone can half ass relate to. It's an emotionally taxing job. You're holding someone else’s  anger, frustration, and chaos that words usually can’t contain only actions. And some days, that weight is exactly what I need.

Because truth be told, a shit ton of what’s on that paper, is someone’s therapy. Dealing with complex situations, emotions, and trauma. Playing it back hoping that the character can hold out just long enough to either escape or have their knight show up in a search and rescue. Hoping the whole time, you're not turning off or disengaging the reader.

I’ve learned that rage doesn’t always have to destroy, or be destructive. It can create. Sitting down with a blank page, a notebook, or even just a stream of typed words, I pour the chaos onto it. The house still isn’t perfect, the bills still loom, and the world keeps spinning, but in that moment, I reclaim something that feels like mine: control, expression, clarity. Because like my characters, It was never my fucking fault.

You know I have been accused by my besties (Izzy and Patrick) that I cause unnecessary trauma to my characters. Especially the female ones that walk through literal fire, to come out the fucking reborn Pheniox on the other side. That’s not a by chance thing. It is very much a clue into the situation I have overcome. 

Because any author that says there isn’t at least a little bit of self insert into their books is either lying to themselves or cookie cutter. Which is very much a “you do you boo”. I’m personally out there in left field and everyone already knows it. I don’t hide who I really am. The same person you see on Saturday Night’s over on Twitch (Hold My Pen Promptcast 7c/8e) is the same person you will meet at a signing event. Also, the same person you will see at Wal-Mart. 

My writing doesn’t erase the trauma, but it sure as hell gives it a shape, a rhythm, a container. It transforms the noise in your head into something tangible. Something you can confront, understand, and, little by little, master. Ink, paint, keys, brushes, whatever medium you choose, becomes the battleground where rage turns into reclamation. And Guess what, sweetheart? NO ONE HAS TO LIKE IT BUT YOU! Fuck what anyone else’s opinion happens to be on the subject. It isn’t about them… It’s about you.

So tell me: when was the last time you let your ink, your words, or your art reclaim your power? How did it feel to turn chaos into something tangible? Because raw emotion is just creative energy begging for somewhere to go, be seen, and really be felt.

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble

Mondays — Chaos from the Keyboard (Writing, Creativity, Author Life)

Tuesdays — Plot Holes & Panic Buttons (writer quirks, plot rants, chaotic craft moments)

Wednesdays — Juggling Chainsaws & Mental Health (Mental Load, Healing, Survival)

Thursday — Ink-Stained Secrets (trauma, introspection, personal revelations)

Fridays — Mom Mode: Engaged (Parenting, Special Needs, Family Chaos)

Executive Dysfunction and the Writer Brain

Ever have a brilliant idea? You know the ones I’m talking about. The one where you are scouring the internet, apps, and even Facebook to see if anyone else has done it. Or a little recon on what they did so you can do it differently? And the moment you are positive this will work, you sit down, open that new document or pull out that notebook you were saving for just this story. You have everything right there at your finger tips… and then forget what you were going to do, where you put your pen, all just five minutes later? 

Welcome to the writer's brain in full executive dysfunction mode. It’s like juggling chainsaws… while riding a unicycle… on a windy day…. while small children ask you riddles no one has the answer to. 

I know that sounds dramatic but when you really think about it… I’m not wrong. See for me, it shows up in the small, some would say insignificant, ways that just send me over the damn edge before the caffeine has made me human. A messy desk, my chair being moved, my charger falling behind the desk, half-started projects that are judging me from the screen, a to-do list that feels like a minefield or mountain. 

Some days, I know exactly what needs to be done and how I’m going to get the most out of my day before my Gremlin, you know the one I made not the ones roaming like a cyclone in my head, decides to Mommy me. But then the characters start screaming like they’ve had no home training, the cat keeps knocking my mouse off the desk, and my brain goes into screen saver mode. All the tasks that I’m supposed to be actively working on, and plots decide to hide like they’re Easter eggs, and I didn’t sign up for the hunt. And don’t even get me started on the house chaos that somehow mirrors my mental clutter.

Executive dysfunction isn’t laziness. It’s a neurological hiccup that makes organizing, starting, or completing tasks feel impossible, even when you desperately want to. Writers, creatives, and anyone with a busy brain experience it differently, but the result is the same: mental friction, frustration, anger and guilt. They all go hand in hand for someone that just wants an hour of focus. 

The hacks? Tiny victories. Break big tasks into micro-steps, use timers, and reward yourself for completing the smallest things. Some days, just moving laundry from the floor into a basket counts as a win. Putting the dishes in the kitchen and out of whatever weird spot you found them, also a major ass win. Because in the world of the writer's brain, progress is progress. No matter the size, forward motion leads to more forward motion. 

So, tell me: how does executive dysfunction show up in your life? And what little hacks do you use to survive it? Let’s swap tricks and reward systems. After all, we’re all over here just juggling chainsaws pretending like it's normal.

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble.

This Scene Was Brought to You by Panic and Exhaustion

This statement couldn’t be more absolutely true in this moment. One because, for most of us, we all have that one scene we wrote under that influx of adrenaline that broke the story line wide open. We had no idea where the hell it was going, until that one character either opened their mouth or did something so off the damn wall, that we are like “shit can’t go back now”. The second reason this is more than likely true might be because it’s 1:35am with a Gremlin running loose that should have been passed out hours ago, while I’m running on my last damn nerve.

One night… Just one damn night, I would like to go to bed at a decent hour and get the proper amount of sleep to function. One day to wake up and feel like I can take on the day like the bad ass I have been for so damn long. At this point, I think it would put my body into shock if I did though. Though I do wonder if we ever really come out of the toddler mindset phase as Moms. Let me explain.

We eat what’s left or take the “Mom Tax”. We sneak snacks but never actually eat a full meal, if we eat at all. We survive on caffeine, nicotine, and the ability to justify a gas station potato log over the Micky D’s drive thru. We are lucky as hell to keep the goblins alive, happy, (and for people that have more than one) from hurting each other. 

And the truly messed-up thing as writers…. Our characters are no different. You either write what you know or what you wish you have/had. Pain, passion, attitude, and even a bit of snark is poured into each character as a foundation we pray won't crack. Well unless it furthers the damn plot or gives them some deeply rooted character development. 

Personally, as the vessel these stories pour out of, I’m a little sick and tired of all this damn character development. Like, I’m good for the next 20 damn years on that one. After all, my life is stranger than fiction and most don’t believe half the damn shit I’ve either seen, survived, or accomplished. But here I am as living damn proof, you can rage against the machine, doesn’t mean you're not going to feel the pain from it later in life. Believe me on that one. 

But anywho… Back on topic… Panic can sometimes be a great motivator when it comes to personal or literary scenes. Depending on what type of person or character you’re writing, they could be thinking clearer, making decisions based on logic, or they could be running around like their hairs on fire and their asses are catching. See everyone thinks of panic, goes into the fear side of it, and runs off the rails. 

That’s not always the way I play out panic. I have one story that I’m currently writing (Female Bronc Rider meets Mafia) which has her saddle being tampered with right before the biggest ride of her life. She knows someone is fucking with her, but doesn’t know who, and unfortunately, can’t prove anything other than the straps have been cut. Panic sets in but she uses that as fuel to keep her fired up. 

It's the same way with how a lot of people handle stressful situations. Some can’t. The fear and anxiety shut them down hard. Other’s, well lets just say, we are pros at the pivot. The “well fuck” situations that has us scrambling to pull rabbits out of our asses, has become our norm when it should have never been that way. But here we are. 

So, the next time you have a character go rogue, or completely off the damn deep end, remember shit happens. We can barely control the ones we made that are walking around over the ones that live rent free in our heads. Sometimes you have to see how far each one is willing to go. It does make for entertaining shit to have to cut out later if it makes no sense in a day or three. 

For those of you that have hung on this long, thank you. I know this probably doesn’t make much sense but if you know you know. Kids like characters are unpredictable. Like the one that is still running around the living room like it's a damn mash pit. I don’t care how tired he is, come 6:50am his butt will be on that bus. He made a choice to stay up and he’ll have to deal with the aftermath of that choice. Not quite as dramatic as the Last Ride on War Cry, but you understand. 

Panic, for me right now, is the fact I’m running out of gas, and until my husband walks through that door in hopefully 20 minutes, I have to keep the Gremlin from pulling a vanishing act. Yes, he has done that a time or dozen. Never when it's dark… So, I guess I have an advantage there right now. Pray for my salinity, send supplies, and good humor memes. 

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble.