The Scene I Didn’t Know Was About Me

    Sometimes as writers, we think we’re pulling a scene out of thin air, when in all actuality we are tapping into memories. Some of which we would like buried under lock and key in the same place as Atlantis. It’s never just my imagination, just characters I let live rent free in my head, or just a plot that has the readers begging for more. Every now and then, the words on the page feel a little too familiar. Like we didn’t write them so much as uncovering something we’d been carrying all along.

That happened to me recently with my works in progress Cuts and Cufflinks, Through Diamond Eyes, and a few times in Crossroads. But let's face facts… there is at least one or more scenes in each of my stories that ripped me to bits and forced me to confront hard truths. But this time I get to control the narrative even if the situation still has to happen.

I wrote a scene that I swore was about my character. Her fear, her defiance, her sharp tongue masking a breaking heart. The lie that it was her strength that got her through when the cards had been stacked against her from the get go. But when I stepped back, I realized it was my eyes on that page staring back at me. My own storm, my own memories, my own scars had bled onto the page. Things I have kept, under lock and key, slipped through my fingers and disguised themselves as fiction.

And while completely unintentional and caught off guard, I now stand with a choice. Recognize and rewrite the scene or leave it alone. Because things no one really discusses about writing is its therapy. Sometimes our subconscious is braver than we are. It will tell the truths we don’t dare say out loud. And once you see it, you can’t unsee it. But would you want to?

That scene reminded me that writing isn’t just storytelling. It’s survival. It’s the way we process what we’ve endured and prove to ourselves we’re still standing. Characters that thought they were alone in that moment. Turns out, they had me all along, and that’s more powerful. 

Maybe that’s why readers connect so deeply with the things we write. Because even when we don’t realize it, pieces of us bleed through the ink. The scene I didn’t know was about me? It still hits hard but it doesn’t scare me anymore. Why? Because this time, I didn’t have to lie about it. There is no longer fear attached to the words that were said or the actions that were done. Let’s face it, my FMCs hold their own, as I held mine. 

Taking power back has many different faces. Which one of your characters showed yours?

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble

When You’re the Safe Space and the Storm

This one hits a little differently today. I don’t know if it’s the fact I haven’t really slept, I’m already on my 2nd Red Bull, or maybe because I can’t stand it when the Gremlin doesn’t feel well, especially when it’s tummy troubles. Because at that point there isn’t shit I can do except give him the meds and make him as comfy as possible. 

Hubby is also coming through similar things with his stomach, and of course I’m doing everything to keep him hydrated. Gremlin, of course, didn’t go to school today and Hubby didn’t go in last night. What’s this currently mean for me? I have two under foot, both needing me, both needing comfort, and only one that can change his own damn channel. 

I’m the safe space. I am the one that calms the Gremlin when he has had a bad day. I am also the one that can read his emotions faster than they start to manifest. That’s essentially what being a parent of a special needs child is attempting to stay three steps ahead and hoping you went down the right rabbit hole. For my husband… I’m the dumping ground of information and he has no problem telling anyone that I’m the brains.

There’s something nobody tells you about being the strong one: people will crawl into your arms when their world is burning, but they’ll also blame you when the fire spreads.

Being the “safe space” sounds comforting, right? It makes you think of soft blankets, quiet corners, and someone’s steady heartbeat that reminds you you’re not alone. And sometimes it is like that. Sometimes being the safe space means you’re the one people can cry to at 2 a.m. without fear of judgment, or the one who can listen without flinching when someone spills their darkest secrets.

But here’s the other side: being the storm.

Storms are destructive, messy, loud, impossible to ignore. And if you’ve been through enough life or as we now call it character development. If you have enough loss, enough pain, enough people taking advantage of your kindness; you know there’s a storm in you too. You’ve learned that sometimes the safest thing you can do for yourself is to burn down what’s toxic, flood the bridges that only carried betrayal, or rip the roots out of relationships that were only ever weeds.

That duality, safe space and storm, can feel impossible to live with. You want to be the place people run to, but you also know what it feels like when they run through you, leaving wreckage behind. You want to be gentle, but sometimes your gentleness gets mistaken for weakness. You want to keep your storm locked away, but sometimes it slips out when you’re protecting yourself, or when someone pushes too hard against the boundaries you’ve been too tired to enforce.

Here’s the part I’ve had to learn the hard way: you don’t have to choose. You don’t have to be just the shelter or just the hurricane. You can be both—the comfort and the chaos, the arms that hold and the winds that clear. Being both doesn’t make you unstable, it makes you human.

The world is going to misunderstand you. Some people will love the safety but recoil from the storm. Others will crave your fire but resent your tenderness. That’s not your fault. It’s not your job to dilute yourself so someone else can feel comfortable.

Your balance is yours. Your fire is yours. Your peace is yours.

So if you’re like me. If you’ve ever wrestled with feeling “too much” and “not enough” in the same breath. Remember this: storms aren’t just destructive, they’re also cleansing. They strip away what can’t survive so something stronger can take root. And safe spaces aren’t just quiet, they’re alive, powerful, and sacred.

You are allowed to be both. You are allowed to be everything. And if someone can’t handle that? Then maybe they were never meant to weather your storms or rest in your safety.

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble

Plot Holes and Other Existential Crises

For those of us that never saw our stories as anything other than stand alone, and now we are writing not only sequels but complete series. This, to anyone outside the creative community, sounds like someone complaining over too many ideas. When in reality, we became plotters instead of pantsers and quilters instead of plantsers.

What are the pros and cons of this, you might be asking yourself. Well first off, it can throw monkey wrenches the size of Texas into a story. Why? Because last book Character A did something that was a one off that now has to be explained. Or if it's anything like 4 Queen for 4 King, where the main cast from book 1 reappear in books 1-4. But it’s not in a prominent way. They are literally in the background until about halfway through. 

Pros of being able to write/plot a series… More time to explain and explore the world as a whole. You honestly get to show every detail, problem solve, and in a lot of ways show everyone’s true colors by the end of the series, even the writers. Another pro is you don’t have to just let the story fade, not just yet. If there is an avenue you haven’t strutted down, you have the opportunity in the next installment.

Cons, which is currently the bane of my brain's existence. Every plot line, existential crises, character’s attitude has the ability to take over, especially if you're working with a big cast. Even when it's not their turn to be the center of attention. Also if you're a free flowing pantser, you now have to pull back and ask yourself the hard questions. Like does or doesn’t this fuck with your magic system. Did this new character do something that is completely unheard of for this world? And what events do you want to see happen, without playing out the exact same story line from the first book. 

This also goes into the questions who will be in the next book. What part of the plot line needs to be carried over and what can be unique to the next story. Will there be an overall theme for the series or will you just throw things at the wall until it sticks. And the biggest one of all… do you give the villain, who remarkably stayed alive in book 1, a redemption arc or find another way to end them. Do you let the characters have choices or do you make concrete decisions that could very well derail the creativity and process if not handled in a timely manner? 

There is no wrong way to write a story, book, or series. There are some uncomfortable truths we do our best to ignore like its the plague. And while most view us as complaining, they don’t see the three or four main characters almost ripping each other apart over something trivial. The side characters that became just interesting enough that people really noticed when they disappeared. Now they have their own novella in the subseries. And the Badass Female, she’s sitting over on the work bench with a strong ass coffee debating her own life choice, let alone the ones you gave her to deal with.

Even though we created the world, we are not the rulers of it. We are the vessels that hold their stories until it's time to tell them. So, which character turned you on your head today? Which series has you groaning, because you never had any intention of writing it? And the Biggest question of all… How much do you still love what you do? Leave me some comments below. 

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble.

Writing While the World Falls Apart

It’s Monday afternoon and welcome to another installment of Chaos from the Keyboard. Has anyone else had an overly draining weekend that has now resulted in their family complaining about every little thing? No? Just me? Shame…. It's so much fun dealing with this (please for the love of God say you can hear the sarcasm).

Okay let's break it down…. Friday went awesome for me and the Gremlin. He ate, went to bed on time (or at least before Midnight.), I even had a battle plan to get my writing assignment done. Then Murphy’s Law kicked me in the shin. One of the cats got sick on my shoe, my mouse decided it wasn’t going to work anymore, my office chair is making a popping noise, and my bedroom T.V. decided to give me the black screen of death while still giving me sound. And that was just the tip of the damn ice burge.

The back hall floor is still not fixed, neither are the four or five spots I’ve asked my husband to look at. Which put me another weekend behind getting laundry done. My kitchen is cleaner but still a lot more work to deal with in there. And I’m marching through the house picking up things that have no business being in their current location. 

Now to the complaining…. Hubby can’t find his socks for work, Gremlin is having tummy troubles, and I’m looking for more side work to help keep us afloat. Because as much as I would love to go back to a 9-5 (I really don’t but for a steady paycheck) I can’t. We share a car, Gremlin’s schedule with speech, and let's face it someone has to be here and awake if something breaks loose at the school. So, here I am keeping shit running the best I can.

It’s not easy for any of us right now. While yes, I am a full time Writer/Author. I’m also a full time stay at home parent. I am the butcher, baker, and candle stick maker. I, like a lot of y’all, are the only thing keeping shit running. There is no other option for me. 

So, I have been on Fiverr and Upwork a good part of my day. I have been looking for other side work and editing gigs to keep things going while also trying to remain calm. Because it isn’t going to work if I'm the one losing my shit. 

If you happen to be the one in the middle of all this chaos, and you feel like you're the only one. 9/10 you're not. NOT EVEN CLOSE BUTTERCUP. So, go drink you some water (and no this time coffee doesn’t count. Juice does though) Take a lot of deep breaths, scream into a pillow if that is needed. Then straighten your fucking crown… cause we got work to do. 

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble

Mom. Writer. Therapist. Taxi. Repeat.

It’s FRIDAY! How was everyone’s week? Mine was about the same as usual with a balance of being present for my kiddo and trying to keep all the chainsaws in the air. I will say it's exhausting having to be everything for everyone, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t give me purpose. 

Mom mode is making sure Gremlin has all his needs met while also advocating for him. That’s not just advocating for him at school, with doctors and specialists, and people that don’t fully understand what a Non Verbal Autistic child looks/ acts like. It’s standing up to people that should also love and protect him that see him as a problem or puzzle to fix/ solve. Sometimes the outside world isn’t as cruel as the actual family. Which leads into protecting your peace and that of your child.  

Therapist and sounding board, for those around me, gives insight into situations that I might not ever experience. Which falls into the “more you know the more you can help” category. This also opens up the line of communication, where people know they can text or call and I’ll be there. 

For example: I have friends, or (as I like to explain) chosen family all over the United States. This one person lives in the NJ. Every time they can’t figure out a car problem, they contact me. 9/10 times I know the answer or can figure it out. This last weekend, I walked them through replacing an alternator. Stayed on Video chat until they were squared away. My other bestie lives in Indiana. I’m already trying to figure out the best way to get up to her to get her truck back on the road. As I’ve already made that 7.5 hour run to do it once before. And these are just a few examples.  

When it comes to my husband, well I hear every little thing about a company I haven’t worked for since November 1st 2021. He still works there on second shift. Which means every damn conversation is about supervisors, workplace politics, and how they weren’t working this weekend and now they are working this weekend. Which lands on the will you please talk about something that matters but in the end to him it all matters.

Taxi… This isn’t as much as it used to be, but we were without a car there for a bit. Wednesdays and Thursdays are the only time I really leave the house right now. Gremlins speech therapy and bills. And I will say it's rather nice. Even though the enclosure of my office feels more like an exhibit than a working environment. Probably because I put my feet on the floor and walked 20 steps to the bathroom, 10 back to the kitchen to grab my drink, and 10 to my office chair. Come to think of it, taxi was a little more fun than this. LMAO.

And Last but never least, Writer. This is the hard part. This is the delicate balancing act between character and reality. Being present for those around me and off creating a world so few can see as vividly as I can. Thousands of interruptions and losing a train of thought, all to compete with deadlines that are self imposed. Which goes along with the post from either yesterday or the day before. 

For a lot of writers, this is a side gig. Still very passionate about the work but it doesn't pay the bills. Me… Writing is my career. Royalties from Destined for More and Crossroads are what I have outside my husband. So bad months of sales could be the difference in Christmas money and trying to combat rising costs. 

These are the thoughts that plague my brain on a the daily. Keeping everything perfectly spinning without dropping. What is your matrix? How do you look at your efforts? I know I look at each thing, smile, and keep pushing forward.

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble

The Trauma Behind the Trope

Tropes aren’t necessarily where we start as storytellers, but by the time we are done, you have all the key players falling into some sort of category. With the explosion of booktok and other social media platforms, let's just say things have gotten interesting in the last few years. Especially in regard to people, women most definitely, being open about what they like to read. 

You all know the more popular of those tropes. The broken guy who drinks too much. The girl with scars no one can see. The lone wolf who doesn’t need anyone… until they do. The brooding man and his need to be the hero. The broken woman, who’s the damsel in distress. The list really does go on and on depending on where you fall.

Readers eat these stories up, and writers keep dishing them out as fast as possible to stay relevant. And on the surface, it looks like just another cliché. Between the tragic backstory, the “trauma dump” that explains why a character is so messed up to the woman that can “fix” him. But here’s the thing: behind every trope like that, there’s a very real thread of truth. Pain doesn’t come out of nowhere. Neither do the stories we tell.

For some of us, writing that broken character isn’t just about moving the plot forward. It's about survival. A survival that no one would really believe unless they stepped into our shoes. It’s about bleeding on the page in a way that feels safe. It’s about giving our own trauma a name, a face, a storyline, so it doesn’t eat us alive in silence. Because in the end we control the narrative where we didn’t have the chance to before. 

The problem comes when trauma gets turned into shorthand. When a writer slaps on a tragic backstory without thinking it through. “Daddy issues.” “Dead mom.” “Addicted brother.” “War vet with nightmares.” You’ve seen it. And when it’s handled that way, the trope stops being a reflection of real pain and starts being a gimmick. Trauma reduced to a buzzword that sells books instead of bringing understanding.

Here’s the truth no one wants to admit: trauma changes people in ways that are messy, contradictory, and sometimes plain ass ugly. It doesn’t follow a neat three-act structure, with character development and sometimes a redemption arc. It makes you withdraw, it makes you lash out, and it can make you do both in the span of an hour, because confronting it on the page is no different than confronting it in real life. 

That’s why it’s important for writers to handle it with care, so these tropes stop being cheapened and start being powerful. The broken man isn’t just broken. He is resilience wrapped in leather and tattoos. The scarred girl isn’t just a victim. She's navigating what survival looks like in a world that tried to take her out of the equation. The lone wolf isn’t actually alone. They're just terrified of trusting anyone again, for fear of reliving the nightmare. 

And yeah, sometimes writing those characters means ripping open the old wounds to remember the terror, disbelief, and fear. It puts pieces of yourself on the page that you’d never confess out loud. That’s the part readers rarely see: the writer behind the trope, the person who knows what the weight of that silence feels like. And the stone eyes, only we can describe with perfect clarity because we look at them everyday in the mirror. 

See, it’s not the tropes that are the problem. The lack of truth and conviction behind the story written for the masses. The lack of education into what is put on the page. For some it's their lives, for others… Well, let's just say they’ve made a healthy living off of cookie cutter material because it sells. It’s a card that has been played so many times that a lot of readers can predict the ending from a lot of authors by what they’ve previously done.

For some, it is what it is. They are making good money following the same formula. For those of us that broke away from that or never really played on that kind of field, it can be exhausting. But I live by this simple rule when it comes to that. I write for me, if it makes a difference great, if not well I already did the damn thing.  

So the next time you see that “overdone tragic backstory,” I want you to pause for a second. Ask yourself: is it lazy writing, or is it someone quietly telling you the hardest part of their story in the only way they know how? Is this someone finally working through their issues and exercising their demons or is it someone that sees this as trending information?

Because behind every trope is a trauma, behind every trauma is a person, and behind every person is a situation that didn’t play out that well in real life. 

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble

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.