Life has gotten in the way of my career since September. My mother’s health declined, and then on Tuesday, November 29th, she fell and ended up with a compound fracture to her right leg. Both bones broken and exposed, and one hell of a wound. Her multitude of health issues affected her ability to heal (including diabetes), so the surgeon gave her a 50/50 shot of keeping her foot. Almost 17 weeks later, she’s getting close to being able to bear weight again. The massive wound is down to a flesh wound, and we are hoping the surgeon takes the rods out of her foot soon. Last fall, my parents were also taken advantage of by the person who bought their farm and were essentially run out of their home of 30 years by a hog confinement they were tricked into allowing. That’s a long story, but Karma is a vengeful bitch. When mom fell, we already knew they were moving near us (finally!) because the toxicity of a hog implement 600 feet away from their home wasn’t an option. Because of mom’s injury and the need for care, we set her up in a facility near me until the wound healed. For a few months, Dad drove up on weekends to see her. I suddenly found myself responsible for her care, all of their finances and legal paperwork, as well as getting them ready to move out of the house I grew up in. Compound that with Mom being stuck in a nursing home (which has been a great place for her), and I felt pulled in about a hundred directions. I hated the idea of her sitting there alone, so I spent a lot of my days with her. Getting back to any kind of routine was impossible, and my head was full of everything BUT writing. And there was the daily worry about this day being her last one, or an infection setting in.

I’m an emotional person, and I think that helps my creativity. But it also means I live my life on a rollercoaster, and a lot of my emotions have been tied up with my parents’ issues and hurtful accusations from people I never dreamed could be so callous. Anger, sadness, confusion, absolute fear of mom dying, feeling alone, and then back to anger — and the worst part was the inability to understand how much everything effected me. My husband has been a constant support system, encouraging me to get back to writing because I have a television deal in the works. “Everything’s about to happen to you,” he’d say. “You can’t waste this opportunity. You need to get busy on the next book because the production team is going to sell this, and then they’re going to want season 2.”

I knew he was right, and I tried. I plotted, wrote a scene or two, plotted some more. All here and there, when I could fit it in between the 900 other things going on, including the voices in my head. I lost so much sleep imagining how I could defend myself to people who’ve already made up their minds and will never see things any different. That’s a battle I had to walk away from, because it dried me up emotionally, and nothing’s going to change it.

I kept telling my husband that I’d used up whatever creativity I had. I couldn’t even visualize writing another book, much less one that would be better than the last and worthy of the exceptions of my (very understanding) publisher and excited production studio. I kept trying to work, but every time it looked like I’d be able to get back into a routine and find some spark, the Next Terrible Thing happened.

Finally came the cat bites to my index finger and thumb, and a fast moving infection that could have easily cost me my finger. I had emergency surgery and then spent 4 days in the hospital feeling helpless and finished. And then the surgeon tells me it will be 6 weeks to 3 months before I have full range of motion. At the time, my index finger was still very stiff from the extreme swelling in the tendon. How in the hell was I supposed to work?

Thankfully, I was able to get away from normal life for a while. I made it to the state swim meet to watch my daughter, and then she and I took a much needed vacation to Florida to see my closest friends. Maybe that’s what saved me. After we got back, things seemed to stabilize. A routine emerged. I started wanting to read again, and I started making more and more notes for the new book. I decided to try dictation because of my hand—although I got very lucky and my fingers work fairly well, and I can type. But talking into the mic about the book seemed to jumpstart something, and without even realizing it, I WANTED to write again. And I had ideas! Ideas for Hyde and Seek (Erin Prince #2), for a new indie series, and maybe even another Cage Foster novel.

This week, it all clicked. Between dictation and typing, I created a scene by scene synopsis and wrote 10,000 words on the new book. I hated to stop each day because I enjoyed it so much. That’s a feeling I’d forgotten.

When I told my editor, she declared the lights were back on.

And that’s exactly right. I’ve struggled to explain how I’ve felt this winter, using words like dull and numb and stupid, but she hit the nail on the head. My creative lights had gone black. I didn’t think they would come back on. But they are bright as day right now, and I’m taking advantage of it.

The point of this post isn’t to get a bunch of sympathy or brag about my writing and the television opportunity (although some people are going to take it that way, and those are the ones I’ve realized add nothing of value to my life). It’s to tell you that we all go through extreme lows. Most writers are emotional people, and when that balance is upset by stress and life’s jackhammers, you’re going to stop being able to write. And that’s okay. Give yourself the time to walk away from the keyboard and replenish. Fill up your well, as my editor says. Because eventually, things will swing back up. You’ll see daylight again, and you’ll want to create. Take care of yourself first, and the rest will fall back into place.

I promise.

Fear of death is something I struggle with, and it’s a topic I tried to explore with Lucy Kendall. Why am I so afraid? Is it a lack of faith? I don’t think so. I believe in God and some kind of an afterlife, even if I’m not sure any single religion is correct.

I think the real crux of it is the idea that one day, I will be no more on this earth. That my own body will just cease. I will be dead. I go through periods of mild panic attacks, usually in the middle of the night, when for just a very brief, heart stopping moment, the truth fully dawns on me. Dead.

And yet, I am strangely drawn to anything morbid. Research is easy for me. Crime scene photos don’t bother me (unless they’re children). The whole idea of embalming and how long a body can last is fascinating to me.

But I hate funerals. I hate seeing them in the casket, all waxen and usually nowhere close to looking like themselves. Dead people in pictures don’t feel as real. It’s easy to see them as an object, something that’s not going to happen to me. Seeing the reality, surrounded by grief and the powerful scent of funeral flowers, I can no longer pretend.

Like all parents, I don’t want to pass my hangups on to my kid. I’ve been very upfront with Grace about death, and her attending a funeral has been a point of contention between my husband and me. He believed she was too young, I thought she needed to have the experience before someone she knew and loved passed on.

She attended our friend’s funeral. Before we left, I told her what to expect, explaining how people often are embalmed and then we pay our respects. I wanted her to understand that death and the body she may see was nothing to be afraid of. It’s a part of life we can’t dwell on, and we were there to honor him.

Grace handled it well. So did I, once I realized the casket was closed. Selfishly, I didn’t want to see that good man like that, and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to calm my daughter’s fears if she got upset, because deep inside, I’m scared too. But she did witness the mourning process, and she understood the gravity of the situation.

I still fear death, and I still don’t know exactly why. But hopefully, by being open and honest with Grace, I won’t pass on the same fears to her.

Anyway, I wanted to do something special for those of you who’ve been reading my posts since the beginning and helping to spread the word about my books. And since I’ve bombarded you with various versions of “buy my book,” I wanted to give you guys the chance to read the next book for free! 

Happy Monday! Many of you know I just got back from a trip visiting family in Indianapolis, but must don’t know the reason for the trip. My brother (age 50) has been battling stage 4 throat cancer for nearly eighteen months.

He initially went through chemo, then radiation until the growth had shrunk enough for the doctors to operate. Last spring, he underwent a 19-hour plus surgery to remove the cancer in his throat. His neck was essentially split open, he lost half his tongue and his esophagus has been destroyed from radiation. He has a trach right now and a feeding tube—he’ll never be able to eat or drink food again. He goes for a follow-up on Friday, but doctors believe they got the cancer in his throat. However, there’s only a 20% chance it won’t come back somewhere in the next year. If it does, doctors have done all they can. His body can’t take any more chemo or radiation.

I hadn’t seen him in several years. I knew he’d lost nearly 100 pounds, but he was so thin and frail it was shocking. The left side of his face is hardened to the point it doesn’t move, and he’s got to talk through his teeth.

And yet, he’s in good spirits. He knows his chances aren’t good, but he talks of going back to work and plans for the future. He’s a chef, so his inability to eat again is especially awful. I know if it were me, I’d be wallowing in self-pity and shutting myself in the house to die.

But Jeff continues to push through. Throughout this miserable year and a half, he’s remained positive. As I sat with him on Friday, I thought about all the things in my life I’ve allowed to upset me, the little things I’ve let ruin my day, the fights I’ve gotten into with my hubby over dumb crap. How stupid they all were. I say it a lot, but this time I really mean it: life’s too short to sweat the small stuff.

Sometimes things happen between people and family that can’t be repaired, and sometimes it’s best to leave that part of our life behind. But time is precious, and we need to cherish every moment we have with family and friends. Embrace life because before you know it, your time with that person could be up and you’ll have nothing but wasted years to remember.

I hope you all have a wonderful week and the next time you find yourself upset and wanting to give up on yourself or someone else, remember this story. Life’s too short to waste time being angry or hiding behind our fears. Embrace them and move forward.

Thanks to all of you for your support and friendship. Have a great day!

A few weeks ago, I was driving Grace about an hour a way to meet my mom so she could stay with them for the weekend. Traffic was slow for several miles because a crappy car with a passenger door that didn’t match was holding up the left lane. You know the drill: the car in the passing lane is going about a mile and a half faster than the one it’s trying to “pass” in the right.

I was two cars behind and had swung out a couple of times to see what the hold up was. Yes, I’m impatient. And I was running late. After about ten minutes the right lane opened up, and I jumped into it. When I got up to the mismatching car responsible for the line of pissed off drivers, I automatically looked to the right. I had to put a face on the person I was internally cursing.

What did I see? A woman pushing eighty with her face pressed against the passenger window, screeching and holding both middle fingers up at me. I was too shocked to do anything but laugh. When I passed and looked back, I could see her in the rearview mirror, banging on the dash and presumably still cursing at me.

After I stopped laughing, my mind immediately conjured up an image of my Grandma Green. She loved her grandkids, and her house was always well-stocked with candy and fudge-stripped cookies. She didn’t like to cook and wasn’t good it. Spaghettios and sandwiches were her specialities. She did cook on Christmas morning, and her sausages ended up the size of silver dollar. I thought that’s how they were supposed to look until I got to college!

Grandma Green was sweet as pie until you made her mad. Then she could cut you down with a single glare. We all equally loved and feared her.

She spent the last ten years of her life bedridden and slowly losing her senses, especially her short term memory. But her long term was there, and I often wondered if she was trapped inside her head, in a different time. I hoped so, because she was miserable stuck in that bed.

Grandma held grudges (I inherited that lovely trait from her) and wasn’t afraid to say what she thought. I like to think if she hadn’t shut down the way she did, Grandma Green very well could have been that feisty old lady flipping me off.

In the spirit of missing my Grandma, I had to share some of my favorite “angry elderly scenes” from YouTube. Please don’t misunderstand: I’m not making fun of older people. I respect them greatly. But getting old is no fun, and I can’t blame for being mad at the world.

Curse Warning!

Quite possibly one of my favorite scenes of all time. I laugh out loud every time I watch it.

Naturally, YouTube had all sorts of angry old ladies to watch.

This lady is me in about forty years. If I had one of those scooters, I’d do exactly the same thing.

This one had tears in my eyes. Had I been filming these two I probably would have dropped the camera.

A loving couple that’s been together most of their lives. More curse words ahead.

This is one of my all-time favorite commercials. The first time I saw it I spilt my drink I was laughing so hard.

Last but not least, this came up in my YouTube search. The lady isn’t really old, but you all know my love of raccoons, and I had to share.

Do you have any stories with elderly relatives to share? Do you have that grandparent or aunt you walk on tiptoes around? Or one that’s so crass and cranky you love being around?