And this is why my head will never get too big...

I've been thinking about this a lot lately and wondering how it works for other writers. Who is your biggest supporter? What do your spouse and children think of what you do? Your friends? Your neighbors?

When I think about it, my sister is my biggest supporter/cheerleader. She's amazing. She reads everything I write and is always up to give me her honest opinion. Which means she doesn't always like everything I write, but if she doesn't like it she's quick to tell me why. She shares my posts and collects my books. She travels with me to conferences and helps take the sting out of sticky reviews. I don't know what I'd do without her.

Don't get me wrong, my folks are supportive too. They read all my published pieces and collect them. My dad has talked about me to his golf buddies, which resulted in me meeting my biggest fan and making a fantastic new friend.

I have some fantastic friends who follow my career and buy my books and tolerate my weirdness.

But my immediate family? Hmm. Well that's a bit of another story. Oh my husband supports me financially and listens to me ramble on about story ideas and publishing woes. And is more than happy to let me do my thing. But to date he's only read one of my published stories. And I'm pretty sure I guilted him into that. I should note that he's really not much of a reader (I know, right? How does that even happen?) so it's not like he's choosing to read something else before my work. He just chooses not to read.

And my kids? Well, my daughter reads some of my work. She's an avid reader, just not a horror fan. And my son reads some of my work. But they aren't impressed with my job. They don't listen to or read my interviews. They often seem surprised that I have followers or someone actually wanted to interview me. I tell them news and I get a lot of, "ohhh." You know, as in "oh, that's nice, mom." As though I've just told them we had sunshine today. I'm about as important as the weather, probably less so. And it's kind of an ouchy spot for me. Maybe it's because I didn't start my career until they were teenagers and completely unimpressed by anything I did.  I wonder...

So how goes it at your house? Do your spouse and kids care about your work? Is my offspring's attitude the norm? Enquiring minds want to know...


♥Stacey

This is not about writing...

I wanted to be up front about that just in case anyone wandered in looking for author type stuff. This blog is about being an amazing pioneer woman/catch, I mean, canning things. Yep. I can things. So far, mostly jam. But today is salsa day. Yum!

We have a huge area near us that is full of blackberry bushes and we picked tons and tons of blackberries over the month of July. Now, just in case you've never been blackberry picking, and have visions of wandering through a beautiful sunlit meadow with a wicker basket, let me break this down for you. Blackberry picking, while extremely rewarding, basically sucks. You have to put on long sleeves and pants, and I recommend rubber knee boots. Because blackberry bushes have thorns, large ones, that will scratch your skin. And our blackberry bushes grow wild, which means in a jungly tangle, amidst other weeds, and trees. Also, the grass is really tall and there are snakes (hence the rubber boots). Although I only saw one once which is awesome since I froze for a full fifteen minutes afterwards and then had to pep talk myself into continuing in that direction. And it's Illinois in July, so it's hot and humid and sweaty, especially since you are wearing all those damn clothes. And we get so far back in the patch that you can't see us, and we get tangled up in the vines, and bitten by mosquitos, and fight with spiders, anyway, it's not particularly fun. I think it's the sense of accomplishment that keeps us going. (And by "us" I mean myself and my daughter, Molly, when she's home, and my niece, Madi, when she's here; don't even think that Mike is picking berries.)

But as Molly, Madi, and I were discussing once while picking, we all evolved from tribes that basically hunted and gathered. And women were the gatherers. So being good at it, fearless in the face of the heat and (sort of) danger, fulfills some deep need in your evolutionary core. I told Molly that since she's a good gatherer, a good gardener, and births babies easily, she'd be quite a catch in her tribe.

So we picked many times over the month (once in the dusk and rain, talk about difficult and spooky), and gathered a shit ton of blackberries. The boys ate a lot of them. Who knew toddlers could pack away so much fruit? We made some cobblers, some blackberry shortcake, and then I decided to make jam. Now, I'd only made jam once before, in England when I was about 13, with an elderly neighbor lady. We made black currant jam and it was awful. So my knowledge of jam making and canning was almost nil. So I turned to the internet and by toggling between a few sites learned what I needed to know. Then I bought canning supplies. Hello, expensive. But since you only have to buy the pot and tools once, it's worth it. And then I made jam.

First you have to rinse, smash, and cook the berries. Then you spoon it into jars, leaving headspace, getting out air bubbles, putting on lids, and then bathing the jars in a hot water bath. And that's the part that worried me--what if they didn't seal right? What if I gave everyone botulism? But they did, and I didn't, and I heard the satisfying "ping" of lids sealing very clearly. So I made more. I ended up with three batches: Blackberry, Blackberry Cherry, and Blackberry Blueberry. It was delicious. So much so, that I went from this:
 

 

To this:

Way too quickly. I sent some home with my parents. I sent some home with my niece. I sent a jar to Sean. I gave a jar to the neighbors. And then Molly and Luke took 5 jars with them when they left. But, because I'm a nice person, I offered a jar to my mailman yesterday. And it went like this:

 

 

Mailman: (handing over three boxes of books) Here you go.

 

Me: Thanks so much for bringing them to the door.

 

Mailman: No problem.

 

Me: Would you like a jar of homemade jam?

 

Mailman: (Huge sigh) Thanks, but my wife makes jam. She made so much we're trying to get rid of it.

 

 

And he left. What?? But, but, you don't understand. I don't have much left so my offer was not me trying to get rid of it, but me being really generous. It's my first jam making. It needs to be celebrated!! Don't turn down my jam!! But he did. And then he walked back to his jeep. And I felt this odd sense of rejection. Although, if I think about it, he may think I'm slightly odd, and well, I wouldn't take jam from someone I thought was odd either. It's like taking candy from strangers.

 

So, in closing, I've thought a lot about the amazing feeling of accomplishment I got from making and canning homemade jam. Cooking always fills me with a sense of "rightness" and accomplishment. And I think it's because I grew up in a family (and extended family) where that's what women did. We do the cooking, and it's a way of showing love and taking care of your family. And I know that a lot of folks today will think that's old fashioned and silly, but frankly, I don't care. For me, fixing a meal and having everyone at the table will always be my happy place.

 

And learning the art of canning, which I know isn't that big of a deal considering women have been doing it for centuries, and with far less convenience than my modern kitchen, still filled me with a sense of wonder and an amazing satisfaction. And maybe it's because I joined those ranks: I can grow a garden, I can make food, and put it away for later use. I can make sure my family is fed from my own labor. I rock.

 

 

Also, I can make a mess:



And clean it up.

 

 

Today, I'm making and canning salsa with tomatoes and peppers from my garden. Because I can. And also because it's yummy.

 

 

What do you do that gives you that amazing feeling of pride? Seriously, I want to know!

 

 



♥Stacey

I hate it when things don't go my way...

And by that I mean how I pictured them in my head. Take last Friday, for instance. I had scheduled a Dr. appointment to discuss with my doctor decreasing some of my meds. In my mind, he was all, "sure, no problem. What a great idea." In real life it went more like this:

The nurse takes all my vitals (down another two pounds since I saw him in April), blood pressure and heart rate good. Unfortunately, I've managed to catch a really bad cold/sinus gunk. The doctor enters.

Me: Ironically, I'd scheduled this appointment to convince you of how healthy I am, but now I have a cold...

Him: Stop talking.

Me: My niece came home from camp with a cold and then my grandson caught it...

Him: Seriously, stop talking!

At this point I notice that he's taking out and donning a surgical mask as though I was typhoid Mary. It should have been a clue, maybe, that this wasn't going to be my best visit ever.

Him: Any drainage? What color? Blah, blah, blah...

And he prescribes me an antibiotic.

Me: Okay, so this bout of whatever not with standing, I've been really doing great. I've been eating healthier, slowly (excruciatingly slowly) losing weight, my check up was great, so what I've been considering is xxx (sorry, but this part is a secret unless it becomes a reality).

Him: That's a really bad idea. You have Fibromyalgia.

Me: Yeah, I know, but I'm feeling really good lately.

Him: That's because you take medicine. In order for your plan to work you'd have to stop taking most of the meds. Then you'll feel awful.

Me: No I won't. Because I'm being healthy.

Him: Yes. You will. My answer is no.

Me: Okay, so this isn't going the way I thought it would and you aren't giving me the answer I want so I'm just going to keep talking until I've coerced you...

Him: I'm not going to change my mind.

Me: But it's not like this will cause any lasting damage or be fatal.

Him: There's no way to predict that. And that's why the answer is no.

Me: Hmm. Well, let's say that hypothetically I do this against your better judgment, how would one go about cutting down my medication? I know you can't just stop cold turkey.

Him: Stop taking this, this, and this, and cut this down to half. The call the office when you can't take the pain and we'll put you back on the meds.

Me: Oh, Ye of very little faith. I think you're seriously underestimating my stubbornness and pain threshold.

Him: We'll see.


And that is how my doctor became an unwilling accomplice in what he seems to think is my craziest idea yet. Later, I relayed the news to Mike.

Me: So, Dr. L is so not on board with this idea.

Mike: I'm not sure why you thought he would be.

Me: Well I'm not giving up yet.

Mike: Of course you aren't. Because you are one of the most stubborn people I know.

Me: Hmph. Have you met your son, Sean?

Mike: Yes. Where do you think he gets it from?

Anyway, I decided to wait to cut down the meds until the grandkids go home to California, as they are a bit hard on my body. Then we'll see.

Also, apparently I can be allergic to every antibiotic they can prescribe as I broke out in a horrendous rash and had horrible stomach cramps from the one he gave me. Thank goodness the sinus gunk cleared up anyway. Now if I could get rid of the rash, I'd be a happy camper.

The moral of this story is, "I do what I want." It's kind of our family motto.


♥Stacey

Submission Sundays or What Jealousy Taught Me

So this post is "authorly" in nature, in that I am an author and I'm going to talk about writing, but it's also a post for people in general. I want to talk about something we all are either recipients of or are guilty of. What's that, you ask? JEALOUSY. I'm no stranger to the green eyed monster and I bet you aren't either.

Recently, I was made aware that some people didn't like me. WHAT?! Was my first response. And by "what" I meant "what is wrong with those people?" Because I'm always taken aback when I find out people don't like me. Unless it's someone I don't like and I've given them good reason not to like me, that's a different story. But coming from people I mostly like and hadn't done anything to, it was a shock. Then, the more we talked about it, we came to the realization that it wasn't so much dislike (well, it still might be, but not for these reasons) as jealousy. People were jealous of me. Now, I'm sure that what you're supposed to feel, what most people feel, when they find out someone is jealous of them is pride. I'm so good that people are jealous. Right? But that's not what I felt. I felt angry. Angry because it felt like their jealousy undermined my hard work. No good fortune fairy came down and tapped Mike & I on the head. Everything we have, his job, my job, a nice house, great kids, great relationships with those kids, the trips we take, everything, we worked our asses off for or went through hell for. And it felt like these people were saying we didn't deserve them, we just got lucky. And I call bullshit.

But the truth is, you never truly know anything about anyone else's life unless you live it. Those people couldn't know that I'm constantly stressed about whether my oldest son, who has autism, is happy at his group home. Is he being treated fairly, does he like the people who work there, does he miss me too much? They couldn't know how stressed I am about my youngest leaving home and how he'll never be the same person again. I will never know him as well as I do at this exact moment, because leaving home changes you. They couldn't know that I still miss my Grandma on a daily basis and how much I miss being able to share every success with the person who believed in me the most. They can't know how much my sister and I worry about our parents increasing age and declining health. Or the daily frustration of living with someone who has no short term memory. Or any of the million other things that everyone deals with on a daily basis. They didn't really know me. All they saw is what we present to the outside world. And as much as I try to be genuine and an open book in all of my interpersonal communications, I don't often share bad stuff. Mostly because I figure everyone has their own, why bring them down with mine. And truly, most of the time I choose not to dwell on mine; Mike and I adopted a policy very early on, right after CJ's diagnosis in fact, of "well, this happened, let's deal with it and move on." So I am a happy person most of the time. But it's by choice, not luck.

And because of this episode I started thinking about my own petty jealousies. Most of them work related. Such and such press signed author X. Why didn't they sub to us? So and so sold yet another story for pro rates. Why didn't I? Why aren't I having all these acceptances? So I took my own ponderings to heart and realized I have no idea what is going on in other's lives. They got those things because they worked hard for them. And if I want them? Well, I better get my ass in gear and start working harder.

A wise woman once told me  I can't measure my success by the success of others because success is personal. There's no one definition that applies across the board. And what I realized was the reason I wasn't having success was because I wasn't putting in the time and effort. If I want author X then I need to do something to put the press on their radar. And if I want an acceptance letter with a pro rate sale, well I'd better start finishing my stories/novellas/novels and submitting them. Because the truth is I bust my ass for the press, but I'm a lazy writer. I let myself get distracted, I procrastinate, I find 15 other things I "should" be doing. And that's my bad. I know what I need to do. And so, I started last week. Last weekend I sent in three submissions. I already had two out, so that's five. Four original stories and one reprint. So far, I've heard nothing back. Two I think have a real chance. The other three are a gamble. But if they come back with a rejection notice, I will research some more markets and get them out again, because that's what it takes. And from now on, I will finish one new story per month and send it out too, until I have so many subs out that the law of averages takes effect. Something has to sell, right? I mean, I have sold stories before.

So the moral of this story is I took something unpleasant and turned it around by choice. And every time you do that, the Universe smiles for like 3.5 seconds. I mean, c'mon, it's a busy Universe and you really aren't that important. But maybe it helps to bolster hope for the human race. And for you writerly types who are still with me? The lesson is: success comes with backbreaking (or mind bending in this case) labor. Not good luck, not fairies or wishing wells, but your own sweat and tears. You have to put the work in to reap the rewards. And will we all make it? No. I mean some people just aren't ready, or talented enough, or even interesting. But no one is going to make it if they don't try, if they don't keep trying. And the more you write, the more you read other's writing, the more you work on your craft, the better you get. And the better you get, the better your chances of acceptance. It's a circle of win.

So I'm starting "Submission Sundays." Every Sunday I will evaluate my submissions. The ones sent back rejected, will be looked at, tweaked, and sent somewhere else. New stories will get the same treatment. I want to have at least five and possibly ten subs out at all times. This Sunday, I have a "pass" since they are all still out and I didn't get anything new written or finished this week. But I'm looking for some of you writers out there to join me. I might even make a Facebook group. Because I do better when held accountable to others. And so do some of you. And some of you are good all on your own, but might enjoy kicking other's in the pants. C'mon, it'll be fun.

And stop being jealous. Shake it off, look around, and appreciate your own blessings. You might not want the other person's bad times or dues they paid to get those good things.

♥Stacey

Travel funnies

So, I'm in the process of changing over my blogging to this one blog. I'm going to combine what used to be my family life blog, What Passes for Sane on a Crazy Day, over to this blog. There may or may not be a book coming about from the other blog, but mostly I'm just too busy to do both (as anyone who reads my sporadic blog posts can easily confirm). I also prefer to read author blogs that contain snippets of their lives, not just writing advice and news. Maybe it's because I'm a bit of a stalker, or maybe it's just more interesting. I like to know people I admire are just that--people. People a lot like me who are doing what they love while raising families and dealing with life. So, in the spirit of combining both, I give you the following post which would normally be on my other blog. Oh, and so as not to be confusing, I'll be using my children's real names this time.

During our rather long (3 day) car trip to California, Mo and I had this conversation:

Me: We have to stop listening to your iPod.

Mo: Why?

Me: *pointing to my lips, which are closed* What are my lips not doing?

Mo: Um...

Me: Singing. And if my lips are not singing, I'm not driving "happy." And trust me, you want me to be driving happy. I don't know most of these songs. Put in my CD. (I know, I'm old school like that, making CDs and all.)

Mo: *huge sigh* She puts in the CD and the first song is "Feel this Moment" by Pitbull featuring Christina Aguilera. If you don't know the song, you can find it here.

Me: This is my jam.

Mo: *laughing* 'Cause you're from the Dirty?

Me: No. Partially because it references Fifty Shades of Grey and even though I hate that book and all it's horrid grammar, any song that references what could loosely be termed "literature" in an intelligent manner is cool. But also because it's about living in the moment. That's what the chorus is talking about.

Mo: Is it?

Me: Don't you listen to the words?

Mo: I can't understand them.

Me: *singing rather loudly* Someday when the night is glowing, I'll be in my castle golden. But until the gates are open, I just want to feel this moment.

Mo: *and because she never believes a word I say, she Googles the lyrics* It's "Someday when the light is glowing."

Me: Oh, my bad. One freakin letter.

Mo: So it's your "YOLO" song?

Me: Yep. You know I was all about Yolo-ing before it was an acronym.

Mo: So she's talking about YOLO-ing before she dies.

Me: Um ... Mo ... you kind of have to YOLO before you die. It really doesn't work the other way around.

Some days I wonder about her...



♥Stacey

The making of a horror writer

I've seen a lot of posts lately on why horror writers write horror. What is it that draws a person to the darker side? Honestly? I have no idea. No easy answers here folks, sorry. Someone suggested that our minds work slightly differently and that may be the case. I do know that my mind works way differently than almost anyone I know. Why? It's probably a little bit nature and a little bit nurture.

As for the nurture part, I'd like to thank my parents for being horror fans. Sure, letting a four year old watch "The Birds" was maybe not the best thing to do, (I have this horrible bird phobia. Seriously, those aviary things at Zoos? Can't get near them.) but that and Twilight Zone, Night Gallery and an endless stream of horror flicks set me up with a life long love of all things paranormal. And I don't consider that a bad thing.

I write horror because I want to scare people. I love that "Omigod, I cannot look behind me right now" feeling that you get when you watch a good scary movie or walk through a haunted prison (Mansfield Penitentiary- Ohio). That wonderful little thrill when you,re walking through the woods at night. That thrilling sensation when you're home alone and hear that inexplicable noise. Love it. If that makes me slightly crazy, so be it. It's how I roll. And I want to share that feeling. I've said before that if I can make one person sleep with the light on after they read my work- I've succeeded. And according to a friend who shall remain nameless, I'm a success. But I won't stop there. I've got more scaring to do.

Recently while blog hopping, I came across a giveaway, and you know I can't resist a giveaway, especially when the prize is a signed copy of a horror novel AND a DVD collection of horror films. It's like Christmas. So the entry is that I have to tell a true supernatural story that actually happened to me. I have several to choose from. But my favorite is also the basis for a novel I've been working on haphazardly for the last two years. So grab a snack & a drink, and give me your full attention.

From the age of 4 to 6 we lived on Okinawa, a small island off the coast of Japan. My father was career Air Force and we were stationed at Kadina Air Base there. I remember some of it, but being so little at the time, not all of it stuck with me. The following story is one my mother tells and my father corroborates. I don't remember much of it.

Around the age of 5, I developed an imaginary friend. I wasn't a loner, I was in school and played with neighborhood friends so my Mom thought it was odd that I'd develop an imaginary person to keep me company. Then again, I was a highly imaginative child, so they dismissed it at first. My mother says that I started spending most of my time playing with the imaginary friend, a little boy I called Manny, instead of other real children. She began to get a little creeped out when I started insisting on a place setting for Manny or cried when someone "shut the door on Manny's arm". But we were headed stateside and she had a million other things to worry about. When we flew back to the US we made the rounds of visiting relatives and ended up at my maternal grandmother's house here in Illinois.

One day I was playing on our suitcases in the upstairs hall outside the bathroom. My dad was taking a bath, but since he's 6'2" and its an old clawfoot tub, he needed my mom to come in and help rinse his hair. My mother told me to stay right where I was. And I did. Unbeknownst to us, my grandfather had come home that afternoon, drunk as a skunk, and was threatening my grandmother with a shotgun in the kitchen below the hall. One thing led to another and the gun went off. Luckily for me, I'd run to the bathroom door split seconds before the shotgun blast came through the floor on the side of the suitcase, where my leg had been just moments before. Of course my father, after assessing the situation, ran downstairs and took charge of the gun rather forcefully.

My mother examined me to make sure I was alright and then rather warily asked me why I'd run to the door. I told her "Manny told me too!" After that day, I never mentioned Manny again.

Do you have goosebumps yet? I don't know what Manny was; ghost, guardian angel, or what. But I do know, that if he hadn't been around, I might not be here at all. And that thought is truly scary.

The link to the contest is here. Go read more entries, vote for your favorites, or join yourself. The more, the scarier. Good luck! And sweet nightmares. I mean dreams. Yeah, of course I did.

♥Stacey