Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Writer's Block?

In 2010 I belonged to the book a month club. What’s that you ask? It’s where I wrote a 25k book every month and submitted them to my former editor. Let’s just say 2010 was good and bad. I was fully engulfed in grief after the loss of our son. I poured my grief into my books. Needless to say I was very productive.

As 2011 came along I started feeling a little better. My grief was there but I didn’t need an outlet for it. I had learned to deal with it. Then I became pregnant with our daughter. I wrote what I could because I knew time would be scarce once she arrived.

I continued to write, but now I was produced three books averaging about 30k. Then one day I sat to write and I couldn’t. The words just wouldn’t flow. I had published almost 20 books in a few short years. I tried and tried to no avail.

Instead of trying to force it I gave up. I thought I’d never write again. For so long I’d been able to write a book, edit, and submit, turn around and start a new one. Wash, Rinse, Repeat.

During that time I read. I lived life. I forgot about writing. Then I sat down and wrote three more novellas. I thought I was back in my stride. Nope. Again the words weren’t coming. I was pushing myself too hard to be everything – mom, wife, writer, and full-time employee. I realized I was burnt out.

Something paid the price and it was my writing. Now I can see the signs. When I don’t want to sit and write because it feels more like a job than fun – it’s time to step back and smell the roses.

Now I take a break to read, get a massage or just live. It may take a few days or week, but I know I’ll return to writing. It’s in my blood.

Friday, January 10, 2014

Sad Story of Abuse

A few weeks ago a 24 year old was beaten so badly by her boyfriend she was near death and in a coma. She died the other day. They share a little boy. This poor child lost a mother and father. This horrible abuse is senseless.

My ex was abusive. He did some awful things to me. One night when I went out with his sister in law and her friend for a birthday celebration I came home and he was pissed. To this day I couldn’t tell you why he was so angry with me, but what he did with his anger was the dangerous part.

When I arrived home the door was locked. He locked the skeleton key lock so I couldn’t get in the house. I suspect he did this so I was forced to wake him up when I got home. Which I did. So here I am at the top of the stairs of our second floor apartment. I’ll admit I was a bit tipsy. We drank a few lemon drops that night.

He opened the door and he beat me right there. I remember being curled up in a fetal position while he pummeled my head and face. He didn’t hit me anywhere else. If he did I don’t recall.

When I say beat me, I mean my eyes looked like a raccoon. My ears were BLACK. Black.

At one point he stopped and when he did I ran. I flew down the stairs and out the front door. It was the middle of the night, but I ran. There were two cities that sepearted my house and my mother’s. I made my way to her house and knocked on her door at 5am.

My son was there and I crawled into bed with him and slept. When I woke up the next morning and looked in the mirror I cried and cried.

The sad thing is I went back. No one told me not to. No one called the police. I really wish someone had taken a picture of my face. I really regret that.

As I watched the story of the young girl on the news I saw myself. I cried again.

I’ve decided I need to do something. These young women need a voice. They need to tell them there is live away from these evil abusive men. They can make a life for themselves. They need someone to help them.

I want to be that someone. I want to save lives. I want to make a difference. I’m not sure how, but I’m going to find a way. Whether as a speaker or volunteer, it doesn’t matter. I NEED to speak to them. I need them to hear my stories. I want to show them how I escaped and how I made a new life for my kids and myself.

No child should suffer because of a man’s need to put his hands on a woman.