How do adults make friends? How does one meet a new friend? I've got work (mine) and I've got dance (my daughter's). Where else should I go?

I'm looking for a sandbox for adults.

I think I've forgotten how to even make friends. I mean, the last set of friends I had were from high school, and I had them starting in middle school, and they got me through college. Then I did the stupid thing and got married and got a job and had a kid.

A Little History

The Backstory:
My father and I became estranged when I was fifteen, when I wrote a letter to the courts explaining why I didn't want to attend visitation with him anymore. He never met my husband. He wasn't invited to my wedding. And he died two months afterwards, a couple days after Christmas 2006. In between that time, right around my senior year of high school and into my first years of college, I tried to mend fences. I wrote him letters. I sent him three framed copies, a set, of these linoleum block presses I'd made. I had carved into the blocks a fishing scene with two people in a boat, my most treasured memory of the two of us on the Quabbin Reservoir when I was kid. He was high, but it was just the two of us, and he was so nice to me that day. I'll never forget it. I never received a reply, but grapevine messages that my paternal grandmother thought I was an ungrateful, hateful girl. For all I know, that's how my father thought me, too. He never wrote back to me. As in ever.

When he died, he didn't leave a will, and there was no sign of the presses or any of the letters I wrote him. Nothing. I'll never know if he received any of them.

Today -- or rather, Last Night:
It's no secret that I dream strong. They're the initial source of my stories, my writing. My dreams are vivid and colorful. There are smells, actual smells where I'll wake up and look for the cause of the smoke in my nostrils. And taste. Do you ever taste things in your dreams and it's not the memory of the taste, but The Taste? I do. Although, I'll admit it's rare.

Last night, I was cleaning out my grandfather's house. My grandfather passed away a few years ago, something I still feel, and his wife, my granny very recently passed away, so in the dream I was putting their home to rest. I found a secret bedroom in an elevator (because it was a dream), and along with my grandfather's real estate secrets (apparently, he bought and sold Grange halls and Odd Fellows halls -- again: dream) were my father's affects.

As I went through the framed pictures on my father's dresser, I was so so hurt because he didn't have one of me. The pictures were old, from when the four of us kids were, well, kids, but it was as if I didn't exist. Graduations, holidays, frolicking snowy days -- it was as if I'd been wiped clean. And it made me realize that I was the ungrateful, hateful daughter my grandmother always said I was.

Then I came across a folder, tucked under the happy moments and shrine to my siblings, mixed in among Grandpa's real estate secrets. They were letters, unsent by my father, to me. It was his handwriting, which, despite not seeing for nearly two decades, I still recognized immediately. The paper was thin, translucent even, and the pen -- blue ballpoint -- was so faded and fat to be almost completely illegible, but they were his. And those illegible words were to me.

I didn't read them, at least not in their entirety, because it was so difficult. The date on the most recent one read 2005. I remember thinking in the dream, but this is 2016! That's a full 11 years since he last tried to write to me! And a twinge of that ungrateful, hateful daughter came to me. That's how he saw me. But then I noticed the post-it notes stuck to the corner of each letter. The post-it on the corner of the 2005 letter read, "I'll send her this one."

It was so clear, in that moment, that he had been trying to reach out to me, but he couldn't because he was my father, and I was his daughter, and things were so very complicated between us.

I awoke this morning with my alarm. As in fiction, so in real life, it interrupted the dream. It wasn't until I was standing in the bathroom smoothing my hair, puzzling over why the last letter he wrote in the dream was from 2005, that I remembered he died in 2006. And that difference, isn't so very big after all.

In which I publicly admit (in part) to something I've never told my family...

I grew up on a small farm in western Massachusetts. Our only source of income came from our farm stand, an 8 by 12 shed made from pallets my father had pulled apart. When the door to the shed was open, which it was from dawn to dusk, our farm stand was open for business. At eight years old, I tended to the customers, weighed their vegetables, cut the grubs from the end of the corn (we were organic), counted change, and recorded all our sales in the ledger. Sometimes now, I'll be out with my mother and an old customer will remember me as that little girl. Mom will say, "Oh, you remember So-and-so," but I don't. I don't remember any of them. Except Ben.

Ben had two cars, one gold and one maroon. He was in his sixties, and he came to the farm once a week, sometimes twice, to buy his vegetables. The first time he kissed me was after my parents had stacked a whole bunch of milk crates against the shed. The crates made it so the door wouldn't stay open all the way, and thus, they blocked the view between the shed door and our house. He blocked my way, so I couldn't get out of the shed. And then, when he was done, he gave me fifty cents and told me to keep it. It was my tip.

Once a week, sometimes twice, he came to the farm. Sometimes he drove the gold car, and sometimes he drove the maroon one. I tried and tried and tried to get my brother to tend to the stand when I saw Ben's car in our driveway. I tried and tried and tried to slip out a different door before my parents could notice. But the money in my wallet grew, fifty cents at a time.

I remember the feel of his tongue in my mouth. It was mushy, and while I never saw it, I can still see its pink, because the eight-year-old me imagined what it looked like. And the nine-year-old. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. That has never left my mind.

Do you know what else has never left my mind? Anyone someone steps in front of me to block my path, even if it's in jest, my heart flattens. What else hasn't left my mind? Snickers bars. I can't see a Snickers bar without remembering the one time I went trick-or-treating and accidentally ended up at Ben's house. He gave me a full size Snickers bar. My daughter got one this year when she was trick-or-treating. From an older gentleman. And every time I see it in her Halloween bucket, my heart flattens.

And then there was the time I was in seventh grade, when a boy from my science class would grab my butt because he thought it was funny when I turned bright red and hurriedly asked the teacher if I could go to the bathroom so I could get away. And then there was the time...I wanted to kill myself because it was so bad. I almost killed myself because I couldn't cope. You know the time. You were here for it.

I've been doing better. You haven't heard from me in a long time, I know, but I haven't had a panic attack since June. I've stopped hearing screams at night. I've started sleeping again. My dreams are almost normal. My psychiatrist has lowered my depression meds. And I've stopped taking my anxiety meds altogether. I've started sewing again. I've even started to write again.

You didn't know this, but this is where I've been, putting my life back together. But since the day the video of Donald Trump was released - you know the one - things have been harder. I wake up screaming again. I've had to take my anxiety meds to fend off the attacks I feel coming. My dreams are stressful and violent again. And sometimes, I have to get out of bed at night to make sure that those screams I know I hear are not my daughter's.

So, when I post on my private facebook page, that I think we, as Americans screwed up (that's not the word I used), it's not because I'm being a sore loser. It's not because I'm hating on or bashing anyone who voted or didn't vote in any particular way.

It's because I don't feel safe.

And there are millions of other people - POC, LGBTQ+, women - who don't feel safe either. And millions of their family and friends who see that they don't feel safe. We're going to surround ourselves by people who love us, people who will protect us.

Energy Level: High

It's been an amazing two months--amazing because I've actually felt like myself more than I have since, well, since my daughter was born almost five years ago. Things with my husband are great. My daughter is just wow. She's reading and mathing, and her jokes are hilarious (only to me and my husband).

I've started focusing on my career, which has been oddly affirming. I've spent so much time writing query letters that cover letters were a simple task. Constructing my curriculum vitae reminded me what I like about myself. Things I'd forgotten--like getting a fellowship, being awarded grants, and being asked to present at a STEM conference--were little pieces of myself I'd overlooked this past year. Now that they're remembered, it's stemmed me to do even more.

I've enrolled in two online classes at MIT, one on data analysis and the other on teaching and technology. I've begun looking at grad schools so I can get a second Master's degree or so I can (this is my favorite) get a PhD. Have I ever mentioned how much I want to pursue a PhD? Well, I do. It's nothing new, and it looks like I might be able to manage it with as little as one course a semester.

My energy level is high, so so high. Last time I posted, I was waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop. It was supposed to drop, truly it was. MDD is the shadow, and you're the ant. Inevitably, you get crushed. But the last two months have been so different. I feel like I can breathe again, like I don't have to worry as much, and just having that threat removed (although, not completely) has been liberating.

I still have troubles dealing with loud noises. Sudden ones still send an electrical current through my body, and that instinctive fear, the one that makes me want to hide, is still present. Long bouts of loud noises (re: spending three hours at Chuck E Cheese for a birthday party) still leave me feeling drained beyond belief (it took me two whole days before I recouped from that party). And nightmares--of human trafficking, rape, fire, terrorism, global ecological catastrophe, mutilated kittens--why must the kittens be mutilated?--still plague my dreams. But it's okay. The day after these dreams I'm tired, but I still have energy.

I'm not drained of all that's good in my life.

Part of Me

Six days. That's how long it's been. Six. Good. Days. In a row, even!

I mention it because, well, six good days is quite the accomplishment. It's a reminder that six days could become seven could become eight. It's winter in New England, we haven't seen the sun in over a week, it's -4 fahrenheit out there (which is--what?--negative 20 C), and I'm not really into hard candies, so it's not as if I'm not expecting everything to be all sunshine and lollipops. Life isn't like that anyway. But it gives me a glimpse of hope that someday I might live a mostly normal life again.

Let's face it. I'm always going to have depression and anxiety. Twelve-thousand days ago, give or take, a sperm met an egg and genetically sealed my fate. Sure, childhood probably played some role in my makeup, and having a kid did scramble my hormones, but the fact remains. Depression and anxiety are part of me.

Other things are also part of me. For example, I'm highly intelligent and good at my work. I know my way around a kitchen and a garden, and yes, I can probably come close to plumbing a house. Numbers don't come easily, but I'm pretty good at mathematics. I'm well-read and articulate. And I have a four-year-old who loves Downton Abbey and Star Trek.

I'm also a writer, as in a real writer. I'm not someone who wishes I were I writer. I'm not an aspiring writer (aspiring novelist, on the other hand...). I am a writer. The bad days can't change that. The good days empower it.

I say this because I want you to know it's part of me. It's not something I pretend. If it makes me arrogant or conceited, so be it. I'm learning to accept myself, both the good and the bad. You should know. I've got what it takes.

Here I am

Radio silence here, which—now that I think of it—is very much like the publishing world. Anyhow, let’s get down to an update. Yesterday, I read over my last post. The optimism and cheerfulness struck me. September Me was full of hope. She was ready for normalcy, ready to put her hospitalization experience behind her. She expected a modicum of routine to return, and with it, she thought she had finally beat depression.

September Me was naïve.

To be completely honest, I’m floundering here. I’m a great big fish with a sideways head, stranded on a beach. The tide runs water over me with enough regularity to keep me alive, but that’s about it. Last week was a particularly difficult week. Monday my therapist dumped me. Or more correctly, her parents forced the break-up. We’d been seeing each other since September; these were a few frolicking months of fields and flowers and butterflies. I bared my soul to her, and as is true in all good relationships, she listened very well.

Then her parents got involved. The office she works for was bought by another company, and when the new company took over, they decided the office wouldn’t accept commercial insurance anymore. Now I am without therapy and without med management.

Enter my crazy. When I say I feel like I got dumped, I really feel that way. Why had this happened to me? What did I do wrong? My therapist was wrong. It wasn’t an insurance thing. I said something wrong. It was that time I told her I liked knowing death was an option. No, that wasn’t it. It was that time I said hurting myself was pleasurable. It’s a game I like to play. I know it’s wrong, but flagellant priests used to do it as a sign of devotion and unworthiness, and it was okay for them. I scared her. And it’s not like it hasn’t happened before. My first therapist was scared; she’s the one who sent me to the hospital. She’s not even a therapist anymore. I broke her. Now it’s happening again. Telling me it’s an insurance problem is a convenient excuse.

Oh my god. I’m a horrible person. I did something wrong and I wasn’t even trying to. I’m trying to be better. I’m trying. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter how hard I try because I’m going to screw it up. Now she’s not going to be my therapist. The universe hates me. This is why I can’t catch a break. I can’t catch an effing break.

I’m intelligent. I’m educated. I don’t swear. I let people go first. I live by high moral standards and am accepting of others. I care. But none of it matters.

See? I told you. Crazy. But it’s how my mind works. Thoughts like these are nearly impossible to avoid. They place me—or I place myself, depending on how you want to look at it—farther and father onto the shore, but fish that I am, I can’t breathe.

And that’s where I am now, struggling to breathe the same air as everyone else. Damn it, I need a new pair of lungs.

Back to the grind...

Today was my third/first day back to work (first day with students). This is how I know I am ready, how I know I can do this:

1.) I'm more excited than anxious.
2.) My administrator peeked in on me, lending subtle support.
3.) My department head gave me a pound of honey from his bees.
4.) I'm awesome (but in a totally humble way). And I believe it.

Get that?

I believe it.

That, in itself, means something.

As you can probably guess, writing has gone on the back burner for a while. I didn't write all summer, other than to journal my way through the mess that was my brain. But I can feel the itch coming on again. Each day has been better than the previous day. I find myself zoning out, but instead of zoning out because I'm trying to use my coping skills, I'm zoning out because I'm thinking of Sarah and Bonnie. I'm thinking about how I've neglected them and their story. And I'm thinking about how I can fix the holes in their lives.

In short, I'm getting ready to write again.

Give me one, maybe two months. Then, Sarah will be mousing and Bonnie will be strutting their ways into agents' mailboxes.

This might not seem like a big thing, but it is to me. Writing has been nearly impossible for me to enjoy for the past year. When I was in hospitalization, I even told myself who was I kidding? I was never going to write another novel again. I wasn't going to revise WINTER ON BRIMSTONE HILL. And this isn't new. Last winter, I wrote an entire novel and haven't looked at it since. I haven't wanted to. I wasn't exhilarated when I finished it, just blank. Everything made me blank or made me anxious or made me cry. Now, I know I'm going to return to Lee, Jesse, Jake, and Matthew as soon as I'm done with Sarah and Bonnie. I'm excited about it.

This is going to work. I can feel it.

The Story of the Wicked Girl

Once upon a time, there was a wicked girl who often vacillated between Self-Hate and Sadness. She wasn't all wicked, because she understood this wasn't how she was supposed to feel. In fact, she knew an evil force cast the spell of Depression on her. So, in her attempt to free herself from the grip of Depression, she sought out three good fairies.

The first good fairy told her to travel to the Land of Medicines and seek out a remedy. The wicked girl did, and she slowly began to felt better. Alas, the remedy wasn't enough. The wicked girl soon fell harder into Self-Hate and Sadness. Unnatural Urges tickled at the sides of her brain. They told lies of knives and flame to the wicked girl, promising relief from Depression.  Not unconscious of these lies, the wicked girl sought out the second good fairy.

The second good fairy took the wicked girl to a land called Group and surrounded her with others like her. For three weeks, the wicked girl grew to understand she wasn't so wicked after all. There were many like her, people whom Depression sought and for whom Self-Hate and Sadness made the same evil promises. The second good fairy bade the not-so-wicked girl to once more venture to the Land of Medicines in search of an additional remedy the first good fairy hadn't suggested.

As time passed, the not-so-wicked girl became happy. Unnatural Urges slowly disappeared. Self-Hate and Sadness retreated. She began to picture herself once again in the world outside Group. She sensed something great was in her grasp. The second good fairy saw her desire to leave, understood it, and he deemed her well enough to leave. But then, on the eve of returning to the world outside Group, the Ringing came. Her ears filled with such sound! Her skin turned bright red and blotchy!

The second good fairy, in his attempt to make the no-longer wicked girl happy, had unknowingly given her poison. For many of the people in Group, this remedy from the Land of Medicines was not poison, but even though it banished Self-Hate and Sadness, Unnatural Urges and Depression, it was still poison to this girl. Unfortunately, the second good fairy had already released the girl from Group, so to find the antidote to this poison, the no-longer wicked girl sought the third good fairy.

Distraught, the no-longer wicked girl continued her journey. She was scared Depression, along with its promise of knives and flame, would return to her. The third good fairy gave the girl an antidote. The ringing disappeared. The blotches vanished. But the fairy told the girl she could not find what she was looking for there. She must continue to seek it elsewhere.

To this day, the girl journeys. She fears she'll forever be bound by Depression's wicked ways. Unnatural Urges threaten to appear from the shadows of her mind, so she is ever vigilant, ever careful to avoid the horrible promises of Self-Hate and Sadness. Despite the darkness that surrounds her, she feels confident--optimistic--that she will find what she needs to be happy. She refuses to be the wicked girl ever again.

Not The End.

Progress Part 2

To relieve some of the stigma of hospitalization for mental health, I want to walk you through a typical day of therapy for me.

Check-in: We rate our moods (on a scale of 1 to 10); report how many meals we ate in the last 24 hours; report if we've taken our meds; report if we have any suicidal, homicidal, substance, or self-injury ideation; set a treatment goal for the day. We also talk about what happened to us yesterday evening and this morning.

Group1: Usually a continuation of the previous day's topic. We read literature on subjects on everything mental health: self-esteem, perfectionism, anger, health anxiety, improving perception...No one is forced to share their stories, but everyone is welcome to, and many do.

Part of an assignment during group.

Group2: Generally a different topic from Group1, but still focussed on mental health. Those people who are in the substance abuse track generally leave to attend a group specifically for substance abuse.

We had to draw what life felt like to us today, and envision what we want it to be tomorrow.
Two versions of the same scene.

Lunch: Provided and generally icky.

Group3: Usually some form of meditation or recovery session. We've done journaling, dance, yoga, zen meditation, improving perceptions, karaoke. Depending on who you are, you're sometimes allowed to leave to go to a concert or a program in another building. I am not one of those people.

Writing about myself in the third person is extraordinarily powerful.
(excuse the spelling)

Check-out: We go back to our original groups, and repeat the check-in process. This time, we have to explain how we've met our treatment goal, what we're going to do in the afternoon, name a coping skill we used or learned, and say one positive thing about ourselves.

Throughout the day, we can come and go as we please. Some group sessions might be too intense for some people, others may need to leave to see their psychiatrist or therapist. Although, if you miss too many group sessions or break any rules, you can be discharged from the program.

And where am I in all this? My stay has been extended for an additional week, to be reevaluated later. At that point, they'll determine if I need another week, if I should move on the half-days, or if I should be discharged altogether.

Progress Part 1

After a particularly bad day, one of the clinicians in the hospital said something to me. Healing from depression is like having a bruise. The only way to make a bruise better is to treat it with care and wait for time to pass and the body to mend itself. But sometimes, we're more aware of our bruise than other times. It could be that something in our lives brushes against it enough to make us notice and wince. Other times, it could be something poking the bruise outright; in which case, it would hurt. A lot. She told me my day was the latter example. That doesn't mean I'm not healing, she said. It just means I'm not fully healed. And that, like all things, takes time.

So I'm here today to update you on my treatment, should you wish to know. I went into this hospitalization thing feeling very scared, very overwhelmed. My first few days were close to horrible. I couldn't stop shaking, couldn't stop crying, couldn't stop getting caught up in my head. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and I had no clue if this program was going to work for me. I even told my case worker I felt like this. Because I have a case worker. And a social worker, and a therapist, and a psychiatrist.

But I decided I want to get better, so I've stayed in the program. I've made progress. I have fewer nightmares. I haven't been raped, killed, been bombed, been attacked by dogs or coyotes or bears. Once, I got attacked by a moose, but it wasn't that bad because it was so clearly a dream and I had been trying to save the moose from people who were attacking it, which was nobel and right.

I'm much more open in group sessions now. Actually, group sessions are the best part of my day. These people. They're normal, everyday people. They are people that I want to be friends with outside of group (but the program forbids it), so we are friends within the program. We talk. We read packets about issues depressed people experience. We exchange stories, both happy and sad. We know what each other likes to do outside. We share many of the same hobbies and activities. We also know which meds we're on, if substance abuse is a problem, and who's been in a coma from a suicide attempt.

And it all feels very normal. I'm telling you this because I want you to understand that it is normal. We have an illness, and we're working to overcome it. We don't like to be judged by family or friends because we're depressed or anxious. We notice when a room quiets when we enter. We notice when you stare at us, wondering if we're going to break. We notice when someone cuts off the end of a joke because the punchline has something to do with a knife and, 'Oh my god, she took a knife to her wrist, if I finish this joke I'm being insensitive.' We notice when you text our loved ones instead of us or lean in and whisper, "How *is* she *doing*?"

It's because mental health does not *feel* normal. I want it to be. This is me saying it needs to be. If you can talk about the time you were in the hospital because you had pneumonia, went through physical therapy because of a bad car accident, and if you feel comfortable answering all your friends' questions about those incidents BUT you don't feel comfortable asking me questions about my mental health, it hasn't been normalized yet. Please, help me feel normal. Ask me about my treatment. Do so in front of others. Let's make everyone see that I am--and people like me--are still intelligent functional human beings with a family, and friends, and hobbies, and careers. So I've got a mental illness. So what? You broke your arm. So what?

And my diagnosis: major depressive disorder (recurrent, severe, without psychotic features), generalized anxiety disorder, post traumatic stress disorder.

Hi. It's me. April Rose.

Hi. It's me. April Rose. I know I haven't blogged in the past four months. So yeah. Here goes.

Let me start off by saying I don't want to be a hypocrite. If you follow me on twitter, you'll know how I feel about mental illness. I've probably even blogged about it here. But just in case you don't, I'll say it again.

Mental illness should be treated like any other physical illness. Mental illness is a type of physical illness because it involves the brain. Last time I checked, the brain is an organ, and hence physical. Mental illness has a huge stigma, a stigma it doesn't deserve. If you break your leg, you don't hide it from the people around you. You let them sign your cast. They *want* to sign your cast. They want to hear the story of how you broke it jogging in place (which, by the way, is exactly how I broke mine five years ago). And then, when you have physical therapy, you have no problem saying, "Hey, my leg isn't fully healed, but this here doctor's gonna give me some exercises to make it better."

That's what mental illness should be. That's what I want it to be. So yeah. Here goes. This is the part where I try not to be a hypocrite. Okay. This is hard. It shouldn't be, but it is. I don't know how you're going to judge me.

No more stalling. I'm just going to say it.

Tomorrow I start a program called partial hospitalization. It's now officially in my medical records. My chart says I have a "mood disorder." Depression, to be exact. I already knew this. You already knew it. It's just...I don't know how much I should share, but if my "mood disorder" is anything like a broken leg, then I should be okay with sharing it with you. Right?

Then why is it so hard?

Okay. I'm going to do it. My doctors are worried about me. They are worried about my safety. They're afraid I might do something to hurt myself. And...they might be right. I don't think I'd do anything like that. My logical self says I'd never do anything that'd ultimately end up hurting my family or my friends. But my brain isn't working exactly like it should, either, and I'm not sure if I can trust it anymore.

For the next two weeks, I'm going to enter intensive group therapy, five days a week, from nine am til three pm. And I'm scared. I have no clue what's in store for me. I've never faced a situation where telling the truth is so necessary, yet so possibly damning. There's a possibility that the truth might land me somewhere for a few days, maybe longer, where I won't even be able to come home. I don't know.

And that's not the only thing that has me worried. I don't know anything about what I'm getting myself into. I don't know who I'm going to meet. I don't know if the hospital will let me use my cell phone. Hell, I don't even know if I'm supposed to bring a lunch.

Why am I telling you this? It's because mental illness needs to be normalized. I should feel just as comfortable telling you about this as I would about my broken leg (which is an embarrassingly funny story, a story worth laughing about). Some day, I want this to be a story worth laughing about too (well, maybe not laughing, but I should feel comfortable talking about it). But it can't be, not until we normalize mental illness.

So I'm going to do this. I'm going to do this because, as scary as it might be, the bone still needs to be set.

Just please: don't hate. Don't think this lessens my ability to be a good teacher, a good writer, a good mother and wife, a good person. And for the people who know me, who are hearing about this for the first time in this blog post: before you get angry at me or judge me for this, know that you'd feel just fine learning about a broken leg this way.

Post NESCBWI 2015 conference thoughts

It's been a while since I've written, mostly because I'm trying to wrap my head around this depression thing. Sometimes it's wrapping around me instead, coiling through my brain and lungs and heart, squeezing tighter and tighter until I cannot think, breathe, or feel. I'm working on it. It certainly won't win. I've never failed at anything, and I certainly won't fail at this.

So back to this post...

I attended the NESCBWI conference this past weekend for the first time. The workshops were so engaging, and the people were just incredible. I'd forgotten what it was like to be surrounded with people who love writing as much as I do. It was better yet because they all write for children, and that's where my heart lies.

I don't want to spend too much time blabbering on here, so I'm only go to describe what I feel has been the biggest thing I noticed at the conference: that I'm extremely lucky. Why? Because I have such an awesome support group of writers.

Over the duration of the conference, I spoke with tens of people. The subject that came up the most was critique partners, beta readers, support groups. Who do you bring your manuscript to once it's completed? How do you know you have what it takes to be a writer? When should you give up? Should you?

To quote agent Lauren MacLeod, "writers are crazy." We are. And we doubt ourselves and our abilities. One moment we feel we've written the next Harry Potter, and the next moment we're curled up in an empty party-sized pizza box with cheese in our hair and marinara down our chins. I've been there. Oh have I been there. And one thing has made a difference through it all. My support group.

Writers, we are not alone. We don't need to go it alone. Finding my group, a group of 2014 PitchWars mentees and alts, has made all the difference. If I need to cry, they're there. If I need to laugh, they're there. If I need to vent, to inquire, to joke, to hope, to celebrate, to staunch the crazy, to share a hotel room even though we'd never technically met (thanks, Rachel!), to find out where the hell in the world makes a pizza bigger than party-sized...they're there.

It's taken me almost three years to find mine, but I saw at the conference, those writers who seemed happiest, who seemed the most sure of themselves, all had their own version of a group. Writing is lonely, and, let's face it, most people don't understand exactly what writers go through, which is why finding a group is so important.

So yes, at the NESCBWI conference, I learned new exercises to open my mind to writing. Yes, I now understand the importance of blending emotions to create more complicated emotions, and I have more confidence adding diversity to my characters. But I also know how lucky I am to be a member of a strong writing group. The conference reminded me of it, solidified it really.

Us versus Them: The problem with adults reading YA?

My school has a book club, which many teachers use as a way to glean precious PDP's (professional development points) for re-licensure. It's not just for English teachers. The school librarians come, administration, and a few avid readers. It's been going on since September, but as far as I'm aware, this was the first time they'd chosen fiction, and it was YA to boot.

We all know how social situations make me nervous, so I spent the majority of the time listening to what people had to say, offering little myself. What I had discovered was an "Us versus Them" attitude.

I was amazed. We're all educators, and granted, some of us were older than others, but I've never once stopped trying to think like "Them." The attendants repeatedly said how they had to remind themselves the "the novel was written for teens," that this novel was okay because students connected with something so "low."

The whole time I wanted to be like, "Wait a second. Wait a minute." The book was a brilliant commentary on consumerism. Over a decade ago, it predicted technology much like we have today. Yet, some of the people in the book club said they thought it was uninteresting (okay, personal preference), but to go as far as say that it was unoriginal? written with slang and too much curses because the "author liked to swear, and not for any purpose"? I was just floored. One person even said, "Wouldn't the students be better off reading Hemingway? Wouldn't they get more out of it?"

Some commented on how they're so sick of the Fault in Our Stars, and Hunger Games, and Divergent, and...oh wait, every book that seems to have captured the attention of young adults. This is a problem. What is wrong with these books? Maybe my personal preference doesn't really sway towards the Hunger Games, but why is it a problem that teens are reading books "we" don't like? When did reading become just about the literary quality and less about the joy, the adventure? Putting yourself in somebody else's shoes and experiencing humanity from their perspective? It doesn't matter if the humanity is from a dystopian world or a contemporary one. If it helps us understand ourselves or the people around us, what's wrong with that?

Let's not spend more than this sentence talking about the benefits of reading for vocabulary. But really...why do we read? Why do we encourage reading?

I'm a parent. My daughter is three, and she loves books. I won't say I don't ever ask her to use critical thinking skills to predict what's going to happen on the next page of some Henry and Mudge book. But I do use the books to ask her questions about herself and how the characters are feeling. Reading for humanity. Reading for understanding people. Reading for reading.

That's not to say reading critically doesn't have its place. I majored in English. I wrote a 30-page paper on a sonnet. My mind is better having had these critical exercises. But. Reading. Come on. Let's read. Let's encourage reading. And let's get rid of the "Them versus Us" attitude, because I'm pretty sure we're all people. And I'm pretty sure I was once an adolescent. And I'm pretty sure I once wanted to change the world. And I'm pretty sure I experienced love and hate and hopelessness and anger and frustration and love, love, love. And I'm pretty sure that, if someone want to read because they want to read, they should read.

Rant over.

Making readers feel

So I had this epiphany.

It was too cold for me to work up the nerve to get our of bed to write, so I lay there, not thinking about my WIP, but thinking about a novel I'm reading for my work's book club. This isn't something I normally would have chosen for myself, but it was the first non-nonfiction book they'd chosen AND it was YA. As I lay there, analyzing it, I started to think about this one point where the main character is really just a jerk to the love interest. He doesn't intend to be--he's dealing with his own feelings about what's happening to his love--but he's being a jerk nonetheless, and he's really making me not like him.

I began thinking about why I felt so strongly against him. Here was a character that had been engineered for readers to like, and up until this point I had. Then I got it. It was because his girl needs him, and the more she needs him, the more he backs off. He can't deal with the stress--I get that--but that doesn't mean I need to like it.

Usually, when I read while I'm writing, I go through this phase of hating my own writing, a phase of insecurities so large that it backs my own manuscript into something black and deep. But then it hit me. I want my readers to think my main character is a jerk, too. I've always known this, and just yesterday I was speaking with someone about how I feel my WIP is falling short in this way. It's not as powerful as I want it to be.

So ready for the epiphany?

I could use this author's technique, tailor it to fit my novel, and make my readers feel the way I want them to. Why hadn't I thought of this before? There are a million excellent novels out there. Instead of letting them make me feel insecure, I should really focus on how they make me so invested in their characters.

I'm not talking about mimicking them or turning my novel into something tropey. The last thing I want is a pile of pages about mysterious boys and average girls. I'm talking about really discovering what these successful authors do to make their readers feel, analyzing it, and then looking for that thing in my novel, the thing that will make my readers feel, too.

Introducing Anne Margaret

I know this is going to come as somewhat of a shock for all of you, but I'd like to introduce you to a little girl who's going to be staying with us for a while.

Her name is Anne Margaret Stinch, and she's five years old. We're not sure how long she'll be living with us, but Hazel's already in love with her. Just to give you a good idea of the type of kid we're welcoming into our home...

Anne Margaret is a little tall for her age, and she's marvelously behaved. Hazel already says she's not lonely anymore, and last night, she preferred an Anne Margaret-snuggle instead of her usual Mommy-snuggle. Oh, and Anne Margaret was awesome; today, when we got home from day care, she made fried chicken with tomato soup. And it wasn't even on Hazel's kitchen set--it was on our very own stove. So you can see, she's already the perfect playmate for Hazel.

This evening, Hazel insisted Anne Margaret sleep on the floor in our bedroom like she (Hazel) does. I recommended to Hazel that maybe she can start sleeping in her bedroom now, now that Anne Margaret is here to keep her company. Hazel told me that wasn't an option because, "Mommy, she's not real."

From the way Hazel talks about her, you'd think she is.

Yesterday was a bad day

Yesterday was a bad day.

Depression is being Schrodinger's cat.

Today will be better.




I'm going to try to write today. I've taken a brief hiatus from writing. It's been nearly a month, and this is why. I've been battling with depression again. Like a lot. As in, twelve hours of sleep isn't cutting it. Twelve hours of sleep and then napping for three hours isn't cutting it.

That's not to say I haven't been trying. It just feels like there's something wrapped around my brain, slowing me down, preventing me from thinking coherently. It makes me forgetful. Mid-idea, I forget what I'm doing, what I'm thinking. It's like opening the refrigerator and forgetting what you went inside for, except worse, because you forgot to open the fridge in the first place. Then you stand in front of the fridge staring at it, trying to remember what it is the refrigerator does. Why is it you're standing in front of the fridge? Why is it you're standing? Where are you? What are you?

Not who. Never who.

That's not to say I haven't been trying. Yesterday was a bad day. It took me by surprise because my days *have* been getting better. I just couldn't function. I tried. I cleaned the bathroom. I did other stuff. I know I did other stuff. For some reason, cleaning that darn bathroom was so important. It's the first thing I remember from yesterday. Really, the only thing, now that I'm trying so hard to remember. But I did other things. I remember *trying* really hard. Trying to do something.

Oh, I took in wood, too. Five cart-loads.

I just looked over and my daughter was biting her lip. I furrowed my brows at her and she furrowed hers back. "Are you copying me?" I asked. She smiled.

Feeling versus Being

I guess there was some writer who vented on twitter or some other social media platform about not making some "Best Of" list. I haven't read the tweets (if they were tweets). I don't even know the name of the author, but she's spurred a huge conversation in the blogisphere about her 'behavior.' Much of that conversation is negative, so much so, I guess she's even apologized or has had to come close to apology. Putting aside all that, the one thing I know and know with surety is:

She's human.

I also know I'm very tired of people having to censure their feelings so others only see rainbows and sunshine. I do it, yes, and I'm sure you do, too, but that's not life. That's not the human experience. And doing so isolates us and the people around us.

Us: We can't really say what's on our minds.
If I have a bad day or I have a bit of crazy going on in my head (and let's face it, there's a lot of crazy in my head,) I can't express it because I'm not supposed to. Writers, we aren't supposed to talk about our experiences with rejection (even though some rejections hurt and venting would make us feel better). We can't talk about the contest we didn't get into or the tweet we know was directed at us. We can't say how sorry or disappointed we are when something doesn't go the way we anticipated.

We can only look at the tweets of successful writers, successful people, successful everything. That contest we were excited about? We aren't even supposed to say, 'Ugh. Bummed out, but better luck next time.' We're told to take it off the internet, off where others can't see that we've essentially failed. Because failure is bad. If others know we've failed, they'll expect us to fail them, too. There's nothing to be gained by failure.

Nothing? Really? There's nothing to be gained? There's nothing to be said about a shared experience? No camaraderie.

So what we do becomes a little more isolating, a little more lonely.

Others: They don't know they're not alone.
Writing is naturally a solitary activity. You can join a writers' guild or a critique group. You can talk to people online using twitter or posting on blogs, but ultimately, you are on your own. Then, when you have a hard day, when you have that moment you say to yourself, 'What if this wasn't meant to be?' you still have nowhere to turn--not unless you have a strong offline network, and let's face it; many of us don't because many of our friends and family don't take what we do seriously.

So you get a rejection, but you can't read someone else's experience about rejection because they don't post about it. You only read 'How I got my agent' and 'My publishing deal.' In effect, you only read about sunshine and rainbows.

But you don't have sunshine and rainbows. In real life, you'd talk to someone who has shared the experience. But you're the only writer in your family, the only of your friends. So you turn back online to the stories and you look harder.

But you only read about sunshine and rainbows.

And you read enough of these stories, that you begin to think you're the only one who doesn't have sunshine and rainbows. Then you start thinking, 'Hey, what's wrong with me that I don't have sunshine and rainbows?' which eventually becomes, 'Why the heck am I the only one?'

The only one. You see that? The only one.

We've created an internet culture of loneliness. It doesn't matter that you *know* you aren't the only one. The human experience isn't that unique. But you *feel* that way. It doesn't matter what is. It only matters what it feels like. And if you feel alone, you are alone. In the end, there's no one out there. (Again, it doesn't matter that there is, and you just can't see it.) You know it to your core because no one is talking about how hard this is.

I take that back. Sure they are. They say, 'This is hard.'

But give me a break. We're writers. We know we're supposed to show and not tell. I applaud this woman for showing me. She didn't tell me, 'You'll have some disappointments along the way,' and then hope her calloused sentiment was going to be enough. It's never enough for our readers; why should it be enough for us? She showed us she was disappointed. She showed us the world of writing is hard.

Thank you, sunshine and rainbows culture. You've effectively made a lot of people lonely. It doesn't have to be. It would be nice if we could talk about our failures when they happen,when the emotions are hot, when they're real. It's what we give our readers. It's what our readers expect of us, but not what we give or expect of outselves.

Because we're afraid. Maybe there's someone out there who's going to read this post. She won't want to read my book now because she disagrees with me, or disagrees with my sentiment, or disagrees with the apparent negativity, or disagrees with my humanness, or disagrees with any number of things with this post. Or maybe someone reads this, and she won't want to be my agent because she doesn't want a client who speaks about rejection, or speaks her mind (occasionally), or any number of things with this post. She might tell me it was this blog post or she might not. But in the end, I'll have lost something by venting, by speaking my mind, by being human. That's what we're afraid of, isn't it?

I know that's what I'm afraid of. After all, like this woman, I'm human, too.

Hanging On To Wonder: Get to Know April Rose Carter - My 2014 PitchWars ...

Jaye Robin Brown interviewed me in anticipation of PitchWars 2014. I've had the most tremendous time being her mentee. She is simply the best mentor any writer can ask for. Her advice for everything--plotting, interiority, agent search--is just...just wow. There are no words. And you know me. I don't dole praise unless it's deserved.

You can read the interview here...
Hanging On To Wonder: Get to Know April Rose Carter - My 2014 PitchWars ...: With my second year as a mentor in Pitchwars, I entered the contest excited and hopeful and curious, oh so curious, about which manuscripts ...

As the days grow shorter...

Come the end of every August, it feels like my life stops. It's ridiculous, I know, because my life doesn't actually stop, but that's the way it feels. There's something about my job that sucks up every moment of free time. Then, as the days grow shorter, I literally don't see the light of day. I get to work before the sun is up and leave when it's dark outside.

My depression is coming. Right now it's just a distorted face, pressed against the window, causing me to be unsettled and a little disturbed. I can't ignore it forever. Every winter, I try, and every winter I fail. Some winters, to a lesser degree than others. Actually, since I began writing two years ago, the face has backed up a little; there's the oily smudge against the window, but at least the dark man isn't in the room with me like he usually is.

This is why I'll be starting a new book soon. It will keep him away a little longer, and keep me a little saner. I'll try to NaNoWriMo it up, but with my adjunct position, NaNo might not be a feasible option. Still, I think I'll try.

In the mean time, Nightmare on Query Street (my entry is here) is this week and PitchWars is shortly after that. I've got a few fulls and partials out with agents already, so all this is very exciting. I can feel this novel working. I can see it being published. 

If you haven't taken the opportunity to read the first chapter of WINTER ON BRIMSTONE HILL, please consider it. Of course, I'd love to hear what you think about it.

#PitchWars #TeamGrit

So if you've been following me on twitter, you know I was selected as the alternate for Jaye Robin Brown. I don't have time to write much now, but let me quickly tell you SHE IS AWESOME! Her feedback on WINTER ON BRIMSTONE HILL has been so utterly fantastic. She's made me feel much more confident about my scenes, especially those where I knew I had to fix something but couldn't figure out exactly what. Thanks to her, it's all come into place.

Also, she had some SUPER KIND words to say about my novel. "April Rose Carter's contemporary LGBT novel snagged me with the comps in her query, something along the lines of what if Rowell's Eleanor were to fall for Green's Margo. Then her words and story didn't disappoint....[read more]"

I mean, who wouldn't love encouragement like that? So anyway...the alternate showcase for #PitchWars doesn't occur until November. Cross your fingers and press your thumbs. I really want you to be able to pick this novel up from the shelf one day. Maybe you'll cry and laugh with Sarah and Bonnie too. :)

OH, and please, please, please add her novel to your GoodReads list (and then buy it and read it). Please. NO PLACE TO FALL comes out in December. It's completely the type of book I want to read, and I want you to read it too. Go here to learn more.