One of those days.

Hello friends,

It’s one of those days.

One of those days where I can’t seem to do anything right.

One of those days where I absolutely hate myself.

I don’t feel like doing anything.

I don’t want to be a complaining Debbie Downer, I’m just hoping that if I get it out, I can dust myself off and move on.

Failure reigns.

Maybe it’s the weather.

Or maybe the shadow has returned.



 If you’d like to support my website and my writing you can click below



I’m miserable. I’m done.

I’m miserable. I’m done.

I’m frustrated, hurt, and angry.

I’d crawl out of my skin and disappear forever if I could. If only I had a chrysalis that would allow me to transform and fly away, never to return again. But I don’t. The closest thing I have to it is my writing. When the real world gets too hard, I can curl up inside one of my fantasy worlds and forget about what’s bothering me. Writing allows me to put my feelings down on paper to lessen the burden on my heart.

What’s bothering me, you may wonder?

It’s hatefulness, and it’s people taking advantage of kindness.

Hatefulness – There is only so much a person can take before they reach a breaking point. It seems that everyone is hateful and angry anymore. I’ve had friends that I adore for years that suddenly are letting their hate fly, but I guess I’m supposed to accept it and look the other way. Either they think I don’t see it or they don’t care if I do. And then how much do they really care about me.  The excuse of “but not you. I didn’t mean you,” just doesn’t fly with me.


If you’re hateful, you’re hateful, and I don’t need you in my life. I don’t care what flavor your hate is, I don’t want to taste is. You poison me every day that I do, and I don’t want your poison to change my overall view of the world. You sound just like the people you claim to hate while chucking me under the bus with them.

Kindness – I have a terrible habit of feeling sorry for people or wanting to be a friend to someone who may not have many. But you know what? People see kindness as a weakness. Fact. It doesn’t even seem to matter if people have been shitty to them in the past and they should know better. I wish I didn’t feel sorry for people. I wish I had a thicker wall and that didn’t allow others’ feelings to transfer to me. I wish I didn’t care. I wish I had more of a mean bone in my body. I wish it didn’t always take me so long to stand up for myself. I wish I wasn’t forgiving.

Ugh. I wish I were anyone but me.

As you know, I’ve been trying to get people to join my launch team. Yes, I’m asking for help–something that I have a tough time doing–and now I struggle because certain people think that because they’re helping me out by joining that I owe them a personal relationship.

I’m an author. I’m a storyteller. I’m a writer.

Why do I owe you any more than some entertainment through a good story that you paid for?

Or in this case…something I worked extremely hard on and I’m letting you read for free.

For free. I wish I didn’t care about writing and sharing stories. No one values books or writers anymore. Everyone expects everything to be free. It breaks my heart to think about how much time and effort goes into a book, and yet people think it’s worth less than a cup of coffee. I know I’m wasting my time. Sigh. I wish I could stop feeling compelled to write stories that no one gives a damn about.

I let myself be pushed around. Held emotionally hostage. Feeling like I have to be beholden to anyone who will read my stories. Maybe it’s because I’m an indie author and not a celebrity who has someone ghostwrite a book for them that immediately shoots to #1 on the NYT bestseller list. I know I have a long, hard road ahead to find readers but who much am I willing to put up with? Am I really finding a fan of my work when someone makes me feel like I owe them anything more than that?

Case in point…

Twitter. I like to play hashtag games. I joke around with all kinds of people and often. I tweet about my launch team, some people join. One person

First, expected me to be their friend and answer ever-increasing amounts of private messages.

Then started really making me uncomfortable by saying they were going to come to visit me.

Finally, started sending me lewd messages about spanking him.

I finally stood up and blocked him from my social media, but he is still sending through other avenues and sending emails to my author address–trying to make me feel bad because I “should forgive someday” and am making him “feel distraught.”

I mean, is reading so out of fashion that I have to, not only give books away for free but sacrifice my personal space as well?

Don’t get me wrong. I love interacting with people and getting messages about how they enjoy my books, but when people cross the line or take advantage of my kindness, I feel more miserable than I would if I never shared a word with anyone.

So what do I do?

Keep friends who clearly hate me even though they’d say they don’t?

Stop trying to share and promote my books or build a career for myself as an author?

Stop interacting with people on social media altogether?

Stop joking around because some perverts can’t tell the difference between goofing around and falling in love?

Ugh. I’m done.

Today I’m allowing myself to give up and retreat into my fantasy world. Maybe I just need to recharge and forgive myself for not being someone else. Anyone else. Someone who doesn’t give a care about the feelings of others. Someone who has a thick skin. Someone not affected by the words of others. Someone who wants to be anything other than a writer.

If you’d like to support my website and my writing you can click below



I want to quit.


I want to quit.

Lately, I hate myself. I hate who I am. I hate what I do. I hate my personality. I hate my feelings. I hate everything about me. I feel like a failure, and I want to quit. Everything.

I thought about deleting this blog. I thought about moving all my novels and stories into the trash and deleting them forever. Deleting myself.

I’m even a failure at failing. I think about giving up on writing because I don’t feel like I need any more rejection in my life and what do I do? I write about it. Maybe I just need to give up on trying to be successful at writing in any way that would acknowledge me as a “real” writer and move on. I certainly don’t need any more trolls on Twitter questioning the fact that I’m a “writer” when I don’t write (as they see it), never considering the fact that pen names exist. And oh, I can’t possibly be a writer if I have a typo anywhere. Because being writer somehow makes you super-human and incapable of errors. Writers, after all, are never in need of those people called editors. We know it all. Isn’t that right?

I’m tired of the advice from writers and non-writers about how I should be writing more and not doing other things. And nothing is worse than the non-writers who are so sure they could write a book if they wanted to and feel the need to give me their little pearls of wisdom. This isn’t my first book. Every time I’ve tried to write in a way that isn’t part of my personal process, I’ve failed. I realize these people are all trying to help, but I still grow weary of hearing it all.

I’m paralyzed by the horrible fear that comes when I think about sharing anything I’ve written because I’m absolutely positive that it’s all shit. I’m shit.

When I think about finishing this book and querying agents, the joy is immediately sucked dry from my body. Working with a small press was a soul-crushing disappointment that left me feeling used and stupid. Those are the options, though, if I want to be a “real” writer.

I’m very close to finishing this book, but at this point, I just don’t care if I ever do.

I’ve, once again, moved into the shadows and I don’t really feel any desire to try to step out into the light. My heart is broken. My spirits are broken. I am broken. Most of all, I feel like I deserve to be a broken heap of nothing who will sit and wait until the moment I break down into fine dust and blow away.

I want to quit. But here I am–writing. And I’m sure, one day, bits of light will seep into my heart, get it pumping in an exciting rhythm again that gives me the heart to get up and keep trying.

Until then…*Sigh*

If you’d like to help support my website and my writing with a tip you can click below

Tip Jar

Help support my website and my writing