Heart Broken.

I talk to a dead cat every day.

January 2021, our cat Penelope had kittens. All of them died except one. I became fond of the little kitten but we had no intentions of keeping her. I was going to find her a new home. (We already had too many cats.)

After she was born I was hospitalized, y’all remember that. When I got home she had a boo-boo on the top of her head. Her mom, Penelope, && Penelopes sister, Benson, got into a fight over her and booped her head. We named her Dotty.

After a bit that spot turned black – not a bad black, she basically ended up with a dot on her head that was black. As she aged a lot of her white darkened. She ended up looking Siamese.

Her and I bonded. We got very close. I fell in love with her when she was a baby. Completely head over heels. She got older, bigger, darker. She slept with me, && would want me to hold her like a baby rocking her as she slept. I called her Babykins. She was my baby.

Two weeks ago she never came home. I waited three days before I really started to freak out. By Friday I needed her home. So I went out looking for her. Walking around our small town I knew she wouldn’t go far. I even asked a Facebook Community page for help.

I found her. 💔

I know people always tell me that they don’t see their animals as animals but as children. I never understood that. Until her. She was special to me. She made me happy. &&& I know she loved me just as much as I loved her. (Even if I did read someone say that animals don’t love us that they only seem like it because they depended on us for food.)

She was down the road. Wet. Dirty. Which was things she hated more than anything. I wish I had went looking for her Wednesday, but I don’t think it would have mattered.

We have a set of aggressive dogs on our street. Mind you, I wasn’t there && at first I thought she was hit by a car. But this past Saturday we found another one of our cats, mauled to death in our back yard. I’m about 100% sure that Babykins was killed by the dogs.

When I found her. A piece of me broke in half. I feel like I’m missing something. A small part of me. A part of my happiness disappeared with her. I picked her limp body up and carried her home with no feelings in my legs. Couldn’t see through the tears. My lungs felt empty. I couldn’t breathe.

I sat on my front porch, alone, crying holding her like I did when she was alive. Close to my chest, rocking her back and forth, crying.

I went to work the next day. I shouldn’t have. For 12.5 hours I sat at my desk and cried. I wasn’t in the correct mindset to be there. I got nothing accomplished. But I went because I had no choice.

Milo, the other cat we found, was our baby. We got him April 2018, and he was solid white && deaf. He was a rescue that we got as a kitten. We raised him. He raised the other cats. We weren’t here for his but I’m pretty sure that Lucci, another one of our cats saw it. He witnessed Milos death. I think this because he has bite marks on his back and side.

Milo had no chance && I fear that Lucci tried to help but couldn’t. Lucci is now traumatized. Any noise he hears he jumps. Stares at the doors. Won’t go outside. You can tell he is sad.

I talk to Babykins every day I walk by her spot. We buried her next to the porch. We put Milo on the other side. They are both there and I see their spots every day.

I really miss them.

Songs.

Worlds.

Trying to break into worlds is hard.

No, this isn’t about me trying to find a way into another galaxy or proving that there is life in space. What I’m stating, is facts, that when you try to break into worlds it’s hard.

The writing community is huge. A lot of book worms, writers, authors, agents, editors, etc. && trying to get welcomed into it is like trying to sit at the popular table in high school. Sadly, I was never invited.

I have never been good at popularity contests && I wasn’t part of the “in crowd” && thinking that the writing community makes me feel like that is a harsh reality. I honestly know it’s not a popularity contest… but I feel like that. I also feel if you don’t have the money to spend you’ll never be published.

I figured the best way for an unknown is to publish it myself. Which is totally fine – I don’t mind doing the hard work. But I really wanted a professional editor to read through it, find the errors but unless I can poop out nearly $3,000 that will never happen. &&& I know they are worth the money, I just don’t have it to spend.

Then I think ‘okay, let’s skip the professional editing.’ Knowing that it’s self published, “most” readers will look over a lot of them. I will just edit the crap out of it.

Next hurdle. To self-publish, you need extra money. Thousands. I found a company that helps self publish but as I began reading I realized that not only do they request thousands of dollars they also keep 80¢ on every dollar for themselves so I would only get 20¢ of every dollar sold. Whereas, if I do it all myself and use Amazon, I get 70% of the royalties.

But then I think about going with my other passion but breaking into the food world is just as hard – if not harder. I guess when they say “you need money to make money” they weren’t kidding. But sadly, here I am with no money.

I did upload a couple chapters of the book. I figured if it gets enough notice that either that company will want to publish it or it shows that if I was to save the money, step-by-step it, that people would be interested in purchasing the book.

Here We Go!

November 2012 – First got the idea of Frost
November 2012 – Began writing.-The first few months was probably the easiest. The words just came to me. Flew out without having to think about it. Came across Chapter Three && the words just stopped. For some weird reason, every odd chapter was hard to write.
January 25, 2015 – I finished writing the full story.
January 26, 2015 – Began editing the story.
January 27, 2015 – Began the LONG fight with the story that lasted seven years.
January 25, 2022 – Finished – completely – the first round of edits. Yes, you read that correctly, I have finished editing the book. Do I think it’s great? No, I still think it needs a lot of work. But this is right direction.

My next plan is to print it out, start to finish, && read it. Make sure it flows, make notes throughout it. Make sure I didn’t take something out that I referenced before. It began with one idea && became something completely different as I finished writing it. But I think most writers say that about their stories.

I have given myself a goal. The goal of finishing this completely before the end of this year. Although, I think I say this every year, I mean it a little more now. The last year has been weird, hard, and stupid – && I know that I may not have forever and if I keep putting it off, my forever is going to be something I don’t enjoy as much as I should. I preach to people all the time to do the stuff in life that makes them happy. So why am I not listening to myself when it comes to my own happiness? I don’t want to be doing what I’m doing for the rest of my life. I want to write. I want that to be my living. &&& I will NEVER know for sure if I have what it takes if I never finish the book.

So here I am. My life is fine – but it would be so much better if I could put as my job title “Author”. Be able to say that my life is writing. Writing is my life.

But then again, I have decided to do a lot of things that scare me. That I’m afraid to do. && no, it’s not one of those “I’m going to die so I’m going to do everything on my bucket list.” I am not planning my death. I’m not ready to die. I’m just going to do && try to do the things that I have wanted to but afraid to try. Maybe I’ll go bungee jumping? Go down a water slide? Learn to swim?

I’ve been struggling lately with my sugar numbers. They’ve been high – not last year high, but high. 300’s. All the time. Morning. Afternoon. Night. My phone was been waking me up beeping because it hits 300 between 2AM & 7AM. Then it’ll go down to about 250 && stay there all day. I have been waiting to go see my endocrinologist about it && see what she says, however, when my appointment came up I found out they dropped my insurance – yay. So I was unable to do that. Instead I made an appointment with my primary && had the conversation. After discussing medicine & such she mentioned that it’s probably because I have been taking one of my shots. Why? Because I ran out of it – then tried to get it refilled. The endocrinologist I was seeing doesn’t, for any reason, answer their phone. So I was unable to get it refilled. So my primary refilled it – three months worth – &&& I began taking it again. I’m back on it for two weeks. The last two days I haven’t hit 300. It has been ranging between 150 – 200. Still high, but it’s a lot better than it was.

Weight loss. That’s my goal. I don’t know if I will be able to do it myself. Back of my mind has been weight loss surgery. I feel like that’s me giving up. But at the same time, I also think, it might benefit me. I will have a higher chance of not being diabetic, have high blood pressure && I may, just may get my heart function back.

My check up this month with my primary – she said I had a little fluid build up again. Nothing scary. She didn’t hospitalize me. She said my numbers are better. I take a water pill – I’m allotted two of them a day – I have only been taking one. This last few days I have been taking two. I can’t have the build up – a heart attack is not in my plans.

&&& I was like, “whatever bitches”…

Angel reruns, a banana popsicle and making tator tot casserole for dinner made my brain rumble. Actually, no, what made my brain a rumble would be me reading Gabriel’s Inferno again – for like the, 1,000th time. (So many times a friend asked if my book was still together: which it is, by the way.)

What makes a writer a writer?

I have been asking this question to myself a lot lately. Not because I doubt what and who I feel – but because – am I allowed to call myself a writer? Are you only considered a writer if you have published a book? If so, are actors who write autobiography’s writers? Are chefs who have twenty cook BOOKS, writers? But can you consider a person who is always thinking about writing, but doesn’t write daily; who stares at blank word documents and sighs because they words won’t flow out of her fingertips? Someone who can read book after book and get so many ideas for a novel, but cannot seem to get passed the first sentence to make anything happen? How about the girl who has actually written a novel, but can’t seem to finish editing out the crap parts without dousing it in gasoline and lighting it on fire?

Am I considered a writer or am I a wanna-be writer who dreams of it, but won’t let herself have it because she can’t center her brain enough to do it? But in the same sense, how can I consider myself a writer but not the girl next to me who writes poetry in her basement wearing all black with candles lit and Nightwish playing in the background? What makes me a writer and not her? Are we both considered writers?

I feel like a fraud at times. I’m probably just overthinking things – like usual – but how can I be something if I won’t allow myself to be it? I feel like a fraud because I only think about doing something. I did it, once, but now I’m stuck and afraid. I’m afraid because what if my story that I wrote is as bad as I feel? I mean, it cannot be too good if I can’t bring myself to read it to edit it – can I? &&& I don’t want to ask someone else to edit it, right now, because I know how bad it is.

I bought a indie writers book – she self-published &&& one of the authors I enjoy reading was promoting it. So I bought it, why not? It was only 1$. As I was sitting at work reading it on my Kindle all I saw were errors. Spelling errors. Sentence errors. Run ons, and paragraphs that made no sense. I even read through a part that sounded like the character in the book was a pedophile. I eventually stopped reading it because it went on && on &&& on &&&& on about absolutely nothing. At one point I couldn’t figure out what was happening. That’s what I fear. &&& I know for a fact that a part of my story is exactly that. It’s rambles. It’s nothing. It’s pure crap.

When I started writing Frost, I read how long people think romance novels should be and I went with that. So instead of going for content I wrote for numbers. Page numbers. Word numbers. I was trying to reach 100,000 words without realizing just how much garble I had. So now, when I edit it, I’m trying to take out the garble and leave the story. The content. The thing that will bring readers back. But when I sit to edit the garble I get sad because of how much there really is.

I swear I have a chapter where one of the characters is making dinner. I wrote paragraph after paragraph him making dinner and their thoughts and their crap. It LITERALLY has no place in the story. No one cares that the character likes spaghetti or that they know how to make it. I could have simply wrote “before she arrived he busied himself in the kitchen, making the only dish he really knows: spaghetti.” But no, I wrote how he put the water in the pot and salted the water, and how he boiled the noodles to perfection and made the sauce and poured the wine and she watched. The other character just watched him do it without them ever saying a single word to each other. Instead I could have wrote “he pulled out her chair and poured a glass of wine, living in a small town he doesn’t know much about fine wines, but the lady at the store recommended this one. She took a drink and smiled, showing her affection for the wine choice. She has never been a fan, but knowing that he picked and offered it, today – she loves wine.” I went on to say how he made the plates, put down the spoon and fork, sat in front of her, and then went on to talk about how they ate it. HOW THEY ATE IT! When I could have said “he was no chef, but when it came to spaghetti, he felt it. He gently sat a plate down in front of her. ‘Do you want some cheese?’ Her nerves collided with her brain, but nodded and smiled. He smiled, thinking it was cute every time she blushed, and grated some parmesan on top. Not a lot, but enough to top it right off. She looked around the table at the spread and felt like a queen. It had been a long time since she was offered so much and was allowed to sit at the table and enjoy it with someone. He is going to spoil her, was the only thing she was thinking.”

But here I am. My story isn’t written like that. Maybe I should stop complaining. Complaining doesn’t get me anywhere or do anyone any good. It doesn’t get the story edited or completed. It doesn’t help me in publishing it or allowing someone to read it. What I NEED to do is just get back to it – open the story back up and finish it.

But how do I get passed my irritation I have with the story to actually finish it? I still love the idea, the concept, but a part of me doesn’t like the characters. That’s the problem – I think – I don’t like the characters I built &&& that’s something a writer must do. When I read interviews or listen to authors talk – the one thing they all say, “I love the characters and I loved watched them grow and build into something great!” I have changed and rearranged and renamed and rebuilt my characters so many times – that I am just fed up with them and all they are about. I keep thinking about things I have to have in my story and I keep screwing it all up. I don’t NEED a gay character. I don’t NEED a suicide attempt. I don’t NEED guys being animals. I don’t NEED girls being damsels. I don’t need half of what is in it, but I Have it, because a part of me thought it had to have everything in one. If I put everything into one story then I will have nothing left for my other twenty novels I want people to read.

&&&& who said I had to have 300 pages? If I don’t make it to 300 pages, that’s fine – that just means it’s a shorter book. But of course, I wanted words and length so I wrote and wrote until I had such and such amount of crap and garble that now I have to… you know.

&&& now I’m sorry for the rambling but I think I’m just mad at myself. In 2012, when I began this story, I really believed all of this. Now, the 2019 me is trying to fix the crap that 2012 me wrote. It’s aggravating…