I’m knee deep in the middle of line edits right now and things are starting to happen over here, things that are both amazing and baffling and I’ve been coping by drinking far too much caffeine and wine, eating my weight in M&M’s and listening to The Lumineers on repeat.
|I’m not exaggerating.|
And because things are happening and my release date is creeping up on me and everything is crazy and awesome and is this really happening right now, I find myself constantly torn between talking about all of the things and talking about none of the things. My poor family and close friends are constantly at risk of having me stop in the middle of a conversation and bust out with something like, “Omg but blog tours” as it is and there’s times I want to jump on every social media site and do the same. But I’m a twitchy thing, very much an introvert, and writing has always been almost a coping mechanism for me. Up until this point, it’s been a very private thing. I do it. I share some of it with friends, select family members, but other than that, it’s me in The Cave, tossing words on paper to stay sane. Writing is such an integral part of who I am as a person, it’s like breathing. I needed to do it so I did but it existed in my life solely for myself. It was my way of holding onto a vital part of myself, a part that I always felt was threatened by my roles of mom, wife, daughter, random neighbor lady down the street who only waves and never makes eye contact. It’s easy to get lost in those roles. Lose yourself to them. And writing was my way of keeping a grasp on me. The girl beyond those things. I’d only ever toyed with the idea of publishing because putting that part of myself out there terrified me. But 2013 was a weird year and somewhere in that year, I decided to go for it. Chase my dreams and all that.