Why Do I Write So Many Book Reviews???

I've always been a reader. Books are pretty much the first things I can remember about my life. Dr. Seuss was a big deal. I remember the ABC Book. It was white. The A was red, the B was green and the C was blue. There were three strange creatures playing around the letters, and I loved that book. Big A, little A, what begins with a? Aunt Annie's alligator. A … a … A. Perhaps my favorite was Big M, little M … Many mumbling mice are making midnight music in the moonlight ... mighty nice.

It wasn't just the ABC Book. My childhood library was filled with Dr. Seuss, including Green Eggs and Ham, The Cat in the Hat, One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish, and the crazy tongue twister that is Fox in Socks. One of my most beloved childhood books was The Monster at the End of This Book. Grover. Who doesn't love Grover?

I was an only child for some time. I remember being read to, but I also had to entertain myself a lot. One of the things I liked doing was pulling out my clunky hard plastic turntable—the cover was a boring beige color—and sifting through my collection of Disney Read-Alongs. 

"This is a Disneyland original Little Long-Playing Record, and I am your story reader. I am going to begin now to read the story of [insert title here]. You can read along with me in your book. You will know it's time to turn the page when Tinker Bell rings her little bells like this: (sound of 'chimes' ringing). Let's begin now."

I remember having Cinderella, Bambi, Sleeping Beauty, Pete's Dragon, and my favorite, Alice in Wonderland. I had such a love affair with this story that I wanted an Alice themed cake for my fifth birthday.

Then I went to school and was introduced to the Bookmobile and the Scholastic Book Fair. Oh, my goodness, the Bookmobile. This was a really big deal for my little book loving heart. My mom would tuck a ten-dollar bill in my pocket, and when I stepped inside that big bus, I was in heaven. I would study all the photos of all the books and stickers coloring the newsprint sheets that were handed out in school from Scholastic. I remember getting those every few months, and I would take my money into my teacher and couldn't wait for her to pull out the great big box weeks later and hand out all the goodies my classmates and I ordered.

Books. Seriously. Is there anything better than books?

I read a lot, but I also wrote. In middle school, I began writing short stories and poetry. I asked for a typewriter one Christmas. You could buy little plastic discs that gave you different fonts. I had the standard type font, but I could switch it to italics. That was cool, but you could also buy typewriter ribbon in different colors.

What? I could type poetry in blue italics! My life was complete! 

Then I wrote my first book. Before I'd even finished it, it was well over 600 pages. I began trying to shop it around to publishing houses. This was in the late 90s, and I didn't have tools at my disposal like the internet. I spent hours sitting in the library scribbling down names and addresses of houses that might be interested in my very long family drama. Because the books that had this information in them were in the research section, I was not allowed to check them out. This is what we call determination.

I wrote so many query letters, and many houses requested I send ten pages, a chapter, the first three chapters. And so, I printed what was requested, and I spent money in postage to send it to them. I got a lot of responses back. No one wanted to publish the book, but one literary agent who read it gave me a lot of very helpful feedback. To this day, I'm grateful for what he wrote to me. (Mark Sullivan, you are awesome. Thank you!) I had a stack of rejection letters and to be honest, it took the wind out of my sails. I didn't finish the book. I wound up putting the project to the side after my husband and I had our first child. And then we had child number two. We'd always planned to homeschool, so I jumped into that with both feet. I made myself a promise that I would finish the book someday, and even if it never got published, at least I could say I completed it. I could say I wrote a book.

The list of authors I enjoyed reading was long. In my freshman year of high school, an English teacher I absolutely loved had us read To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. I was blown away by this book. I loved it so much that for a long time, I reread it yearly. Then, when life happened, and things got rough, I would pull it out again, and reading it consoled me. It's still my favorite book of all time. I also loved reading books written by Dean Koontz. (How many of you read Watchers?) I've never really been a fan of horror novels, but there were a lot of Stephen King books that I loved, too. (Delores Claiborne for example.) I loved mysteries and thrillers and read the Inspector Lynley series by Elizabeth George, the Kay Scarpetta books by Patricia Cornwell, the goofy Stephanie Plum books written by Janet Evanovich, and the magic realism of Sarah Addison Allen's books. James Lee Burke. Wow. I absolutely love the way James Lee Burke writes, and Rick Riordan's Percy Jackson & the Olympians series. I was reading V.C. Andrews at thirteen—yikes, but I certainly wasn't the only tween reading those books—and then there was Judy Blume. Thank God for Judy Blume. There's so many. I'll stop here, but I could keep going. Like I said before, there's nothing better than books. 

When I took on the gigantic responsibility of educating two children, I continued to read, but it was instructive books that sat on my nightstand instead of the latest Michael Crichton. I learned how to build a curriculum that suited the county we happened to live in at the time, and I even took a job with a small publication called Kids 411. I became a homeschool liaison, writing articles and sharing with other parents all the information I had gathered about being a homeschool family. (This was in 2003, and Colorado was not a big homeschool state at that time. Maya had a lot of friends she danced and did gymnastics with, and none of them were homeschooled. I was largely on my own, and I was okay with that. I was good at homeschooling. I absolutely loved being a homeschool mom.)

For many years, the authors I read came from a very different list. Sandra Boynton, Eric Carle, Audrey Wood and Laura Joffe Numeroff. I read Mary Pope Osborne, Marcus Pfister, E.B. White, C.S. Lewis and Jane Yolen. I read Room on the Broom, Sheep in a Jeep, The Mermaid's Baby, Goodnight Moon and Chrysanthemum. The kids and I would go to the library at least twice a week. They didn't have a cap on how many books could be checked out, and neither did I. I read at least four books to them at bedtime every single night. We took books with us everywhere we went just in case there was time during errands or long car rides when they got bored. I read a whole lot of books from the back seat of many cars. Children's books. They are magical.

When our oldest was about twelve, I finally finished writing that first novel. (The finished version was nowhere near 600 pages by the way.) This time, I didn't try to sell it, I published it on my own. I went through a publisher called Xlibris. They taught me a lot, but they charged a great deal of money to do so. If I had to do it over again, I would not have gone this route, but it did make it possible for me to decide to publish and then be published. That was at the end of 2012. I learned a lot that next year about the ins and outs of having a book on the market. This was when I found out how important the almighty review is.

Let me blunt. Reviews are everything. Every author needs them, and they are so very difficult to get. Sites like Amazon advertise books with a lot of reviews, and literary agents and publishing houses look at the number of reviews to gauge how popular—and how financially profitable—a certain title might become. I repeat: REVIEWS ARE EVERYTHING.

As a new author, I had no reviews. I did know how to research, though, and I found a review group on Goodreads. It turned out to be a great group. Books were grouped according to genre, and each reviewing period lasted about two months. In order to get four reviews, you had to be willing to read four books and write and post four reviews. None of the reviews were reciprocal, so I was never asked to review a book by an author who had written a review for me. There was never any crossover. They were honest reviews. (I did this for my first two books, and some of the reviews I received were awful—but they were helpful. I'd rather have an honest review and be able to learn from it than to be told a book is fantastic when it isn't.) I was part of this group for about two years, and I met a lot of great authors. I also got to read many amazing—and some not so amazing—books. I'm not in the group any longer, but it still exists thirteen years after I first discovered it.

There are a lot of authors publishing books. Some of them are traditionally published. Some of them are attached to smaller publishing houses, and some of them—like mine—are published by indie authors. The one thing every single one of these books has in common is that they all need reviews. 

I decided that if I was going to ask for reviews, I was going to write reviews.

One of the reviews I wrote that garnered the most attention was for Blow Fly by Patricia Cornwell. I never write a review hoping someone will comment on it. In fact, at the time, I didn't realize that was a thing, so the response it got took me by surprise. This book is number twelve in the Kay Scarpetta series. I had been an avid reader of this series, until I got to the twelfth book. She chose to do something with her characters that didn't sit well with me, and I was hesitant to read further. I felt guilty about this. I'd been loyal to this writer and this series, but I was struggling with it all. I decided to look at some of the reviews about this book to see what other readers were saying about it—and I was horrified by some of the things I saw.

People, specifically when they have any amount of anonymity, can be incredibly mean and rude. That's not something I believe in. I don't write mean reviews. Does this mean I give four and five stars to every book I read? Absolutely not. Does this mean there haven't been books I chose to skim quickly instead of actually reading because I found no interest in them? Nope. I won't say I thought a book was good if I didn't think it was. But I always find something I liked about a book—perhaps the author's humor, maybe a phrase or two stood out, maybe it was a character, or the premise of the story—it could be something really small, and I'll be sure to write about it. I'll say the book didn't work for me, but that I'm sure there are others who will feel differently. You can say you didn't care for something without being a jerk about it. There were a lot of people being jerks about Blow Fly.

I revisited the Kay Scarpetta series. I reread all the books, including book twelve. I'll be honest—it still hit me the same way it did the first time I read it. I sat and put my thoughts and feelings down—not just about the book, but about the other reviews it had received. I think it would be really amazing if Patricia Cornwell stumbled across my review one day. I'd love to know what she thought of it. 

I write reviews because authors need reviews. I write reviews because I, as an author, desperately need reviews. One of the cool things about it is, by sitting down and putting your ideas about a book into a single sentence or several paragraphs, you're challenging your brain to write in a different way. It's not storytelling. It's a different kind of practice. The more you write, the better you become at it. Writing reviews is a great tool for an author.

You don't have to do anything special to leave a review for an author. You read a book, you jot a few ideas about what you liked and what you didn't about the book. You may not hear a thank you, but I can guarantee that author will be grateful. Authors oftentimes pay companies to help them find people who will read their books and leave reviews. I do. I go through Booksprout. I pay a fee every year to have books listed on that site, and I offer them to readers free of charge in return for honest reviews. It doesn't cost a reader anything to have an account with Booksprout. They get free books, the author gets reviews. It's a win/win. 

There are other companies that do this as well. At the beginning of 2026, I decided I was going to start reading for NetGalley. I look for specific authors, and a lot of my favorites use NetGalley. One of the things I've come to enjoy most about reading for them, though, is finding authors that are new to me, or authors who have just written their first book. It's so cool to stumble across so many brilliant novels that I otherwise would have never found. An author I know decided to use BookSirens to help her get reviews a couple of months ago. I joined to support her, but once I was a member, I just decided to keep reading for other authors on the site. I couldn't possibly name all the companies who offer books for reviews, but I know it wouldn't take much research for anyone to find them.

Honestly, logging into NetGalley or BookSirens today gives me a similar feeling to stepping up into the Bookmobile or looking through the flyers from Scholastic back in elementary school. Do you know how many books there are just waiting to be read??? It's almost more than I can fathom. 

I read on average about three to four books a month, and I review every one of them. When I brought this blog back to life, I decided I would use it to help get the word out on the books I've been able to review. I post them on my Facebook page, as well as on Instagram. Readers are everywhere. Perhaps this post will urge one or two of them to go and find one of my books and leave a review for me. :) 

Book Review: The Version We Kept by Nicole Pigeon

 

The Version We Kept is told from the viewpoint of Eliza Vale who, at the beginning of the novel, is sitting in her car in the parking lot of a funeral home. Inside, the services for Bennett Vale are about to begin. We are introduced to several people all at once, although the relationship between them all is not always clear.  The cast of characters is large—about twelve people—and not all of them are still alive. The author does a good job letting us know that this is a tight knit family, and they are gathering to say goodbye to Bennett. The fact that they are all related is the relevant part, and later, the relationship between a couple of them becomes the heart of the whole story.

Every summer, the Vale family travels to Alder House on Lake Bellweather in Ontario, Canada. Alder House is old and weathered. It is filled with a bunch of bedrooms, a big kitchen, a front porch and an archival room. This room is filled with shelves stacked with boxes of negatives, photographs, cassette tapes containing the voices of the Vale family, videos and files of important documents such as birth certificates, deeds to property, contracts and other necessary things. These things have been meticulously kept over the years, mostly by Eleanor—who is no longer living—and Evelyn. Bennett played the part of archivist sometime in the past, and this year, Eliza is the one who is chosen for the job. She arrives at the lake and prepares to continue the tradition of familial archiving—but finds that negatives have been altered, tapes spliced and several different copies of documents, each one with small differences. It becomes obvious to Eliza that the Vale family history has been carefully edited over the years.

When Eliza finds a cassette tape from Bennett, she realizes that it's not part of the archive but left for the next person who is elected to tend to the collection. Tears came to my eyes just like they did Eliza's. "Promise me if I die, you won't make me prettier than I was. People always do that. I don't want it. If you have to choose, leave the rough parts in. That's what's real." This is the whole idea behind this powerhouse of a novel.

There are other details I'd love to share in this review, but to do so would be revealing too much. This is really a book a reader needs to experience on their own. Pigeon did not simply tell a story, she also created atmosphere. You can hear the sounds of the old hardwoods creaking and feel the way the grain of the wood might feel to the soles of bare feet. You can smell the cedar of the shelves in the archive room and smell the petrichor after a storm while the cooler air surrounds you and envelops you in a cloud of humidity. She is good at pulling in all senses and immersing the reader as she writes.

This was an emotional read. Events that have taken place in the Vale family find no real conclusion—at least not while the reader is part of the story. A bigger revelation, however, is discovered, and the end of this tale brings a quiet kind of satisfaction.

Book Review: Nowhere Safe by Kate Anslinger

 

Sloane Keller is a flight attendant working for Velocity Airlines. The job has its drawbacks—mostly due to troublesome passengers—but she's always on the move, travelling all over the globe. This is a good thing for Sloane because she's got a past she's running away from. Everything seems to be going fine until one of the passengers calls her by her real name. Does this man know what happened that night at the river? Does he know what Sloane did?

Anslinger layers this story in such an interesting way. I was held to the story, and found myself surprised not once, but several times. And she hit me with yet another surprise with the very last line of the book. Anslinger has definitely mastered the fine art of a well-crafted thriller.

I wanted to feel closer to Sloane. I desperately wanted to find out the secrets of her past, but I never felt the emotional closeness to her that I desired. I'm not sure why I couldn't connect, and I don't really know if that took away from the story. I liked all the puzzle pieces that Anslinger clicked into place throughout and would recommend this novel to anyone who enjoys a twisty thriller.

The cover art is worth mentioning. It's so very well done. 

I gave Nowhere Safe four stars.

Book Review: Everything He Never Told Me by Clara van Houten

 

Everything He Never Told Me is a story about Kai Lindholm, a brilliant engineer who wants to build prosthetics for veterans, and Ivy, the woman he loves. Ivy is the daughter of a very wealthy and domineering father who has a plan for her life. Kai is not in those plans. Even though her father wants her to marry another man named Mason, Ivy accepts Kai's proposal, and the two of them get married and begin their lives without the money Ivy has always been used to. The couple both believe in Kai's ability to build a prosperous business, and together they work toward that goal. Life, as it oftentimes does, throws them a curve ball, and things don't quite go according to plan.

I wasn't entirely sure what to expect from this book when I started reading but hearing it both in Kai's voice and then in Ivy's was interesting. I knew something wasn't quite right as I read, and I think van Houten did a great job of leading us down the very scary, difficult path of deteriorating mental health and grief. Hearing the story from both sides was a creative way to show readers how things were declining. I don't have firsthand experience with the particular circumstances the characters found themselves in, but from what I do know about it, it feels like the author does her subject matter justice.

I'll be honest. When I finished reading, I needed to be in a quiet place for a while so the story could settle in my head. It was heartbreaking. Oh my goodness. Truly heartbreaking. The relationship between Kai and Ivy is the whole heart of this novel, but honestly, the romance didn't feel much like a romance. As I write this, however, I'm wondering if that was the whole point. The relationship was toxic, and that was illustrated well. I find myself wondering how Ivy is doing now and how much time has passed for her since the end of this part of her story. That right there tells me van Houten was able to tell me a tale that I'm still thinking about after putting the book down. I'd call that a success. 

I gave this book four stars. This title releases on August 18th.

Book Review: Necessary Lies by Diane Chamberlain

 

In this novel, Chamberlain takes readers back to North Carolina in the early sixties. Jane Forrester is a newlywed, married to a pediatrician who is more than a little status conscious. He wants a stay-at-home wife and children, but Jane wants a career. Against his better judgement, he allows this to happen, thinking she will tire of it quickly and they can start their family.

She takes a job as a social worker and is introduced to two families who work and live on a tobacco farm. She is told from the very beginning not to open her heart to the clients she has been assigned to, but this is not in Jane's programming. Immediately, she becomes emotionally involved with fifteen-year-old Ivy Hart, Ivy's diabetic grandmother, her beautiful but mentally challenged older sister, and her nephew, Baby William. When Jane learns that Mary Ella, Ivy's sister, was unknowingly part of a state program that sterilizes what they deem to be “mental defectives,” and others with supposedly undesirable characteristics, she is taken by surprise. Then she is told that because of her epilepsy, Ivy will become part of the program as well. The more she gets to know the girl, the more she learns about her, including Ivy's dream to become a mother one day.

Chamberlain weaves fiction and history together beautifully in Necessary Lies. This topic is a difficult one, and this story is not without pain and struggle. I loved the way things came to a close. It was a happy ending but disturbing at the same time. It was real and sad and lovely all at once. 

Just a Distraction

I am many things. I'm a wife and a mother. I'm a bestselling novelist. I'm an artist. I'm diabetic. I'm a reader. I'm a photographer and a Greek mythology enthusiast. I am a lover of iced chai, Duran Duran music and I'm a chronic pain sufferer. The list goes on, but I'll stop there.

Two years ago, I had a spinal cord stimulator placed in my body. What is a spinal cord stimulator?

It's a small device that's implanted under the skin. There are thin, flexible leads that are connected to the stimulator (which also contains a battery). The other ends are placed near specific nerves in the spine. The stimulator sends mild pulses through the leads to the nerves. Those pulses interrupt the pain signals on their way to the brain before they are felt. (Please check out the Boston Scientific website for more information.) Put simply, it's a distraction for the brain. 

It took me quite a while to come to the decision to go through with this. I'd gone through many surgeries by that time, but never one on my spine. I did a ton of research. A lot of people discouraged me and told me horror stories. Others claimed the stimulator simply didn't work for them. I watched videos, I read articles, I talked to my pain specialist. Most of all, I talked to my husband, Steven, who told me if I was nervous about it, there was no reason I needed to go through with it.

There's a very long and complicated story that brought us here. When the urge to write this started pushing at me, I was thinking about approaching it from a couple of different angles. I've decided not to belabor the whole thing. After all, this began a week before my sixteenth birthday. As I write this, I am fifty-five years old. That's almost forty years, and there's a lot to tell about that big chunk of time. I'll be honest; I'm not known for writing in short form. (Writing a synopsis is like hell on Earth for me. I'd much rather write a full-length novel than that little blurb on the back of the book.) I'm going to break from my norm this time. If the words chronic pain sufferer made you want to stop reading, I ask you to hang in there with me for a little longer. 

There. That's eleven years all wrapped up in one photograph. Now, here are the bullet points:

-Broke my wrist at (almost) sixteen.

-Struggled with what was diagnosed as tendonitis for nearly twenty-five years.

-Broke my wrist again (in a different place) when I was forty-one.

-In 2015 a hemi-head prosthetic was placed inside my wrist.

-In 2021 the hemi-head was removed and another prosthetic, this time a DRUJ, was put in its place.

-I had a lot of physical therapy in the second half of 2021, only to find my pain increasing.

-I had a tendon removed (I can no longer move my right pinky) in 2021.

-In November 2023, after seeing two different pain specialists, using every topical medication known to man, taking all kinds of pain killers, trying every brace and wrap I could get my hands on and becoming a physical therapy dropout, I was diagnosed with CRPS (Complex Regional Pain Syndrome).

-In May 2024, I went through a weeklong trial for a spinal cord stimulator.

-In July 2024, I had the stimulator placed.

The first time I broke it, I bounced back. Nothing could keep me off the ice. I competed, placing first in a figures competition. I was still an active member of my precision team, too. (We were the Sparklers, and we skated for the Rocky Mountain Figure Skating Club.) This was an official team photo, and my cast was just a part of it.

The second time I broke it, I was much older. We were living in Germany at the time, and I was treated at the Landstuhl Regional Medical Center. Two x-rays were taken, and I saw two different physicians who both decided not to cast it but to put me in a removable brace. No one knows for sure, but it's been said that this might be a big part of the chronic pain I suffer from now.

What is CRPS? 

All in all, I've had five surgeries on my wrist and two for the stimulator. I take medication for nerve pain, and I take painkillers every day. Have things changed for me since having the spinal cord stimulator? Yes. Has my pain decreased? Yes. Would I do it again? Also, yes.

Are you hanging in there so far?

Before I could go through the trial, I had to have an MRI done on my spine. If there was anything that might cause a problem with the leads being able to move from between my shoulder blades down to my hip, I wouldn't be able to do it. I'd had MRI's done on my wrist before, but this was a whole different story. They gave me a pair of headphones and piped a non-stop string of Duran Duran songs through them while I tried to be as still as possible. It was super loud. It sounded like I was in the middle of a construction site, and it was hard not to jump at some of the banging and clanging. That was an incredibly long hour. Fortunately, when it was done, my surgeon reported that I was good to go, and my first surgery date was scheduled.

When I went in for my trial, I really had no idea how the whole thing was going to work. Like I mentioned before, I had done a lot of research, but there were many details that hadn't been included. None of them were bad, it was just a lot of information. Ben, the clinical specialist from Boston Scientific who was assigned to me, came in and explained what would take place that day. Ben is awesome. He was in the operating room with me. He told me they were going to bring me out of sedation just enough that I could talk to him, answer some of his questions, then they would finish the procedure. After it was done, I couldn't recall speaking to him, but apparently, I did. When I came out of surgery, I sat with him and his laptop, and together we worked on a schedule that helped alleviate some of my pain. When he does this, what I feel is electrical stimulation. It's a little like pins and needles when your hand and fingers fall asleep, but it doesn't hurt. I felt an immediate change in the level of my pain. I don't quite know how to explain it because I wasn't pain free. I still had a lot of pain, but some of the sharp edge had been taken from it. It was softened. I was able to relax a little bit.

I knew the day I began the trial that I was going to have the stimulator placed. I was nervous about it, but as I made my way through those seven days, I became sure I wanted to go through with it. I had to keep track of my pain level throughout the day with an app on my phone. Ben expected and received daily texts from me. When the trial ended, and all the pain came rushing back, I wanted to schedule the next surgery immediately.

Immediately and insurance don't often go hand in hand. It wasn't until the end of July that everything came together. Ben was back in the operating room again—and he swears I spoke to him during this second procedure, too, but I'm just taking his word for it. Recovery was much easier for this than it was for the surgeries on my wrist. When I left the hospital that day, I had a two-inch incision between my shoulder blades, and a three-inch incision and a stimulator inserted in the back of my right hip. I had post-op pain and was sore for a couple of weeks. I had to be careful. I couldn't reach up over my head, I couldn't bend over, and I couldn't twist. I was told not to lift anything heavier than five pounds. I carried a small pillow with me to lean on in the car and on the couch until the back of my hip was no longer sore. By the first of October, I was considered healed. Sometimes I can feel a buzz in my right arm and shoulder when the schedule changes, or if I'm in a position that the leads don't like. I lift my chin when that happens and the buzz goes away. It was a very strange thing at first, but now I'm used to it.

So, why didn't I write this on the first anniversary of the surgery? Honestly, I've always been happy that I decided to get the stimulator. It has definitely lessened my pain. The thing is, CRPS changes all the time. Sometimes on a daily basis. There are symptoms I've had for years, but frequently, new ones will pop up. I text Ben regularly during the colder months. Cold is my enemy. I've seen him many times in the last two years. He's come up with different schedules, and he's tried to hit my trouble spots. It's hard to know if my pain has just increased or if the stimulator stopped working as well. I know that if I didn't have the stimulator, my pain would be much worse. It's a good thing. I've never regretted the stimulator, but it didn't seem to be bringing me as much relief as it had during that weeklong trial.

When I saw Ben at the beginning of June, he tried something different. He set up a program instead of a schedule. What's the difference?  A schedule works from 30% percent strength to 70%. It changes, never staying in one place for very long. This is a good choice of therapy for a lot of people. A program works at 50% strength all the time. It never changes. 50% doesn't sound like a lot, but for many, that consistent level of stimulation becomes too much over time, and it has to be brought down. When stimulation is too high, the affected limb becomes heavy, and pain flares. I've had two months of pretty decent relief since Ben and I made this change. That newfound relief is what prompted me to sit down and write this all out.

The spinal cord stimulator is a tool. It's much like the pain killers I take, and the medication I use to help me with the nerve damage I've suffered. It's like the lidocaine cream I layer beneath the THC/CBD salve I cover my fingers, wrist and lower arm with every day. It's like the soft wraps and compression gloves I wear, or the million and one heat sources I have scattered throughout my house. It's like the furry, warm mittens I carry in my bag year-round, and the sling I hang around my neck when my wrist and fingers feel overworked and completely useless. The spinal cord stimulator, like all these other things, is a tool, not a cure. Most people with CRPS—not all, but most—never go into remission. Oftentimes, CRPS continues to worsen over time, so the things I use to mute some of my pain today won't work a week or a month from now. One day, a particular brace supports the way I need it to, but when I put it on three days later, it hurts and I can't wear it. I'm super sensitive to weather. Barometric pressure affects me in a huge way and not much helps my pain when this happens—not even this change we recently made with my stimulator. My condition, as well as my pain, are chronic. I feel it every second of every day, and nothing I've tried has yet to significantly diminish it. All these tools help.

If you or someone you love suffers from chronic pain, my first suggestion to you would be to find a pain specialist. A lot of these caregivers are RN's, and others are MD's and surgeons. I had to work with a few of them before I found a good fit. Don't forget to speak up for yourself and make sure you can communicate with the person you're working with. It wasn't until I found the doctor I'm with now that I got a diagnosis that made sense. A good pain specialist will help you with this, and they'll have suggestions for things that will help your individual needs. If they suggest a spinal cord stimulator, and you've come across this post, maybe what I've written here will shed some light on my personal experience. Hopefully, the links I've included can lead you to more information on this kind of pain relief.

Everybody's experiences are unique, and if you ask ten different people what they think about a certain thing, you'll more than likely hear ten different responses. For better or worse, now I've added mine to the mix. 

Book Review: Getting Away with Murder by Shari Lapena

 

Ted and Jill Westcott bought a Brooklyn Heights brownstone, which they then remodeled and decorated without a second thought to just how much they were spending. Then, Ted—who is overconfident at best—makes a bad investment, not only losing a big chunk of what remained of the Westcott's money but losing some other people's as well. Ted, scared to tell Jill what he'd done, decides to borrow money from a loan shark, but when the reality of the couple's disastrous financial situation becomes too much for him to hide, he begins grasping at any solution he can find.

Greg Westcott is Ted's only sibling. Unfortunately for Ted, Greg has a much better understanding of investments and has grown the large inheritance both he and his brother got after the death of their parents into a forty-five-million-dollar empire. When Ted is unable to pay back the loan shark, he's forced to come clean with Jill. They'll have to put a mortgage on their beloved brownstone if they hope to pay back their debt and have money on which to live. Jill is livid and refuses to do so. As much as both of them hate it, they realize their only other option is to ask Greg for a loan.

Greg is unmarried and has no children. He's haughty, self-important and likes to brag. During one of their conversations, Greg lets his younger brother know that he is Greg's heir. When Greg denies Ted and Jill a loan, the two of them come up with a foolproof plan to kill Greg and inherit the man's millions. Problem is that nothing is foolproof.

It isn't just Greg who pays for Ted and Jill's greediness. Their plan casts a wide net that traps many people, and Lapena delivers a nice little twist at the end. This book is devious, well researched and definitely worth a reader's time.

I gave this book five stars. It more than held my interest, and I enjoyed Lapena's writing style.

Book Review: Brain Damage by Freida McFadden

 

The main character in Brain Damage is Charlotte—or Charly—McKenna. She's a popular dermatologist who has done very well for herself. She owns an apartment near Central Park, her practice is flourishing, she has friends, and her patients love her. She's successful, but she feels plain and unattractive. That's why, perhaps, when a handsome man begins to pursue her, she feels flustered and flattered.

The relationship that builds is, admittedly, not perfect. I was initially frustrated with Charly's ability to bypass obvious red flags. It would have been easy to give into this, but McFadden was good at reminding me of Charly's insecurities. Despite her questionable decision making, it was hard not to feel sorry for her when her life suddenly implodes.

Upon returning home one night, Charly is confronted by a man pointing a gun at her. She survives being shot in the head, but her memories of the incident are fuzzy at best. A good portion of this novel takes us through Charly's recovery time. She goes from barely remembering her own name to diagnosing another patient's skin cancer. It was a slow burn to the final who-dun-it, but it was an entertaining ride.

I gave this book five stars.

Book Excerpt: Sabotage in the Stable - Book 10 of the Whisper Creek Mysteries series

I am busily working on the next Whisper Creek Mysteries book. This is number ten of the series, which seems unbelievable to me because it feels like a week or two ago that the idea for these books popped into my head. 

I hope you enjoy the first chapter - which is a very, very short chapter - of Sabotage in the Stable. This novel will go live on November 3, 2026.

She was dying. Life was draining out of her body, leaving behind a red stain of blood beneath her in the clean white snow. She slowly blinked her eyes. She didn't have energy to do much else. The sky above her looked like an overturned bowl of black velvet studded with glittering stars. There seemed to be a million of them. Two million.

There were so many things that she wanted to remember but couldn't. She knew she'd lived a good life. A decent life? She liked to think she'd been accomplished, but strangely, there was a lot of dead air in her mind where her memories used to be. It was almost like quiet static, whispering like the cold wind she could feel blowing across her face.

She tried to remember her name, but she couldn't even recall something as simple as that. She knew she'd probably heard it spoken, shouted, cried at least a hundred times in a day, but it was like she was already gone. It was almost like she had never existed at all.

She felt a tear escape the corner of her eye and trail down the side of her face. It got caught in the thick strands of her hair before seeping into the hollow of her ear. She couldn't remember, so she'd placate herself with the belief that yes, she'd been somebody in this life. She'd done good things. She'd made a difference. If none of that were true, she wouldn't be around to face that reality. This moment. Right this second was all she had left, and she couldn't bear to think that there wasn't somebody somewhere who would miss her when she was gone.

It felt like she didn't have a core any longer, like her body had been carved out. The only thing she could feel was that cold, mountain air against her cheeks and forehead. Where was she? How had she gotten here? Obviously, she walked … right? She couldn't remember. She wanted to turn her head to look at what was around her, but it was all just a passing thought. Her body felt more and more disconnected, and even as she thought about it, the arms and legs she'd used to hug her child and to walk across the stage were simply not there anymore.

Child …

That idea lingered longer than any of the rest, but she couldn't conjure up an image of such a thing. Was she a mother? Did she have a kid? Was she thinking about her life, or just life in general? And then those musings were gone, evaporated into the winter air. It was back to the quiet static again.

The stars glimmered above her. They called to her. They looked like shiny pieces of ice hanging in the sky. Cold. Numb. Just like she had become.

She didn't even have the energy to close her eyes before her heart stopped beating. The glimmer of stars above shone in her eyes when the small cloud of her last breath floated upward from her parted lips. And then she was gone.

Book Review: The Story Keeper by Kelly Rimmer

I believe this story was published by author Kelly Rimmer in July 2025 and was titled The Midnight Estate. The version I have reviewed below titled The Story Keeper is set to release July 21, 2026.

Fiona is embarking upon uncharted territory. She lost her husband and her best friend when she found out the two of them had fallen in love with each other, then she was asked to give up the career she loved for a time period as part of the divorce settlement. Her children are both out of the house, and she's mourning her uncle Tad, who is recently deceased. There has been too much change in too little time, and Fiona finds herself at odds with this new life she's expected to live.

Fiona never knew her own father, who died before she was born. Tad had always filled that role for her, and Tad's biological son, Jon, was not only Fiona's "brother", but her best friend. The two of them grew up in a sprawling house called Wurimbirra in Australia with Ginny, Fiona's mother, who worked for the hopelessly disorganized Tad as the secretary who kept his life—and the house—running. Jon never felt comfortable there and spent most of his time with his mother. Fiona, on the other hand, has nothing but fondness for the old place. She lived there until Ginny married Alan, who owned a neighboring farm when Fiona was sixteen. Wurimbirra is known for its ghosts—ghosts Tad celebrated. When the bestselling novelist passes away, the ghosts are what the residents of the town seem to remember most about the place.

For some time, the house has been abandoned. The property was handed down to Jon when his father died, but he has no interest in it. When Fiona's life implodes, restoring Wurimbirra becomes the one thing that fuels her. Jon isn't excited about Fiona purchasing the property, and neither is Ginny. Fiona has never fully understood the aversion the two of them have to the place, but she arrives on the property, ready to clean all the dust out of it and to begin bringing it back to its former glory.

When Fiona comes across a box filled with a dozen books titled The Midnight Estate, she assumes they've come from either the author or the publisher. It was not unusual for Tad to buy several copies of a book he enjoyed so he could give them to his friends and family. As Fiona reads the novel, however, she starts seeing a lot of parallels in the story that mirror the people and places in her own life. The writing style has become familiar, and it becomes obvious that Tad authored this novel under a pen name. Before she's gotten to the end, she realizes she's inadvertently stumbled across hidden family secrets and finds answers to some long-standing questions. 

This book within a book is intriguing. The mystery is creatively built, and the reader quickly becomes invested in Rimmer's characters and the outcome of their story.   

I gave The Story Keeper an easy five stars. I am eager to read more of this author's work.

It's good to be back

I started this blog back in 2012, which is also the same year I published my first book, The Color of Thunder. There were only two posts for that year. The first one included an excerpt from my book, and the second one was a copy of the press release questionnaire that my publisher at the time had me fill out as part of my marketing campaign.

Over the next six years, I wrote another 236 posts. That comes out to about forty posts per year. The last one went up almost exactly eight years ago. I was nearly finished writing the third book in the Goddess of Tornado Alley series, and that post was about my beautiful black cat, Mouse, going after a big moth and the parallel of that with a scene in the book I was writing. We had a new puppy then—our sweet Tara, a golden retriever—and I wrote about how interesting it had been trying to write a book and potty train at the same time. It was a normal post for me. It was about writing with a bunch of other stuff thrown in.

It was about this time that I decided to start posting on a new website I was beginning to build. I was about to publish my seventh book and was told a website was a must for an author. Blogs had fallen out of favor—or so some people believed—and I thought it would be easier to maintain either a blog or a website but not both. I was still writing personal essays, still writing about my writing, still publishing.

In May 2026, I published my twenty-fifth novel. TWENTY-FIVE. That number is unbelievable to me. Let me correct that; it would have been unbelievable to the me who had just published my first book back in 2012. It's not unbelievable to the me I am right now. I do believe it is a huge accomplishment, though. A lot has happened in the eight years since I last posted on this blog. That big black kitty, Mouse, is no longer with us. He passed away in 2021 and broke my heart. Tara is an eight-year-old dog now who hangs out with two other cats who call our house home; littermates Calvin and Cayenne. I shut my website down late last year, and guess what I tripped over just yesterday? Yes. My blog.

Hello! I'm back again!

There are some other things that have changed between my last post and this one. I began editing again when a writing acquaintance told me about Booktrope, an independent publisher. I met many really great writers and got the opportunity to edit and proofread for them. When Booktrope folded, I decided to start my own business: Wing Family Editing. A great number of those writers I worked with at Booktrope decided to stay with me, and I was kept happily busy for six years. Unfortunately, in that time period, I also went through three surgeries on my wrist—one was exploratory, one was to remove a hemi-head prosthesis and to place a bigger DRUJ prosthetic, and the third was to clean many tendons in my hand and to remove a tendon in my little finger. After that, I had two more surgeries, both having to do with a spinal cord stimulator that was placed in order to help me with the chronic pain I developed because of my wrist. I gave up editing. I became overwhelmed and found it difficult to stick to deadlines. I never knew how much I was going to be able to work because of my pain, and that didn't make me a very reliable editor. 

I met a really cool hand therapist before all those surgeries were done. She and I came together and brainstormed some creative ways to help me build up some strength in my hand and fingers. I told her I used to draw when I was younger. She told me I should take up the hobby again and use that as physical therapy. Come to find out, it helped me a lot mentally, too. I don't do it very often. It's hard for me to grip a pencil, but I love it. Over the last several years, I have built a sizeable collection of sketches—many of them portraits of the characters in my novels. I also enjoy watercolor painting, which is a little easier on my hand and fingers.

From the time I was a little kid up until I began having kids myself, I was a voracious reader. I read all the time. I read everywhere. When I became a published author, I came to realize just how important reviews are. I picked up reading again once my kids were older and wrote reviews. I posted them on Amazon and on Goodreads. During all those surgeries, I began to have a hard time concentrating and couldn't read. It's hard to focus when you're taking huge amounts of pain killers, and I still hurt so much. I stepped away from my keyboard altogether for a while. A thick blanket had been thrown over me, suffocating all my creative ability. There was just nothing there.

Today, I suffer from chronic pain. Two and a half years ago, I found a doctor and surgeon who specializes in helping those with pain and was diagnosed with CRPS. The internet describes it this way: Complex Regional Pain Syndrome is a chronic neurological condition characterized by severe pain, sensitivity disorders, and trophic changes in the affected area. It often develops after an injury, surgery, stroke, or heart attack, and can lead to significant emotional distress, including feelings of helplessness and sadness. The progression of CRPS can vary widely, ranging from complete recovery to severe chronic pain and disability. Treatment options may include pain management strategies, physical therapy, and psychological support. I've since gotten a second opinion, and that doctor agreed with the diagnosis I received. I've been prescribed daily pain medications, including something to help with the extensive nerve damage I've sustained. I'm a light touch typist, which is a good thing for me. Except for the year I didn't touch my keyboard, I have been able to continue writing and self-publishing my novels. It takes longer now for me to put a manuscript together. I have to take a lot of breaks, and there are days when my fingers will not cooperate. I have a different process, but I'm writing.

It's been a busy eight years.

So, what does any of this have to do with my blog? Well, I'm writing books. I'm also reading again. According to Goodreads, I've read fifty-one books since the first of January, and I've written and posted reviews for every single one of them. I post those reviews on Amazon, Goodreads and Book Bub, and I post them on Facebook and Instagram as well. I thought I'd share my favorites here on the blog, too. I have become a reader for NetGalley and for Book Sirens. I have authors I have loved reading for years. I've read everything Sarah Addison Allen has written. James Lee Burke. Frieda McFadden. Lisa Jewell. There are so many authors. The thing I've found so enjoyable about being a reader for these sites is reading authors I've never heard of. I've gotten to read books I wouldn't have found otherwise. And I've read some incredible books this year. The more I can advertise these books and their authors, the better. 

Another reason is because the more I write, the better I get. Writing novels isn't the only writing that means something, and writing is therapy for me. Sometimes I need to write through a problem to get to the solution. Sometimes I just need to understand something better by putting it into words or making a story into some disorganized thoughts or feelings. I used to love posting on this blog. Now, I find that I am looking forward to doing so again. If other people find what I'm writing interesting, I think that is a very cool thing.

So, if you were around in 2012 when I started this blog, or if you've ever read anything I posted here in those eight years, welcome back! If this is the first time you've visited my tiny little corner of the internet, I offer you a hearty, happy hello! Thanks for stopping by! If I make you think about something you hadn't considered before, or if I make you smile—or even better, laugh—or if I can introduce you to an author you've never heard of that strikes your interest, that will make me happy. I don't really have any answers for the world's problems. I don't have a bunch of fancy degrees. I don't talk about politics. I'm afraid of AI and have a serious iced chai and gummy bear addiction. I can't fix anything, and I'm undeniably goofy, but if you're interested in writing or books, art or family, maybe you'll find something to entertain you here. Regardless, I think I'll be spending a bit of time in this old, comfortable place again. It's good to be back.

Butterflies and Lions (er ... House Cats)

I’ve been neglecting my current work in progress as of late. I’ve been writing the third book in my Goddess of Tornado Alley series. It’s not that I’m not excited about working on it. Actually, it’s quite the opposite. This one is called Honeymoons, Harpies & House Arrest. This is the perfect title. How do I know? Well, because, even though I came up with it almost a year ago, it still makes me laugh when I say it out loud. That's proof enough for me that I got it right.

I’ve been editing like crazy. I’m one of the lucky ones; I have a job that I absolutely love. It fits me in a way no other job could. I’m the only one who clocks in around here, though―the home office of Wing Family Editing. That means I’m the janitor, the accountant, the CEO and the sole employee. The work environment is great … I edit in my bare feet and pajamas, my curly hair tousled and balanced on top of my head and held by a rubber band that is stretched to its very limits. My co-workers are awesome, too. There's only one; my furry little assistant who makes sure I get up and stretch every couple of hours. At three months old, Tara, my Golden Retriever puppy, has a small bladder that can only wait so long between bathroom breaks. Honestly, work conditions couldn’t be better. Oftentimes, I have almost more work than I can handle―which is the best complaint ever for a businesswoman to have, right? Still, I find myself contemplating the process of cloning sometimes. Just kidding. Maybe.

A couple of days ago, I decided to take a thirty-minute break and share a snippet of Harpies with the members of my writing group on Facebook. I wanted to reassure them that I wasn't being neglectful and that I do intend to honor my late fall release date. (Fingers and toes crossed.) I chose this particular scene because I thought it might elicit some anticipation for those readers who are patiently awaiting this next installment of Frank, Archer and the rest of the gang. This is what I posted:

As she watched, the little butterfly moved effortlessly through the glass as if the window was water and the creature decided to swim right through. The event elicited a gasp from Frank’s throat. She blinked several times, then moved closer to the window. The butterfly was unquestionably inside the room now, but the glass was firmly in place without a mark upon its surface. She pressed her hand against it. It was warm and solid against her fingers and palm.
         
Frank turned and watched the insect as it continued to flutter in the air. She could hear the movement of wings it was so close to her face, and then, in the blink of an eye, the butterfly vanished. In its place stood a young woman, the orange and brown wings now affixed to her shoulder blades and still moving as though they were being touched by a soft breeze.
         
“Or a goddess …” Frank breathed, not sure if she should be frightened by the new arrival, or if the lovely woman was there to offer more help.
         
“Kalí méra.”
         
“Oh,” Frank responded, happy that the words were at least slightly familiar to her. “I know that one. Kalí méra to you, too,” she greeted.
         
“Eísai akrivós ópos eípate kai o Éros,” butterfly girl said in a soft, pleasing voice.
         
“Wait,” Frank responded, suddenly frustrated. “You said ‘Eros’. I understood that much. I’m sorry. I’m trying to learn Greek, but it’s been a real challenge.”
         
Butterfly girl offered a smile, and Frank couldn’t help but wonder how old she was. It was impossible to tell with immortals. This girl, much like Thalia, looked young, perhaps in her late teens or early twenties. Her long hair reminded Frank of glistening brown sugar, and the sunlight coming through the windows fell across her face, lighting up her wide, amber eyes.
         
“Excuse me,” she told Frank. “I was thinking out loud. You are exactly as Eros described.”
         
This took Frank by surprise, although, considering the circumstances, she wasn’t exactly sure why. “Archer,” she stumbled, “I mean, Eros told you about me?”
         
Butterfly girl laughed, and the sound of bells echoed quietly beneath the vaulted ceiling of the large room. “Of course he did. I’m his wife. Eros tells me everything.”

I’ll admit, I was thrilled with the feedback this teaser got … but there was a lot of editing to be done, so I went back to work.

It must have been about ten minutes later when I saw a movement off to my right. I didn’t pay attention to it immediately. I was in the middle of a paragraph, and I’ve taught myself not to get distracted. (I’m about 90% successful on most days. My house is filled with a multitude of distractions. I had to become impervious to them or I'd never get a single thing accomplished.) When I saw it again, I looked up, and was surprised to find … a butterfly with orange and brown wings.

I have a faulty screen on my sliding glass door. It’s not quite big enough to fit the space because it actually belongs on the sliding glass door in the bedroom. It’s summer  It's hot. I don’t have central air. The math is pretty easy to figure out on this one. There is a small space where insects, usually mosquitoes, get in. But never has a butterfly come through that opening … and never one that so closely resembles the butterfly in which I’d just introduced to my readers.

I was surprised. Okay. I was more than surprised. I followed her―yes, obviously it was a her―around my kitchen and living room. Every time she landed, I tried to get a photo, but she was not willing to pose. This went on for a couple of minutes, and then she decided to flit down the hall and disappear from sight. When my son, Scott, came out of his room at the end of the hall, I thought they might have met one another, but when I told him about my visitor, he said he hadn’t made her acquaintance.

I was a little excited, and Scott wondered why. I told him about the teaser I’d posted, and then Psyche’s timely and mysterious arrival. Then I mentioned the fact that she’d disappeared before I could get a picture.

That’s when we heard a commotion in the entryway.

Mouse, my nineteen-pound domesticated panther, had also spotted the beautiful Psyche. He's on the chubby side, my feline, but he's an excellent bug hunter. Normally, I cheer him on. I'm all about him catching flies and moths and casting them from my domain. Heck, most of the time I point the pests out to him in hopes that he'll do what he's so good at. This butterfly, though ... she was different.

I climbed over the doggie gate―there are several of them in the house to contain the previously mentioned puppy―and made my way down the stairs in a clumsy attempt to save my little visitor. I got to the door, but I was too slow … and for once, Mouse was incredibly fast. 

Psyche made quite a meal for my normally lazy beast. As he choked the poor little butterfly down, I heard Scotty laughing from above me. He'd only come into the kitchen for a snack. He wasn't expecting to get a show, too.

"Look at it this way," he told me after he was able to catch his breath. "Psyche's a goddess, right? Doesn't that mean she's immortal?" Strangely enough, when I shared the story with my good friend Robin, she said the exact same thing. 

So, was this butterfly's arrival just a strange coincidence? Maybe. I'm not convinced, though. When the universe speaks to me, I try really hard to listen. I'm pretty sure Mouse was listening, too, because thirty minutes after he made a meal of my tiny goddess, she returned with a vengeance. Apparently, deities don't digest well. 

Honeymoons, Harpies & House Arrest is completely outlined. I've had the book organized and plotted for months. As a matter of fact, a good portion of it has already been written. There's been a new twist added to the story line, though. Why? Because I'm pretty sure that's the way Psyche wants it.

Off Balance

Something has been weighing me down as of late. It feels like something hard and heavy and it’s sitting on my chest, making it so very hard for me to breathe. Although this weight has been with me for a while, today I feel compelled to face it.

I’m not sure why. It has been hot and dry here as summertime approaches. There has been a shift in the weather today. The skies are overcast, and the temp has fallen. It isn’t hot, but it’s oppressive in a way I can’t explain. It feels as though we’re in for one hell of a storm, but it’s waiting. For what, I don’t know. The change in weather has thoughtlessly gifted me with a dull but persistent headache, and the weight upon my chest is pushing everything I’ve been feeling out into the world. It has become obvious that it is time to come to terms with what’s going on in my head and my heart. It has always been this way for me, for as long as I can remember. There is no other way for me but to write through it.

A significant shift has taken place in my life recently, and it’s messed with my equilibrium more than a little. The details are mine, and I have no intention of sharing them with anyone. The truth is, I’m sad. Maybe I knew that already, but writing those words just brought forth a rush of tears. There it is. It’s made me introspective, this confession.  Saying it out loud―writing the words― has made me think about who I am as a person. What I am to myself. Who I am to others.

I am the eternal optimist. The always smiling, often giggling happy girl. One day, my son, who was obviously irritated with me for one reason or another, said, “How is it that the sun is always shining on your curly, blonde head?” My daughter has accused me of smiling too loudly on occasion, and I’ve been told that my “Mary Sunshine” outlook on life is much like the sun itself; sometimes too bright … oftentimes stifling in its heat, and sometimes I can actually see those around me scurry away in search of some much-needed shade. 

Was I always like this? This person who always finds the bright side of things, the one who spends time trying to cheer people up, the one who finds it nearly impossible to say no when asked to do things, the person who pours everything she has into those she loves … I believe that I have always wanted to make people feel happy and loved. I have always tried to be helpful, to give others what I’ve always craved; love, acceptance, comfort, understanding. There have been a handful of people throughout the years with whom I’ve felt a certain connection. It doesn’t happen very often, but these are the people I’ve felt more compelled to be there for; those few who have really touched my heart, those who have become incredibly important and special to me. For those people, I will always do whatever I can. I will always be there for them no matter what happens.  

Optimism, the bubbly part of my personality, the part of me everyone expects was a choice. It was one I made in my early twenties. I don’t remember the exact day, but I remember doing it. There were a lot of things that happened before that time that I didn’t want to deal with anymore; stuff that hurt, like a bruise that wouldn’t heal because I couldn’t stop pushing on the wounded skin. It was a choice I made every single day until it became a part of who I was instead of something I had to work for. That became me. That became the sun that shines on my curly blonde head and what makes my smile so loud.

I am not only that, though. I am so many things.

I am Jennifer, the girl who shared a name with five other little girls in every classroom growing up, painfully shy but over friendly, oftentimes afraid and eager to please, damaged, aching, my mother’s shadow, my father’s burden, and Mimi’s unintentional but lucky fifth daughter.

I am Jenny, insatiable reader, competitive ice skater, punching bag, sullen poet, cute but never beautiful, best friend and confidante. I am emotional, needy, scared and over sensitive with a head full of dreams and eyes filled with stars. I am a lover. I am vulnerable and important. I am strong. I am replaceable.

I am Jen, the accident-prone, giggly, goofy, sentimental, enthusiastically encouraging girl who keeps secrets; both mine and everyone else’s. I am the wild-haired girl who gives endless hugs―and will hold on as long as I can because I need them more than you do. I’m invisible. I’m stronger than I believe, weaker than I want to be, self-reliant, confident, quiet but oh so loud. I am a pain in the ass.

I am J.C., writer and absolute lover of words, friend to many but close to few. I am the girl who keeps promises, suffers from chronic pain, the one who does too much, is too much, but never feels like enough, the one who waters dead plants but smiles and loves without hesitation regardless of the pain it might cause me. I am the best friend you’ll ever have. I’m needy, loyal and kind, frustrating and overwhelming. Funny, happy and sad. I am forgettable.  

It’s hard to say whether this has helped me or not. I never know for sure how it will turn out when the need to write things through hits me. The storm hasn’t broken yet, and my chest still feels heavy. I’m still off balance. I know I’ve done what I needed to do, though. What was in my head, what was in my heart is right here now, in black and white. Undeniable and staring me in the face. Sometimes that is enough.