We sit with her and we become zombies too. Not the flesh-eating kind. Just the vacant non-thinking kind because all we think about is how sad our mother’s life has become. How powerless we are to do anything about it. How much we want to get out of this place. We leave and never want to come back.
I step outside cautiously, alert for any sign of activity. It’s still dark, but that doesn’t matter. They could attack at any time. They’re always there. Waiting for me. I look up and see only the porch light, swivel my head from side to side to check every angle. I…
I had no plan, no outline and no clear concept for this book. But I started writing it anyway because I’m not entirely certain I had any of those components in place when I began writing the first two books.
Why must I always find something to mock about other people’s happiness or romantic moments? Am I that uncomfortable with genuine emotion? With love? I write romance novels. I should be applauding these moments, shouldn’t I? But instead, I tear them down and pour my caustic words on top of them. A chilling thought is maybe I don’t really buy into what I’m trying to sell.
What I want to say to those who keep posting on Facebook and other social media about their sadness and resentment is this: Grow the hell up. Life’s not fair. You don’t always get what you want. Get over it and move on and toughen up. Because if you’ve still got your panties in a wad over an election that wasn’t even close, you have a tough future ahead of you.