Welcome to my blog, friends. Here we will discuss writing, cats, coffee, cats, reading, cats, plants, cats that knock plants on the floor and leave a ginormous mess… All the good stuff.

8/10/2024 Hey, there, Unicorns. When I first started this, it was a vlog on my Facebook page. I’ll still do that from time to time, but there’s a lot of pressure talking into a camera, even if it’s only the camera on my phone. And I don’t do well with pressure. Anxiety gets in the way, and I kept freezing anytime I would try to record a post. As a writer, though, typing is a whole lot easier than talking.

When I was a little kid, I used to go in my room and create characters, stories, people and places and events that weren’t me or my life. I would talk out loud to these people, roleplay and pretend I was somewhere else. I was a weird kid, still am, really, if you can call a 47-year old a kid. But I’m weird, and I’m also prone to depression and the aforementioned anxiety. That started when I was seven, and let me tell you, the world is a scary place for a child who feels all-encompassing fear without a face or a name. 
So, stories. My mom told me once that if she could hear me talking to myself inside my bedroom, she knew I was okay. Not everyone is lucky enough to have a mom who accepts her daughter’s coping mechanisms, no matter how strange. I have such a mom. My dad is pretty cool, too, by the way. My mom just talks a lot more than he does, so she’s easier to quote. Love you both.

Now I’m an actual author, a bonafide, traditionally published author. And I have real friends, other authors who honor my weirdness and even share some of it. There’s nothing so comforting as finding your tribe. But I still talk to my imaginary friends. Whoops, I mean, “characters.” (It’s much more socially acceptable to have characters at the age of 47 than imaginary friends.)