Anne Malcom's Blog, page 3

Guilt

 

I’m a person prone to guilt.

Whether it’s being late to an appointment, forgetting a friend’s birthday, telling a white lie to cancel plans—I give myself a mental beating after the fact.

And this isn’t now and again.

This is all the freaking time.

As long as I can remember, I was a kid that was worried, constantly. About big things, little things and made up things. I would literally have an anxiety attack when I couldn’t find something to be worried about. Because there couldn’t be a moment in my life where I was free of worries. And I was a freaking kid. I know this probably had a lot to do with losing my Dad at a young age and having the brutal reminder that there is always something to worry about. Because you never know when the worst can happen. I also know it was anxiety manifesting itself inside me at that young age.

But even though I know that now, I still beat myself up about things.

Whether it’s for having a piece of cake hours after swearing off carbs. Sleeping an extra hour instead of hauling my ass up to that 6 a.m. yoga class. Not checking in with my friends enough. Not keeping up with my adult responsibilities, like paying bills on time or knowing anything about the stock market.

The Camino worked well to shed me of a lot of that guilt.

That worthless gateway emotion to self-hatred.

One of my biggest breakthroughs was figuring our not the importance of treating myself with kindness—I already knew about that, told all of my friends and family to treat themselves kindly—but it was not until my Camino that I figured out how to truly practice it.

That was one of the big reasons I chose to disappear off the face of the social media earth when I did my walk. So I would stop looking outward, stop inviting that guilt in through a device that was damn near attached to my hand.

My goal was to focus on experiencing everything authentically and not staging my experience within the frame of an Instagram narrative, among other things.

In short, to rewire my fucking brain.

Or more accurately, unwire my fucking brain.

My walk was, without a doubt, one of the best things I’ve ever done for myself. Now all of you reading this—it’s probably just you now, mum—know this because I haven’t fucking shut up about it.

But I’m gonna keep writing, because I want to.

Because I need to.

So my walk was one of the best things I’ve done. Deciding to step off the social media hamster wheel was a close second.

My dinners were spent sharing stories with people from all over the globe, learning a new language, eating great food and laughing about anything and everything.

During these dinners, my phone lay forgotten on my bunk, little more than a paperweight and a device that my mother could track me on (and no, I’m not kidding, she actually did).

Since my walk started at roughly six every morning, I watched the sunrise. Every day.

At the beginning, it was instinct to shove my phone upward, in the face of nature’s beauty in order to capture it, snag a piece of the present for future reflection.

Or that’s what I told myself.

Our generation does not usually take pictures for the sake of a memory.

It’s usually with the intention to share it on our social media, with the addition of a witty caption and a crisp filter.

Now let’s be clear here, I’m not up on some kind of high horse. I am consistently contributing to this system, even after my trip, I’m a sucker for a good filter and a witty caption.

But I’ve stopped attaching as much to such things as I used to.

It’s also a little tricky, since my livelihood is twisted around a social media presence. Social media has been responsible for bringing me immense joy. It’s connected me to some of the most important people in my life. It’s made it possible for me to communicate with my readers, for them to tell me their stories.

So as an addition to my job, it’s pretty fucking awesome in that respect.

But as with everything else, it’s got a flipside.

One that’s made that constant feeling of guilt I mentioned intensify tenfold. I lament over the fact I don’t post enough. Or that I post too much about shit people don’t care about.

Or I did.

Before the trip.

Now, I’m okay with what I do post or don’t. The person I am in ‘real life’ is pretty much exactly the same as the person I post on social media. Sure, my skin looks a little more vibrant thanks to kind lighting or even kinder filters.

I have the opportunity to edit my posts, edit my life.

So in truth, my social media world is a lot more polished than my chaotic, unorganized life.

The lesson I learned in coming back was my need to be a three-dimensional person in real life rather than a perfect two dimensional character online.

I learned protecting my peace is switching off.

At the beginning, it was easy because the chaos rushed in as soon as I landed in London. I had four days to pack my newly spiritually enlightened self into a suitcase and head to Vegas.

I packed a lot because I was compensating for the lack of outfit choices I had on the trip. The Camino did not change me in that respect, I’ll never pack light.

But then the guilt rushed in.

Because I went from a quiet, introspective experience to Vegas, one of the loudest and craziest places you could be.

It took all my energy to make that transition.

I neglected my online presence.

I’m not talking about Instagram.

I couldn’t give a shit about leaving a dormant Instagram or not posting as many anecdotes about food on my Facebook.

My real anxiety came from neglecting my readers.

Missing a post, comment or message.

That’s where my guilt comes in and sets up camp.

My beautiful, crazy, chaotic and adventure filled live would not be possible without them.

Without you, whoever it is that’s reading this post.

And though I have the tools to rid myself of a lot of that guilt thanks to the Camino, I will always reserve a bit of space for it. Especially now, I’m on yet another trip. Though this time I haven’t switched off, as you can see. I’ve decided to document our adventures on my social media because I want to share it with you, my amazing readers. My supporters. My girl gang. Because it’s my way of connecting with you in case I miss a post, a comment or a message. I want to take you along on this beautiful ride as much as I can.

I also am aware that I’ve been making a lot of posts like this lately, showing the flipside of my practiced pout or posts about wine and chocolate. I’m showing a lot more of the real me, the totally and utterly imperfect me. Because I want to grow as a person and as an author. I want my platform to grow. But I want it to grow in the right way, for the right reasons. I don’t want to gain likes, comments, or readers by pretending to be someone I’m not. I want to make sure that the beautiful babes I have know that I’m just like all of you. I have flaws, issues, a fuck load of them. I want to make sure that if you’re struggling, that you don’t feel alone in that, that you don’t pressure yourself because everyone you follow online seems to have their shit together. They don’t, I promise you that. And it’s unhealthy to promote an ideal image of yourself that makes others feel bad about themselves.

That’s never gonna be me.

So that’s why I’m sharing posts like this. I’m also here to let you know, if you’ve been following my travels, it’s not all as glamourous as it seems. It’s fucking amazing, I’ll promise you that. But it’s also language barriers, wearing very questionably clean clothing, it’s food poisoning, it’s wading through tourists, it’s trying to figure out public transport, it’s making sure I’m not robbed, ripped off or taken advantage of. It’s missing my own bed, my family, all my little comforts. It’s neglecting some of my very real responsibilities. It’s missing out on huge moments in some of my favourite people’s lives. Births, deaths, weddings, birthdays, anniversaries. It’s gaining weight. It’s not writing enough. It’s spending money that could be used for grown up things like a house deposit or a retirement account.

I wouldn’t change it for the world. Because I’ve still got a whole lot of the world to see.

I want to talk about that for a second. Because a lot of people ask me why I travel so much. And I can’t give one answer. My appetite for travel is pretty much like my appetite in general, never ending, constantly craving rich and unforgettable experiences. I have my parents to thank for a lot of this. My mum and dad both did their O.E (in New Zealand, a lot of kids take a gap year after finishing high school and do an ‘overseas experience’) in Europe and have so many stories from it. Funnily enough, my mum and dad MET in Europe, despite the fact they lived two hours away from each other in New Zealand.

My childhood was filled with stories of their adventures, and I was encouraged to go on my own—my mum took my brother and I on countless trips, one memorable tour of Europe after we lost my dad.

So it’s in my blood, in my bones, that hunger.

And when I decided to quit fashion school at twenty years old—six months away from graduating—and run off to Europe for a year, my mum supported me because she knew my soul was starving.

And it really fricking was.

I know for a fact without that trip, Cade and Gwen wouldn’t exist. I know I wouldn’t be the person I am now. The author I am. The only way for me to stay spiritually healthy is to stay on a diet of adventure and excitement.

But I also know my spirit needs to stay grounded. I need to make sure my hunger for adventure doesn’t cause me to malnourish other parts of my life. My relationships, my responsibilities, my readers, my books.

Because the guilt has been real on this trip. My word counts have been…not great and I’m riding a big deadline. I’ve got no excuse. I’ve had time. I’ve been a lazy, I’ll admit that. I think it’s important to admit that, to all of you and myself. Because, yeah, it kind of sucks. But it’s also not the end of the world. Feeling guilty about what I have or haven’t done isn’t going to control me anymore.

It’s going to fuel me.

Guilt doesn’t need to mean the same thing it did to me when I was a kid. It doesn’t need to form a knot in my stomach and eat away at my happiness. It can serve as a reminder of what I’m feeding and what I’m starving, and I can adjust accordingly.

You babes are probably gonna see more travel stories, pictures, posts. I hope you don’t mind.

So that’s the end of my rambling blog post.

I hope it kind of makes sense.

I hope you kind of like it.

Because I love all my babes.

To the moon.

My books. My journey.

I’ve been planning on doing a blog style series on my website for a while now. I’ve talked about it enough. My Camino pieces were meant to be like that, then life happened.

I’ve recently made a promise to myself to do a blog post every Wednesday. No matter what.

 

As much as I love writing stories about half made up people, I know I need to write something about someone I fully made up.

Me.

I believe me and my crazy brain need multiple outlets to unleash creativity. It’s long been my dream to write articles and blog posts about travel, beauty, books, food, mental health…and whatever else I can. And you know the only way to make dreams come true is to wake the fuck up.

So this is what I’m doing.

Waking the fuck up.

Today’s post was actually meant to be another Camino instalment but then, sitting on the London Underground, this hit me. I wrote almost this entire post between Paddington and London Bridge, for my Londoners out there. It poured out of me without conscious effort. It’s something I didn’t even know I needed to say until I wrote it down.

I’ve been writing for almost four years in April. A relatively short amount of time in the grand scheme of things. But in that time, I’ve managed to write twenty-one books, have about forty-five thousand mental breakdowns, travel the world, and meet some of the most incredible and talented people to grace this earth.

Writing Making the Cut, I couldn’t have imagined in my wildest dreams that all this could have come of it. I didn’t think anything would come of it. I didn’t even tell my friends or family anything until Out of the Ashes was published.

True story.

Once I did, my best friend demanded I send her the books so she could read them.

I was nervous, to say the least. Someone who knew me personally was going to read my books. It became real. Not that it wasn’t real before, but I had somehow separated my life writing and my everyday life. It was like I had two different identities, and that insulated me from whatever hate I got online (and at the start, there was a lot). Because if everyone began hating my books and I had to stop, it would be okay, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. I’d have the ‘other’ me to fall back on, no one in my ‘real’ life would be the wiser to my failure.

Telling my family and friends, having them read my books, sent my two worlds, two identities on a collision course that had the potential to ruin both of my carefully separated personalities. Luckily that didn’t happen. My bestie loved the books. And so did my family— though I do cringe a little thinking about people related to me reading the saucier scenes. Sorry, Mum.

Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago, home in New Zealand, sitting in my kitchen guzzling wine and talking to my best friend about my books. She began talking about reading my first books. She said she felt like she was hanging out with me, that they were fun and light and happy.

That got me to thinking about those first books. About how different I am as a person and as a writer since them. It’s a bittersweet feeling, because I have grown so much, overcome a lot and I’m (most of the time) proud of who I am as a person and as an author.

But I also realize that a lot of people, like my best friend, are kind of nostalgic for that old magic. The early magic of my first books. Where I didn’t really know anything about writing a book so I wrote with naivety. A different kind of honesty than I do now. It was lighter, my writing. Because as a person, back then, I was lighter. And not just on the scales.

I find myself wanting to capture that magic again sometimes. Even if it’s only to revisit the person I was back then for a moment.

Despite the fact I don’t want to be her anymore, I wouldn’t mind hanging out with her again. Having a cocktail with her.

One of the reasons my writing was different back then was because I was writing without expectation. I was naïve. I didn’t think anyone would read my books. I expected nothing. Which was why I didn’t tell my friends and family at the beginning. I didn’t think there was anything to tell them. I thought it was a hobby, tapping away at the keyboard in the middle of the night, between university essays and my part time job as a retail assistant.

But then it became something.

I write honestly. I always have and always will. There’s no other way for me. So maybe that’s why I find myself nostalgic for the old days, the early books. Because sometimes, I’m nostalgic for the old me.

I realize my books have become harder. More frustrating. Darker.

Because that’s who I am right now.

I inject my demons into my books. Not because I’m trying to banish them. Because I’m trying to understand them.

I consider my books kind of a roadmap of my personal development. If you read my work chronologically, you’ll find yourself on a journey of not only the characters, my ability to turn a phrase, but of me.

I’m every single character I write. Sometimes my characters are who I want to be. Who I don’t want to be. And they’re who I am at the time, for better or for worse.

That’s why I’m writing this post. For you, my loyal reader, who’s been here since Cade and Gwen. To help you understand why my books have taken the direction they have. Maybe I’m writing it to help myself understand too.

I know some people are anxious and frustrated for me to go back to the place I was when I wrote Making the Cut, Firestorm and Out of the Ashes. Honestly, sometimes I am too. But then I look at myself in the mirror, then I realize I don’t want to be that girl. Despite the fact I now battle with mental health issues I didn’t have then, despite the fact my life is a fuck of a lot more complicated, a web of decidedly adult decisions, and despite the fact sometimes I find it impossible to open my laptop and write with a brutal honesty my soul requires—I wouldn’t trade who I am now for who I was then.

I don’t want to be the girl I was then. I’m proud as fuck as the woman I am now.

My books might get harder. Darker. I can promise you that with Doyenne.

They also might get happier, lighter and you might find a hint of that old magic.

I can’t promise you that. I definitely can’t promise myself that. Because I don’t know where my life is going to take me. Therefore I don’t know where my writing is going to go.

I love that uncertainty. The fear that comes with it. I find I write the best from a place of fear.

And trust me, there’s a lot of fear. Writing is about my personal journey through trauma, happiness, sadness, tragedy and miracles. When that personal journey is intrinsically linked to my career, my livelihood, there are moments I wake up at three in the morning in a cold sweat, thinking, fuck, what if my honesty as a person and as a writer kills my career? What if I wake up in the morning, personally healed but professionally broken?

It’s a hard reality to face. But it’s something that every single writer faces. And I’m learning to lean into that fear.

It’s like a marriage, my relationship with my books, my writing and myself.

It’s not always a happy one. Or a healthy one.

But it’s one I’m committed to.

Till death do us part.

 

*I also realize that not all of my books are pictured, I wasn’t organized enough to have them all in stock.

My 2018 Favourites – Books

I had planned on doing this like a week ago. One of my New Year’s resolutions is to be more productive and stick to plans. Guess that lasted well.

I’m deciding to embrace my chaotic, unorganised self instead of beating myself up over it. But that’s another post entirely. We’re here to talk about books. Interestingly, another one of my resolutions is to read a lot more. Stephen King said a good writer “writes a lot and reads a lot”. He couldn’t be more right. I became a writer because I was a reader first. Books give me almost as much sustenance as chocolate and coffee combined. I’ll be (hopefully) doing a monthly roundup of some of my favourite books by category so I wanted to kick January off with a list of my 2018 favs.

Without further ado…

I Am Pilgrim

Terry Hayes

Oh my fuck. This book. My mum first recommended it to me and I don’t think I would’ve picked it up otherwise. I do love to read thrillers but I don’t pick them up when I’m book shopping. This changed everything. I lived and breathed this book. When I wasn’t reading it I was thinking about reading it. Seriously, even if thrillers aren’t your usual jam, I highly recommend you give this a try. The writing is beyond excellent, the plot is engaging and you will not be able to forget about it when you put it down. If I had to pick an ultimate favourite of the year it would be this one.

Buy here.

Girl, Wash Your Face

Rachel Hollis

This is a nonfiction one. I hesitate to call it ‘self-help’ since a lot of people seem to cringe away from books once they read that. But personal improvement books are definitely becoming more popular, and I’m so fucking happy about that. I don’t want to be dramatic, but this book saved me. I was going through a really hard and isolating time when I first moved to London and I really needed a pep talk. I wasn’t strong enough to give myself one and this book did the job. Whatever you’re going through right now, even if you’re not going through anything, I think this book is vital to have in your library.

Buy here.

Circe

Madeline Miller

This was recommended to me by my girl, Jessica Gadziala. She never steers me wrong and she went oh so right on this one. I bought the paperback because it’s so darn beautiful. I’m such a sucker for Greek Mythology (fun fact, I studied it at university) and this is such a fresh and unique take on it. I feel like it’s also very feminist in all the best ways. It’s also super intelligent and creative at the same time.

Buy here.

The Coppersmith Farmhouse

Devney Perry

Okay, first I need to tell you I’m obsessed with Devney. I want to put every single one of her books up here, because each is equally amazing. I’m putting this one because it started the binge of the entire series. Devney has such an amazing, personable and engaging writing style. I fall in love with all of her characters and their stories. Nuff said.

Buy here.

The Ghost  (Professionals #2)

Jessica Gadziala

Jessica is in the same boat. EVERYTHING she writes is epic. Her MC series is one of my top reads in the genre. She does an amazing PNR, Into the Green. Just go and read all her books, actually. She continuously writes amazing books with unique stories and characters. This is actually book two in the Professionals series, and The Fixer is absolutely kick ass too, I just had to chose this one because I read it in one sitting (most of the rest I have too) and it started a total binge. Side note: 367 Days is also fucking GREAT and it’s book one in her Investigators series.

Buy here.

You

Caroline Kepnes

This is now on Netflix featuring Dan Humphrey as Joe and it’s good but you need to read this first. It’s so twisted and fucked up and amazing.

Buy here.

Year One

Nora Roberts

If you’re a fan of Nora Roberts you need to read this. If you like post-apocalyptic fiction you need to read this. If you like PNR you need to read this. Just read it.

Buy here.

Mud Vein

Tarryn Fisher

This book introduced me to Tarryn. Well, I already knew who she was, but I’d never read her, just stalked her kick ass Instagram. I know, I know, how could I only start reading her NOW? I honestly can’t tell you. But I binged every single one of her other books after this. I Can Be a Better You is almost tied with Mud Vein as my favourite from her, but I still can’t stop thinking about this and I read it in FEBRUARY. Tarryn is crazy talented and I’ll read her till the day I die.

Buy here.

 

Honorable mentions

Verity by Colleen Hoover – Do I need to say anything else?

Archer’s Voice by Mia Sheridan – UGLY CRY BOOK

The Highwayman (Victorian Rebels Book 1) by Kerrigan Byrne – One of the best historical romances I’ve ever read

Red Queen by Victoria Aveyard – I’m so behind, everyone’s already read and become obsessed with this

I Am Watching You by Teresa Driscoll – Another AMAZING Thriller

 

My Camino – The Beginning of the Battle

 

I’ve been doing a lot of deep and meaningful posts lately. A lot of raw, real, painful posts.

I wanted to keep it a bit lighter today, because there’s only so much heavy we can read, right? I want to keep this honest and real trend going for sure. Because I want to use this platform the right way. I want to highlight things that enough people don’t talk about. I want to make sure all my beautiful readers know they’re not alone when they’re struggling. And if you’re struggling right now, this is me telling you that you’re not alone, you got this, okay?

For today, I’m gonna have a little fun. I’m going to recount as much of the beginning of my trip as I can. Now, I don’t know how much this will be. The friends I made are burned on my heart, the lessons I learned are tattooed on my brain, the memories are imprinted onto my soul.

The specifics?

Not so much.

Almost every single person on the Camino had a notebook they’d be scribbling furiously into with a glass of vino beside them after a long day of walking. People stayed up late (I’m meaning past ten, because when you get up at five in the morning, you get your tired and aching ass into bed early) with a flashlight, desperate to recount the lessons learned, the people met, catalogue the new blisters.

I lost count of the people who declared they wanted to be an author, saying the Camino was the start of their writing journey. I want to say, I fucking loved that. All the people who were yearning to tell a story. To find a story. To become one.

But me, the writer, I wasn’t doing much writing. I had the vino, of course. The food. The conversations. The experiences. But I was greedy, I soaked them up with my soul so there was nothing left to bleed onto a page.

It’s what I needed, after three and a half years of the constant tapping of my fingers against a keyboard. The guilt I felt when I missed a day of writing.

This trip was me giving myself permission to let go of my stress, my pain, my guilt. I fucking love writing, the fact I get to do it for a living is amazing, don’t get me wrong. But love is painful, ugly and intense as fuck.

Sometimes we need a break.

So I took one.

Without guilt.

I don’t regret that one bit, but for the purposes of sharing my story, I’m sure there will be some holes in my memory.

But that’s okay. I’ll remember what’s important. Maybe not right now when I’m telling you this story, but later, one day when I need it.

Let’s get started. I know for a fact I’m going to have to dedicate more than one post to this, maybe I’ll make it a series or something. I’ll see what you babes think and go from there.

The beginning of my journey is a complicated thing, depending on your opinion. Some people say your Camino starts the second you set foot out the door, others say life is a Camino (I don’t disagree). I don’t have time to recount the last twenty-five years and honestly, the five weeks I spent on the Camino was a lifetime in itself.

I’ll start at Biarritz airport in France.

I had my backpack on, full of excitement, nerves and fear. I had only booked this trip two weeks prior, when my soul demanded it, when I knew there was no other choice. I needed to find some answers, to ask myself important questions.

It was there at the airport that I met my first Camino sister.

A man stopped me and asked if I wanted to share a cab to Saint-Jean-Pied-De-Port—where the Camino Frances starts. I’d been planning on taking a train, but the train wasn’t for two hours, and I didn’t want to wait that long.

I said yes. Now, I’m sure my mum is shaking her head at me agreeing to share a one-hour cab ride with a strange man who approached me at the airport. She watched Taken like three times before I went backpacking around Europe in my early twenties (and decided I needed a locator chip implanted in my body, I’m not lying).

But as we can see, I’m here, he had pure intentions and was the one to introduce me to one of my sisters who I ended up walking eight hundred kilometres with.

Here’s the thing about the Camino…you expect solitude. You expect long stretches of an empty trail—think Cheryl Strayed in Wild—with nothing but your thoughts rattling around in your skull.

That is not the case.

The Camino has become increasingly popular over the years, with more people getting overwhelmed with the demands of modern life and being spiritually drained by society’s impossible standards.

People are looking for something. I don’t know what. They can’t even tell you what. I don’t really know what I was looking for.

But it was something I thought I’d find in silence, solitude.

From the second I shared that cab ride in the airport, I got very little silence.

I got laughter. I got fierce friendships. I got conversations about the meaning of life, about the state of our world, about the state of our mental health.

 I have never met so many remarkable people in such a short amount of time.

But more about that later.

Saint-Jean-Pied-De-Port was bursting with pilgrims when we arrived, and it happened to be pissing down with rain. As someone who used to refuse to go to university when it rained, you would’ve thought this would’ve pissed me off.

It did not.

I smiled upward at the stormy and moody skies, letting it totally fucking ruin the makeup I’d applied liberally with the knowledge it’d be the last time I wore it for at least a month.

I smiled in the face of rain, absolutely certain that I had made the right decision.

After getting my pilgrim passport using some seriously dodgy high school French, I found my way to my BNB, the last of the luxuries I was going to have for a while. That luxury being my own room, a bed that didn’t have plastic sheets and a person sleeping atop or below me.

Saint-Jean-Pied-De-Port is an absolutely beautiful town in itself. After saying goodbye to my new friends, promising to see them on the trail the next day, I wandered out of the rain into beautiful views of the French countryside. I climbed up to an old citadel, smiling the entire way and watched the sunset. I can’t explain the feeling of calm that covered me watching that sunset.

That was the solitude I needed. Standing on top of a structure older than I can comprehend, watching the sun disappear beyond the French countryside. After months of being unable to breathe without pain, without fear, anxiety, I inhaled and exhaled easily.

I didn’t know what awaited me the next day. Didn’t know where I was going to sleep, that night or the ones after that. I was a world away from friends, family, in a country where I didn’t know a soul. I should’ve felt lonely. But there is a difference between loneliness and solitude. Loneliness is to be avoided, solitude is to be sought. And though the rest of the trip offered little of the latter (and none of the former), that moment watching the sunset gave me what I needed. What I still carry around with me now.

Peace

The next day, I woke up at 5:45 a.m. after tossing and turning all night with dread and excitement. My brain cursed me for getting up so early when I wasn’t planning on leaving until after 7, I knew I needed as much sleep as I could get. This day was a 27 km hike through the Pyrenees. It was gonna be tough.

But I got up anyway.

I was itching to get walking. Despite the fact my BNB host searched the weather and informed me of the rain and wind that awaited me in the peaks of the Pyrenees. Who cared if it was raining. I was hiking from France to Spain through fucking mountains. 

He walked me to the door, me still awkwardly adjusting my pack, into the dark morning, the sun kissing the horizon.

“Buen Camino,” he called softly to my back, the words that would follow me for the next 35 days. The phrase literally means ‘good way’ and it’s something almost every pilgrim utters to you when you walk past. It became somewhat of a running joke between me and my Camino family. At the start, everyone would chirp the phrase happily. But once the walk started to take its toll, and the reality of walking 800 km set in, people would utter it in misery, smiles long gone, grimaces firmly in place.

On the first day, though, the words were damn near screamed at me in excitement. And I’ll admit, I damn near screamed right back.

Until the mountain started, of course.

And then the rain started.

Fog poured in with every step up a never-ending incline. It blanketed the road with such thickness I could barely see two feet in front of me, let alone the majestic views promised by my guide book. I’d glimpse shadowed silhouettes with grotesque looking humpbacks, looking like a characters in a horror movie. I’m sure I looked like that to the pilgrims behind me too.

The guide book later to become my bible cautioned pilgrims to take their time on the first day. Your body isn’t accustomed to walking 27 km up a mountain, after all. Especially when your body is required to walk another 773 km after that. People were doing that, taking slow and measured steps. The almost completely vertical incline forced people to do that. Not me. Because I’m always in a rush, and competitive to a fault. So I’d power past people, regardless of my screaming calves and burning muscles.

I paid for that the next day.

 I eventually learned to slow my pace. To slow my mind. Not to rush. The walking was the whole point of it, after all.

All the excitement worn by fellow pilgrims and myself started to wash away with the ever-present rain. As the mountain wore on, the hours wore on. I became convinced it was never going to end. Every time we reached a plateau, I’d hear someone say “yep, this is it, halfway up, it’ll be downhill soon.” I had bought a a pain au chocolat at the bakery before leaving—the first in the thousands I would consume—and promised myself I would eat it at the halfway point. Coming upon a café nestled in the mountain, bursting with smiling pilgrims, I decided this had to be halfway. So I gobbled my croissant.

It wasn’t even quarter of the way.

As I climbed higher, as people disappeared into the mist, the world took on a fantastical quality. I was walking into the sky, outside of reality, and because of the fog, I felt completely alone. Spotted pigs emerged out of the mist expectantly. They roamed the road, free of gates. The way the fog moved, it made them look like they were suspended in the air. Yep, the day pigs flew, I hiked the Pyrenees in the rain, with all my possessions strapped to my back.

I had been a little arrogant about my level of fitness prior to starting. I ran four times a week, I did Pilates. Yoga. I was in good shape. But only a handful of hours into my first day, I was ready to cry. My calves burned, my ankles protested, and I worried for the state of my achilles (little did I know this was fucking CAKE compared to what awaited me).

Rogue endorphins would hit intermittently and I’d be grinning like a madwoman when I’d been moments from tears before that.

Nearing the top, I ran across my Camino sister once more. And though I’d only met her the day before, we greeted each other like lifelong friends (which is what we are now). We fell into stride. Easy conversation. We collected people along the way until we commenced the blessed decline. That’s the thing about the Camino. Your interactions with people are different. Strangers aren’t quite as distant. You aren’t required to politely lie when people ask you how you are. You can be brutally honest with people you’ve known a handful of minutes, more honest than you are with people you’ve known for years. More honest than you are with yourself.

Everyone is doing this for a reason, to take care of themselves, to learn things about themselves. And what I found out was, people trying to take care of themselves tend to take care of others in order to do that. If you had a blister, there was someone willing to give you their last plaster. If your calves screamed louder than Ozzy Osbourne at a Black Sabbath concert, there was someone willing to part with a precious painkiller. People trying to learn things from themselves usually found the most valuable lessons in others. I know I did.

But I’ll talk about that later.

As conversation flowed, the rain stopped. We reached the bottom of the hill and saw a collection of ancient buildings that would serve as our accommodations for the night—a converted monastery run completely by volunteers.

By the time we dragged our aching, tired and exhilarated selves inside, the line was out the door. This was the only place in town, if they ran out of beds before we got to the front of the line, we were fucked. I had already walked eight hours. Climbed a mountain. I was freaking out about walking another hour to the next town. But the Camino was looking out for me. We got some of the last beds.

I got a hot shower. Something that was not guaranteed on the rest of the Camino. And let me tell you, that was one of the best showers of my life.

My bunkmates consisted of a Italian woman named Franca who did not speak a word of English, nevertheless she didn’t stop speaking, didn’t stop smiling.  I  her encountered every few days from then on and would always greet me with a hug and a smile and a compliment of how beautiful I looked that day. She was lying, but she was kind.

There was a man who didn’t speak English either, yet he shared his food with us and explained how he’d done the Camino six times before. This was translated by Aine, my Camino sister who spoke a lot more Spanish than me. Though I speak a lot more now, the only thing I can fluently do is order a beer, ask for more wine or get a coffee. You know, just the essentials.

It should have been strange, uncomfortable, sharing such cramped quarters with strangers who didn’t speak my language. But I felt happy. Comfortable. Safe.

This would not happen every night on the Camino, but for this magical night, it did.

The night ended with me doing a yoga class in front of one of the oldest churches in Spain. With me eating dinner with a table full of strangers but not having a moment of silence.

Prior to that day, I couldn’t remember an hour, a freaking second when I wasn’t conscious of anxiety, of a bone deep sadness in me I couldn’t explain.

But that day, where I walked in the rain, alone, in a country I didn’t speak the language, pushing my body to its limits—I didn’t experience a moment of sadness. Anxiety.

And it would continue that way.

I’m not gonna say it was some magical fix. Because happiness requires constant effort, not just a really long walk. Anxiety and depression are mental illnesses that need to be battled every second.

But this helped.

A lot.

Okay, I realise I’ve rambled on for a long time and I’ve only recounted one day. There’s still a whole lot to talk about, but I’ll condense it. I just felt my first day required more attention because it was a pivotal point for me. I know I haven’t shut up about how this trip changed my life, but that’s only because it’s the truth. I’m truly a little scared to think about what would’ve happened if I hadn’t realised that something had to be done. I’m pretty tough, if I do say so myself. I would’ve got through. But it would’ve taken longer. I might’ve learned these lessons different ways, harder ways. I would definitely be on a different path. I am a firm believer everything happens for a reason. I truly think I needed to hit that bottom in order to do the Camino. So this day was important because it marked something. Me deciding to take action. Me deciding to save myself. Because I may be a queen (if I do say so myself), but I’m also a mother fucking knight, and I can slay dragons. Even my own.

Biker Books – Some of my top picks…

This is a post from about two years ago from my old website. A reader contacted me and asked if I could transfer it over, and I was more than happy to do it. I love spreading the word about these amazing books and the kickass women behind them. If you babes like this kind of stuff I was thinking about doing a monthly feature on books I love from different romance genres. Let me know if this is something you’d be interested in.

Also, I can do an updated version of this list, as there are a few more authors who have slayed the MC game lately. Let me know if that’s something you want

My Camino…

I have officially slept in my own bed for two nights.

And I woke up in the middle of the night, on my first night, absolutely fucking terrified.

Not because I heard someone in my room or in my house.

Because I didn’t hear anyone.

I didn’t hear four different people snoring at decibels that human beings shouldn’t rightly be able to reach.

There was no rustling of plastic bags as people readied themselves to start their walk for the day at an hour reasonable only to be up if you’re still out from the night before.

No hacking coughs of others succumbing to the ‘Camino Plague’, also known as the common cold, but I think mine sounds better.

I wasn’t in an unfamiliar bed that had a rubber mattress and was about as soft as cement.

I wasn’t worrying there was an earthquake when my bunkmate decided to turn over in their sleep and damn near topple over the rickety structure I was sleeping on.

Muscle spasms ricocheting through my battered calves didn’t jerk me awake.

I wasn’t freezing cold underneath the sleeping liner that someone on the internet (someone who is a fucking liar) assured me was the ‘perfect’ sleeping bag for Spain this time of year.

None of that.

There was silence.

I was toasty warm in my own sheets.

Comfortable on my memory foam mattress.

My muscles, beginning to heal, were no longer screaming at me for making them walk 30 km in a day.

No longer making them climb mountains with nothing in my belly but coffee and pain au chocolat.

Here I am, back in the comforts of my life and it’s a strange feeling.

A terrifying feeling.

Because I’m back to the loud, fast life that I loved but left behind for a quiet, simple, transitory existence.

In the last week of my walk, I would not shut up about how excited I was to get home. To consume a diet that consisted of more than simple carbohydrates and vino tinto. To put my aching feet back where they belonged—in a pair of heels.

To have a bath, put on a face mask and binge watch Netflix.

So maybe you get the picture that if I was thinking this all in my last week of my spiritual journey, I didn’t have a revelation about selling all my possessions and meditating in an ashram in India for the next six months.

I still want the same things as I did when I left.

I still have the same personality.

I’m still the same person.

Which is kinda the point.

I’m going to be clear here, this crazy, amazing, life altering, brutal, scary, hard and fulfilling experience did not fix me.

It did not give me tools to fix myself.

It made me realise that I don’t need to be fixed. It gave me the opportunity to feel comfortable in my skin. In my discomfort. Amongst all of my beautiful imperfections.

If you read my last blog post, you’ll know I wasn’t in the best place when I left. And that’s solely on me. For pushing myself way too fucking hard. For expecting too much from myself. For speaking to myself with words I would never fling at my worst enemy.

I wrote that I was at breaking point.

I just didn’t realize how thin of a thread was holding me together until I was walking through Spain on weary bones and in shoes held together with duct tape.

And I’m very happy to inform you that that thread is a heck of a lot thicker now. And that I’m not gonna push myself to a point where I think walking 800 km is the only way to fix myself.

Mainly because I’m totally and utterly okay with being a teeny bit broken. Hemingway said that’s how the light gets in, and damn if I don’t agree with him.

But I’m not ruling out doing it again.

Yep, you heard me.

This experience was so fucking great and the people I met became so precious to me that I would have to be mad not to want to repeat the experience.

I think we established in my previous post that I am just the teeniest bit mad, but I’m also sane enough to know that an experience like this one is far too amazing to just do once.

I need to say it’s not going to be for everybody.

There were points where I would’ve told you—with complete fucking certainty—that it definitely wasn’t for me either.

Because it wasn’t all great, amazing, life changing and wonderful.

No way, no how.

It was hard.

I can’t explain the levels of hard. It goes beyond physical—and the physical stuff was intense, y’all. I remember with brutal clarity, three straight hours of walking where I was in so much pain that I was almost certain it was going to make me vomit on the trail. Three hours where the only thing keeping me going was pure stubbornness. Well, and there was no place to stop since we were in the middle of nowhere in Spain.

There were days were I had to physically force myself to take every step. Every. Single. One.

Everyone says that you overcome different stages of yourself in different stages of the Camino.

First, there’s the physical stage, where your body is like: “Hey, why the fuck are you doing this to me, I thought we were like, amigas?”

Then there’s the mental, you know the part where I had to keep walking even though the pain was enough to make me physically ill? Yeah, that’s part of it.

There’s also the part where you sleep in a dorm room with 20 of your closest strangers. Where you (and this was just me) checked your bed meticulously for bed bugs.

Yeah, bed bugs.

“Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite,” is NOT just an expression, you guys.

I’ve seen what happens when bed bugs bite. It’s not pretty. And the fuckers are everywhere on the Camino.

I made it my mission to make sure I would not have red, itchy and unattractive welts covering my body (as well as having to wash everything I owned so I didn’t have to carry them around with me) in addition to aching muscles, broken shoes, and a healing soul.

The strain of hyping myself up to think about bugs crawling over me in my sleep, and not sleeping soundly because of that (and the snoring) was part of the mental struggle.

There were other mental struggles too, which I’ll get into in another post (that’s if you’re not sick of me by the end of this).

And there were incidents with men.

This is something I feel I need to speak about.

I discovered that the Camino is a very condensed version of life. You get all the highs, the beautiful experiences, amazing people, breathtaking sunrises. The knowledge that your body is much stronger than you give it credit for.

And then the lows.

Like bed bugs, snorers, illness, the language barrier and days where your body threatens to abandon you because you’ve been pushing it too hard.

And the fact that there are misogynist, dangerous men who did not got the memo that feminism happened and that feel entitled to stare at your body with intensity that made you need a shower.

And in my case, one particular man thought he was entitled to touch me.

I was getting a popsicle for the long walk through the desert ahead of me (let it be known I survived mostly on sugar, carbs and wine) when it happened. It was just after lunch. It was in a restaurant where families were eating. The sun was shining. Birds were chirping. My feet only hurt when I put weight on them. It was a good day.

A man came up to me, tried to speak to me in Spanish, I attempted in my limited knowledge of the language—I excel at asking for beer, coffee, wine and croissants, the rest is a shitshow—and then apologised, telling him that I couldn’t understand him.

Backpack on, I turned to walk out the door, excited about my popsicle, not so much about the walk through the desert in thirty-degree heat.

And then the man reached under my backpack to grope me.

I want to say I reacted immediately. That I turned around, kicked him in the balls, like he deserved.

But, like the popsicle in my hands, I was totally frozen.

Luckily, my Camino soul sister came to my rescue.

Yeah, ladies, it was not a knight in shining armour.

It was a sister.

Women can be the saviours, just to let you know.

She screamed at the man, getting in his face, then our Spanish speaking male friend got in the mix. Afterwards, he said his exact words were: “You’re lucky I don’t punch you in the face. You’re lucky she didn’t punch you in the face.”

And trust me, if this happens again, I’m punching the motherfucker in the face.

I froze because I was not expecting this. In a perfect world, we should never expect a strange man to grope us without our permission.

But while parts of this world are beautiful and amazing, there’s far too much pain, ugliness and inequality to make it perfect.

So me, along with countless other women, expect to get groped in bars. Now, let me clarify this. It’s not okay. We do not like it. It should never happen. But it does. And when you’re in a bar in the late hours of the night, the early hours of the morning, you’re in the right state of mind to expect the groping, and respond to it in turn.

Responding being: swearing, use of hand gestures, death stares, stomping on the feet of said groper, or a swift kick in the privates.

But I wasn’t expecting anything. It was daylight. I was doing something as innocent as getting a fricking popsicle.

I was on a spiritual journey, for fuck’s sake.

This man didn’t give a shit about that.

Turns out there were a lot of men who didn’t give a shit about that or women’s rights in general.

This incident wasn’t isolated. Other stuff happened to my friends. Nothing physical (thank GOD). But it didn’t have to be physical to leave a mark. To taint a journey that should’ve been about finding ourselves instead of worrying what disgusting thing some asshole was going to do when we were just looking for a popsicle.

I’m not saying all men were assholes. We met some of the coolest guys I have the honour to call friends. Most of them old enough to be my grandparents, we called them our “Camino Dads”. They were the men that gave me hope. And that made me realise that this condensed version of life was going to show me parts I was yearning to see, and parts I never wanted to know existed.

And it sucked. I will say that. It shocked me. A lot.

And it did leave a teeny tiny mark that I’m lucky enough to feel fading every day.

Gave me the knowledge that a lot of men need to be educated about consent, about respecting women and about being better fucking human beings.

But it didn’t stop me.

Didn’t stop me from smiling. From having the time of my life. From planning on doing a trip like this again.

Because there’s always going to be people (man or woman) in life that do ugly things because they have ugly souls, but there’s also people in life that show you beautiful things and beautiful souls.

And that was a lot of the mental.

I want to assure my beautiful readers that I’m okay after this. That it was a shitty thing for someone to do to me but I had so many people surrounding me to make me feel safe that I was okay afterwards.

I am chilled with the knowledge that worse things happen to my fellow sisters, things to make them so not okay (at least for a long time) and I want to scream out at the top of my lungs that no fault lies with the women. Every ounce of this blame lies at the feet of a man that thinks consent is optional and that they have some kind of right to stare, to touch, to hurt.

I want to speak a heck of a lot more on this subject, and I will.

But I’ll continue on with my journey for now.

I overcome that, along with my yearning for fancy moisturisers, a bed of my own, clothes that I didn’t have to hand wash in a sink outside with fifty other pilgrims.

Life was simple, in the bad ways like I just explained—men (and human beings in general) can be assholes.

But in good ways too—men (and human beings in general) can be nurturing and amazing.

I appreciated the simple things, getting my laundry done, having a hot shower—again, a shitshow—eating a good meal, a comfortable mattress, stimulating conversation.

So, after going through all that, I thought I’d gotten past the mental and was ready for the spiritual about three weeks into the trip.

I was feeling frustrated.

Because I’d gone through the physical pain, the mental rigors, where in the fuck was my spiritual breakthrough?

I found it in my breakdown.

We were at the bottom of a mountain.

We’d already walked 10km. It was about zero degrees.

We’d walked 34 km the day before. Most of it uphill.

I had the worst period pains of my life.

In short, I was sore, cranky and in need of chocolate and a trashy movie.

Instead, I stood at the base of a mountain.

A fucking mountain my cranky, tired, and sore body was supposed to climb.

I stared at it and promptly burst into tears.

Like proper tears.

Because I was convinced I couldn’t do it.

No matter I traversed the Pyrenees in the rain on my very first day.

No matter I’d climbed over mountain ranges in the weeks before.

Nope, none of that computed.

There was only the desperate certainty that I couldn’t do this.

And I told myself that as I wiped away my tears.

As I moved my feet with the help of my Camino sisters, who always had my back.

I outwardly began to climb this mountain.

But in my head I was chanting, “I can’t do this.”

Not very spiritually empowering, right?

We were about 5 km in when we stopped for water. Still, I was convinced I couldn’t do it. And then I had a breakthrough.

“You don’t have to climb this mountain, girlfriend,” I said to myself. “The only thing I need you to do is to take a step. Then after that, take another one.”

It seems simple, almost certainly cliché, but it’s what got me to the top of that fucking mountain.

I wasn’t thinking about climbing it. All I thought about was the next step. In my mind that day, I couldn’t climb a mountain, but I could put one foot in front of the other. And by concentrating on single steps, I climbed that mountain.

This Camino was where I learned to speak to myself the way I would my most treasured friend. To treat myself with love and kindness and to forgive myself for mistakes I made in the past. Because all the decisions we make, right or wrong, are us doing the best we can with what we’ve got. This hit me on another day when I was cold, sore and tired.

“You can do this,” I whispered out loud, since there was no one around to hear me. “You can do this,” I repeated. “And I’m proud of you.”

And I am. So fricking proud of myself. At first, I thought it was kind of a narcissistic thing to say. But I’ve realised that it’s the furthest from that. We should be proud of ourselves. Whether it’s for climbing a mountain while our uterus is trying to kill us, or getting out of bed when our mind is trying to keep us prisoner. Be proud of the big stuff, and more importantly, the little stuff. It’s little steps we take that make it possible for us to climb mountains, after all.

Another thing I learned was to have a much healthier relationship with my body. My main reason for this trip was to get my spiritual shit together, sure. But there was also the vain part of me that thought walking every single day for over a month would make me fit into those jeans that would no longer do up.

Not very spiritual, but I’m here to be honest.

And honestly, I didn’t lose a pound. If anything, I gained weight. All we were fed (and all my body craved) was carbs. Bread is the main food group in Spain. And we took it upon ourselves to make beer and wine the other two food groups in our three point pyramid.

Chocolate featured heavily too. I remember gobbling a giant block of it in the pouring rain in order to give myself the energy to walk 28 km soaking wet.

At first, I was frustrated that my leggings were only getting tighter and my willpower to say no to dessert and another glass of wine was non existent.

Then I continued to walk.

Then my body took me up mountains.

Brought me back down again.

Carried me 800 km across the whole of Spain.

And then I realised that my body was made it possible for me to do this. The body I had problems with ever since I can remember. It was exactly how it was meant to be. I wasn’t meant to be just one size smaller, my legs weren’t meant to be just a little slimmer, and my stomach isn’t supposed to be flat. It is exactly how it was designed to be. And I learned I needed to stop talking shit about a body that took me across a country.

I have a lot more from my journey. A lot more stories to tell. Like how I was a backup singer to my friend as she sung ‘Harvest Moon’ in an Irish bar in the middle of a tiny town in the meseta (a never ending, never changing part of the trail that drives you crazy) in Spain. How I talked to a seventy-year-old man who was completing a 20 point bucket list and the Camino was number 19.

Seeing the penguins in New Zealand was 20, for anyone wondering.

And when I asked him what he was going to do when the list was done, he responded: “Well, I’ll start a new one, of course.”

Of course.

I want to talk about staying in monasteries, about walking in the dark while the stars and moon were still out. About meeting people that have now become lifelong friends.

I have so much more to say. But maybe you’re sick of hearing about it.

I’m sure you’re sick of this blog post, since it’s long as hell.

So I’m gonna stop soon, I pinky swear.

Well, I won’t stop writing, since I want to do something with all the memories clogging up my newly (slightly) zen brain.

I might do some sort of book.

Or novella.

Or series of blog posts.

But I need to hear from you.

Do you want more?

Or are you thinking “we get it, you walked for a long time, did some stuff and it was great, now shut up and write about Unquiet Mind”?

‘Cause let me know and I’ll shut up and write Wyatt’s book.

Okay, I’m gonna write Wyatt’s book no matter what.

I’m also going to write about my experience no matter what.

Because I know I need to.

I just wanna know if you want me to share.

I totally will. Sharing is caring.

And I want to share this knowledge. These experiences. The good and the bad. So maybe I can help you realise you can do this. Well, maybe not this exact thing, but something for yourself. Something that’s scary and maybe won’t be amazing the entire time but will yield an amazing result.

I want to let you know that you’re a badass and you can do badass stuff.

Well, I’m going to tell you that regardless of whether I post more about the Camino. Because if you’re still reading right now, you’re a total fucking badass and I love you.

And I’m gonna stop soon, promise. Just one more thing.

Thank you.

Yeah, you.

The you reading this.

I did not expect the response from my last post. It blew me away reading the messages and comments after I posted. Literally brought me to tears. It made me so happy that I was somehow brave (or crazy) enough to post some of the stuff I was scared to admit to myself let alone the world was striking some chords with my beautiful readers.

I just want to let you know that those messages and comments and likes meant the world. They made a difference.

You made a difference for me.

Now go and do it for you.

‘Cause you’re a badass.

Keeping Promises

 

 

I’m going to walk 800 km in thirty days.

That’s not something you hear a person say every day. Well, if we convert it to the US system, the Proclaimers did say they would walk 500 miles—which just so happens to be the length of my trip.

But they said they would.

For dramatic effect more than anything.

Well, and for a great effing song.

I’m actually doing it.

And it’s not something you hear a person (other than The Proclaimers) say every day.

Not a sane person at least.

And you’re right, it’s not a completely sane person that takes a month off from their life, from their jobs, their families, the comfort of their own bed and welcomes blisters, aching legs and communal bathrooms.

You gotta be a little crazy to do it.

But the thing is, in my humble opinion, you’ve gotta be a little crazy to enjoy life. Like truly and utterly enjoy the shit out of it. You can’t take it all so seriously. And sane people tend to take things seriously.

And sure, there are things to take seriously, like credit card bills, a scary lump, your heath, the way you treat the people you love (including especially yourself), the fact that Ross and Rachel totally weren’t on a break.

But life, as a whole?

No.

If you met me, took me on face value—which you most certainly will, we’re all guilty of this—then you will surmise that I am not a woman who will wear a backpack containing three outfits, no makeup and sleep in dormitories for thirty days.

I wear heels.

I spend far too much money on overpriced handbags.

My makeup collection could fill a suitcase.

I get my hair done every eight weeks.

I like a good manicure.

My closet is overflowing with things I ‘had to have’ but definitely didn’t need.

You get the picture.

But that’s it, the picture. The surface. The cover that I designed to portray me to the world. That’s not my whole book. Or even a chapter. It’s a sentence in not who I am, but who I want to look like.

I could go on about the complexities of my personality, how there’s more to me than too much makeup and impractical shoes. But that’s not the point. And honestly, I don’t feel the need to. I don’t need to explain myself, because I know myself. I’m happy with myself.

Or that’s what I used to tell myself.

Enter the me deciding to finally embarking on this spiritual pilgrimage I’d promised myself I’d go on ‘one day’.

Well, first, you’re gonna have to rewind.

When I was in my early twenties, I dropped out of fashion school to backpack around Europe.

I was lost.

Because something that I’d dreamed would be my career, something that was a central part of my identity didn’t work out.

I’d failed.

I’m not a person who fails.

Who quits.

In my eyes—at the time at least—I failed.

So I was lost.

And the only way I could see to find myself was to get even more lost. Like literally. So I booked a one way ticket, four days accommodation in a hostel in Portugal and that’s it.

Nothing else.

No backups.

No plans.

And it worked.

I had a lot of experiences, a lot of adventures, and a breakthrough in learning about myself and what I was capable of. You know the drill, you’ve read Eat Pray Love. Or at least seen the movie. This was my trip, sans the praying and the loving part.

But it worked for me.

Along the way, I was working in a hostel in the middle of Spain. I met all kinds of people who touched my life in different ways and who have become lifelong friends.

This guy is not a lifelong friend but he is the reason—kind of—I’m even going on this trip. Honestly I don’t even remember his name. And no, get your mind out of the gutter, I only talked to him.

He had just finished the Camino de Santiago.

I had no idea what this was.

But there was something about him…something about his entire energy that felt different. Special. Calm. He looked exhausted. Unkempt. He was carrying a huge pack, his tee shirt was stained and his shoes were all but falling apart but he looked relieved. Peaceful.

Which led him to lend me a book on the Camino De Santiago.

I read it and decided that I too, needed to go on this spiritual journey. I decided I would.

Fast forward four years.

I have kept that decision in the back of my mind, telling myself ‘one day’ it’s gonna happen. I’ll do it.

And I’m doing it.

I leave tomorrow.

I decided I was doing this approximately two weeks and four days ago.

Not much preparation. Especially since this was in the middle of moving to a new country and finishing two books.

But I decided that I could wait until ‘one day’ or I could do it ‘today’.

I’m not going to sugar coat my reasons for doing this. I think sugar coating things is extremely dangerous, especially when you’ve got some kind of platform. And I’m not talking about this book, blog post, or whatever I decide to turn this into. Your platform could be the conversation you have with your friend, when you tell her your life is amazing and great and you’ve got a fabulous new boyfriend and job.

When in reality, your boyfriend’s an asshole, your job sucks and you don’t fit your jeans anymore because of the stress eating about what an utter mess your life is.

But of course, you don’t want to tell your friend that, because her life seems so great and even if we don’t admit it, we’re all competing a teeny tiny bit to make our lives match up to people who we love and respect. Like that friend we put on the brave face to.

When in reality, she’s struggling, drowning, trying to put on a brave face because everyone else in her life is doing so well that she can’t face being the one fuckup who can’t get her life together.

Do you see where this is going?

We live in a world of images. Of covers. Splashed on social media are skinny, tanned, beautiful girls on beaches who don’t seem to work but have enough designer handbags to fund a house renovation. Men with huge muscles drive around in cars that are worth people’s yearly salaries.

They have their life together, right? That’s what their platform says.

But in reality, that girl is always hungry, maybe battling an eating disorder, and is lonely, lost and cries herself to sleep every night. That man is in hideous amounts of debt and on steroids that make his junk shrink.

These people have their problems—because they’re human—but problems don’t get ‘likes’. They’re not interesting, they’re a coffee stain on that cover of our book that must look perfect and make people want to buy it, read it, display it on their coffee table, whatever.

I’m not perfect. So fucking far from it it’s comical.

I swear far too fucking much.

I drink too much coffee.

I’m one of the worst procrastinators around.

I forget people’s birthdays. All the time.

I forget people’s names the second I meet them.

I can never say no to dessert.

My mind always takes me to the worst possible scenario and I dwell on that until I make myself sick.

I have an unhealthy relationship with my body.

The list goes on. And on.

But take a look at my social media. You don’t see my sleepless nights, my breakdowns, the days I struggle to get out of bed.

I want my cover to stay pristine.

Ringless.

Glossy.

But that’s sugar-coating it.

And it’s kind of starting this whole journey off completely and utterly fucking wrong.

So let’s go sugar free. Not literally, of course, I just finished a salted caramel crème brulee, but for the sake of the metaphor.

I booked my tickets to France, where I’m starting this trip, because I was lost. And not in the way that I was lost four years ago.

No.

This has been one of the lowest, scariest, and hardest points in my life. There was no clear catalyst. Yeah, I’ve gone through some shit this year, but it’s not one thing. Because some crazy amazing and exciting happened for me too.

It’s like my soul was a backpack and the straps finally broke ‘cause I tried to cram too much inside it.

Stuff I didn’t need.

Thoughts I didn’t need.

Worries.

Expectations.

Stress.

Love.

Hate.

All of it.

And I’ve been low.

Like low.

With anxiety so bad that I couldn’t breathe around it low.

I can’t describe it right now.

Because I’m still close to it.

I’m still in it.

I’m still clutched by this overarching and consuming sense of hopelessness, I can’t quite seem to figure it out. And if you looked at my ‘cover’, my filtered, smiling face on social media, the jokes about food, about wine, snaps of my ‘oh so fab’ life, of course you can’t see this.

It’s the point.

But it’s also my breaking point.

So this is the ‘something’s gotta give’ moment. And I felt drawn to do this. Something is pulling me to do it. And I’m answering that. Because I’ve got to.

Something’s gotta give, people.

I was exhilarated when I booked my ticket. Full of life and energy and positivity that this was gong to be great. I was going to have a spiritual awakening, I’m adventurous and awesome to be doing this on my own and I’ll be a new person on the other side.

But like the effects of a strong tequila shot—or ten tequila shots—that feeling eventually faded and I was left with that spiritual hangover I’m currently in.

What if I break my leg?

Get lost?

What if I happen upon a serial killer on an abandoned patch of trail and he murders me and my family never hear from me again?

What if I hate it so much that I can’t stand it, have to quit and fail and hate myself forever?

What if it doesn’t fix me?

This is the point where it’s real. Where my head is trying to stop me because I’m doing something that threatens my survival. Not literally—though I’m sure I have a risk of dying, but waking up carries that same risk—but it is threatening the survival of the person I am now.

The person filled with anxiety, fear, doubt, depression, a sadness so visceral she’s scared it’s imprinted on her bones.

It’s not a pretty person.

It’s not who I am meant to be.

But it’s who I am now.

And that trip is endangering this. Because it’s unknown. It could make me worse.

But it could make me better.

It’s worth the risk of course. Because things are so hard right now. Getting out of bed is so fucking hard right now. And that’s not okay. Not normal. But it’s okay to think walking 25 km a day is hard. That’s acceptable.

I want to do it because it’s going to be hard.

This is also the first time in three and half years, since this whole crazy journey has started that I’ll have a month off.

An entire month.

No social media.

No deadlines.

No waking up at 2 a.m. in a cold sweat because I’m full of self-doubt that this book I used to love in that warm light of day feels like a pile of shit in the shadows of the night.

Because I’ve not been ‘off’ since this started.

Now I need to clarify, this isn’t me complaining about my life.

Publishing Making the Cut those years ago was the best thing I’ve ever done. My life has gone in directions I’ve never expected. I’ve met some extraordinary people. My readers are the top of that list. It’s those beautiful people who’ve changed my life.

But it’s also introduced constant motion in my life.

I was a full-time student and got a Bachelor’s Degree in the same amount of time I wrote fourteen books.

I developed anxiety so bad I ended up in the emergency room.

I’ve had countless nights crying over essays, over whether I actually was going to get a book done, or over whether that person who one starred my book was right, I am a terrible writer and a shitty person.

For the last three (fucking horrific) months of my degree, I averaged three hours of sleep a night. And this is not exaggerating. I would be lucky to fall asleep at my laptop around three. My alaram went off at six.

I lost 10kg in a month because I was too stressed to eat. I’m not a person who gets too anything to eat. I’d figure out a way to polish off a block of chocolate with my jaw wired shut.

I fall asleep with my laptop. Every night.

Even when I’m ‘on holiday’, I’m on. I’m replying to messages. Posting photos. Reading reviews. Emails.

And I love it. I thrive off it. To a point that isn’t healthy.

To a point I make myself sick.

Physically sick with crippling migraines that have too landed me in the emergency room. With nerve problems in my shoulder because I write in bed too often.

I’ve found ways to manage all of this. Learning the hard way, of course, which is the only way to learn.

And it’s what has led me here. I know that to protect my peace, to save it, something’s gotta give.

The most important person I’m ever going to have a relationship with is myself. And I haven’t been taking good care of her. Haven’t been keeping promises I made to myself in the lowest points in my life. To nurture myself. To be kind to myself. To give myself a break, a day off without feeling sick with guilt.

So this is it.

The moment.

So I want to take a little moment to ask you, oh beautiful reader—even if it’s just you, mum—to please not break promises to yourself. And if you have, find a way to make new ones.

That doesn’t mean you need to walk 800 km in a month like me. I’m crazy, remember?

It does mean that you do that thing—or those collection of things—that you’ve been promising yourself you’ll do one day.

Make one day today.

Even if it’s just one hour a week where you take a bath, finish a bottle of wine and listen to your favourite music while wearing a Korean face mask.

Or if it’s learning a new language.

Starting a cupcake business.

Going to India to study under a famous yogi.

Quitting the job you hate.

Divorcing the husband you hate.

Treasuring the husband you love.

Going back to school and study witchcraft and wizardry.

Whatever calls to your beautiful soul, please, please do it.

Because life isn’t short. It’s long as fuck. And don’t you want to spend as long as possible loving life? Loving yourself? Being more than just a glossy cover?

I have no idea how I’m going to come back from this trip.

I have no clue what it’s going to do for me.

But I know it’s going to do something.

And I know it’s going to put dirty footprints over that oh so pristine and oh so faux glossy cover of mine.

And I can’t fucking wait.

While I’m gone, here’s my challenge to you. Take one moment, one hour, one week, one month for you. Without worrying about what the rest of the world is doing, without worrying what the rest of the world is thinking.

Be a little crazy.

I dare you.

Battles of the Broken – Cover Reveal & Preorder

Hello my beautiful babes,

It’s been awhile since I’ve popped on here. Because, well, life.

And also, because, well, Gage.

I cannot believe it’s been almost two years since I’ve immersed myself in the Sons of Templar world. Two freaking years. I’ve missed my MC family. Hence why this is one of my longest books.

Ever.

Also because as you know, Gage has demons. It took a lot for him to get his version of a HEA. And it’s not traditional. Or beautiful. It’s ugly. Dark. Painful. But it’s utterly him.

For that reason, there will be some triggers in this book. For those of you who know Gage, you’ll know he’s a recovering addict. His past is not pretty. Writing it was hard. Reading it will be hard. But it’ll be worth it. I promise.

Battles of the Broken is coming out on August 27th, 2018. I have put the preorder links below the blurb. But first, we need to marvel at this cover. It is utter and complete perfection.

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Souls are interesting things.

Not something you can prove you possess. Not something that can be measured, like a heartbeat.

But something that can be destroyed by the absence of a heartbeat.

No, you cannot prove you possess a soul.

But once that soul dies, there doesn’t need to be proof that you don’t have one.

Once that blackened pit opens inside you, the world can see it. The world cowers from it.

Gage knew this because his soul was long gone.

He was glad to be rid of it.

He was filled with depraved satisfaction that he could make the world cower from him.

That he could burn the world to the ground and he didn’t have anything—like a soul or a conscience—to stop him.

Until her.

The woman who proved to him that she had a soul.

That he might have something left of his.

The woman who tricked the world, blinded it to the truth. Hid expertly what was broken and ruined inside her.

Though he was about to prove that there was nothing more broken than him. No one more broken.

He’d prove that by destroying them both.

Preorder

Amazon US, UK, AU, CA

Broken Shelves is LIVE

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Hey everyone!

So it’s Sam and Gina’s release day and I’m absolutely FIZZING. Kiwi word for excited, if you think that I sound crazy. Though, when don’t I sound crazy?

The Unquiet Mind family are so special to me and I’ve been waiting to write Sam’s story since we first met him in Echoes. This isn’t just a rockstar romance. This is a journey about learning to love yourself. This is for all my beautiful babes that have felt insecure about being who they are. Hopefully this will connect with you. Hopefully it will remind you that you’re beautiful, and you’re an original. Don’t let anyone tell you different.

Thank you all for continuing to support me and for every single comment, like, email and review. I read them all and they all touch my heart. I never in my wildest dreams thought I’d be here, but man, do I love my life. It’s all because of you. I adore each and every one of you.

Okay, I’m done being emotional. Here’s your links…

Amazon US, UK, AU, CA

Happy reading!

Anne

xxx

 

Still Waters – Cover Reveal & Pre-order

Hello my lovelies,

I feel like it’s been an age since I checked in on here. I got back from the most amazing trip to the States last month and am only just getting back into the swing of things. My first two signings (Book Splash & Books by the Bridge) were beyond anything I could have imagined. If I met you at either one, thank you for being such amazing readers. I love you all SO much.

Alright, let’s get to Lucy and Keltan. Still Waters is the first book in the Greenstone Security series. I’ll tell you now, I’ve got big plans for this series. But for now, let’s just drool over this cover. I’m obsessed. And I’m obsessed with Lucy and Keltan. I can’t fricking WAIT to share this with you. If you want to go in the draw for an ARC, I’ll be giving some away over on my author page and in my reader group. I’ve got the pre-order links and blurb below. Still Waters releases on the 31st of March.

 

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Blurb

There’s a phrase: Still waters run deep.

But there’s more to it than that.

Because “still” doesn’t denote peace. Nor calm. Nor happiness.

It’s an illusion. It’s chaos.

The only way to handle chaos is to become it.

That’s what Lucy did. She created stillness out of the chaos tumbling inside her and called the most chaotic motorcycle club in the United States her family.

The Sons of Templar gave her chaos, friendship, family, danger and death.

But she wouldn’t want it any other way.

Then he came. The one who showed her that her handle on chaos was tumultuous at best.

Showed her how to stand still.

And how good it could be.

And how drowning in those waters comes as easy as breathing.

Pre-order Links:

FREE on KU: Amazon US, UK, AU, CA