Ava Morgyn's Blog, page 3

A Husky Lover Responds to Jerome Flynn

In totally unbookish news, Jerome Flynn — star who plays Bronn in Game of Thrones — has joined with PETA to post a video asking people to STOP buying Siberia...

Writing vs. Editing

We authors are required to wear many hats ⁠— author, publicist, fedora, beret (preferably in raspberry ... See how I just slid that Prince reference in there? God rest his fabulous soul). In all seriousness, I get asked about my "process" a lot. I think it's a common question to throw at an author. So today I want to talk to you about two of the hats I wear most frequently — writing and editing. My writing process and my editing process look very different. It's kind of like I have to unscrew my head like Dr. Finkelstein in Nightmare Before Christmas and change brains. And often, when I'm transitioning from one to the other, it takes me a hot minute to figure out that I'm wearing the wrong brain. I cannot write with my editor's mind. And I cannot edit with my writer's mind. And here's why ... When I write, I have to flow. I must be unrestricted, undiluted, completely without guardrails. I tap into a vein through a word or idea, and then I just let that shit spurt all over the page. And it gets messy. BOY does it get messy. But it is absolutely rapturous when I find a squirter (uh-uh, eyes up here, minds out of the gutter). It is an energetic free fall where the gates between mind and body and page are blown wide open and a pure stream of consciousness is transmitted in the trappings of story. A very real part of my brain, that is normally in control, calling shots, checking IDs, is taken into a back room, tucked into a soft bed, and chloroformed into a nice, deep, out-of-the-way sleep so my writer demons can come out to play. And they frolic and run amok and cavort and scamper and get into all manner of mischief until the chloroform wears off, and a very grumpy adult-brain wakes up and stuffs them back into the godforsaken Dybbuk box they emerged from. Not the case when I edit. If I let my writer demons do the editing, my manuscripts would be 900 pages of run-on sentences and mixed metaphors. The info-dumps would be LEGENDARY. No, when the editor in my mind takes over, she blows a steady stream of nitrous oxide into the Dybbuk box and wraps it in duct tape and cable wire. She does not traffic with writer demons. She takes no chances. My editor mind is more like that over-eager hairdresser who talked you into a pixie cut in college (Do I hear buzzing? Why do I hear buzzing?) when you learned the hard way that your head is asymmetrical. She will cut a bitch. She has a shriveled, year-old raisin where her heart should be. And she does not give a good goddamn how witty or lyrical or poetic (You call this poetry? Really? You need to get out more) you think that sentence is. She is a slasher film on crystal meth. All she cares about is how relevant a paragraph or sentence or phrase or word is to TELLING THE STORY. If it does not advance the story, it does not need to stay. She has absolutely no emotional attachment to the work whatsoever. She is a beast, a machine. And she gives me the middle finger every time I tear up at seeing another one of my word-babies reduced to ribbons. When she takes over, the fun comes to an end. She is all business. Her job is to analyze, and it is the opposite of what I need to write. But it is exactly what I need to edit. But it never fails that I will sit down to edit without having secured the demons in their box, forgetting entirely that I am in the wrong frame of mind. And after a couple of agonizing pages, I'll wonder, "Why is this so hard?" And then I'll feel the pitter-patter of tiny demon feet leaving adverbs across my mind, and it will finally occur to me that I have not done my due diligence and made that all-important switch. I can't speak for other writers. I have no idea how they do it. Perhaps they have a djinn or a muse or some other more complex being capable of multi-tasking hiding out in their heads. Good for them. Perhaps they don't have to literally flip from one part of their brain to the other the way Mr. Rogers would always change his coat and shoes at the beginning of each episode. This is just what seems to work for me. RESURRECTION GIRLS - Out Now! Olivia stopped living the day her brother died. Three years ago, Robby toddled into the backyard pool and drowned. Olivia can no longer remember what it feels like to really be alive, until the Hallas women move in across the street. Kara, who is Olivia's age, has morbid fascinations—but Olivia's family has secrets of their own. The deeper Kara draws Olivia into the impulsive and seductive web of her world, the more Olivia finds herself confronting the unraveling of her family's connection to the land of the living. "This book skillfully illustrates that everyone deals with grief in their own way and in their own time." –School Library Connection, recommended Amazon Barnes & Noble Books-A-Million IndieBound Goodreads Psst! A little birdie told me RESURRECTION GIRLS will be getting a new cover for paperback release soon. But, you know, fuck that bird. OR subscribe to my newsletter for the cover release + book, event, and blog updates. Subscribe to (very cool, not at all annoying) newsletter here: VERY COOL NOT AT ALL ANNOYING NEWSLETTER LINK.

The Salt In Our Blood - Releasing 2021

So this happened. I'm still wrapping my head around it. It feels a bit like a second lottery win. The first time, I mean, whoa. But again? REALLY? So awesome. (Pinches self. Yelps. Poutily rubs arm.) I'll tell you a little secret. I've been at this writing thing for many years. So while this is my second release as Ava Morgyn, it's hardly my first — or second — rodeo. And I am just genuinely thrilled to have another opportunity to share my love of storytelling with you. Have you ever been on the phone, chatting away, when you realize the call dropped and you've been talking animatedly for exactly 45 seconds without realizing no one was there listening? Even if you're alone when it happens, it still feels humiliating. That's a little what writing a book and not finding representation, or getting a deal, or meeting with readers feels like. Only, instead of that 45-second, all-in investment, you've given six months, or perhaps a year or more, heart and soul. Just like that dropped call. Just animatedly doing your thing and then realizing, blunt-force style, that no one is listening. And it can feel humiliating. Or disappointing. Or some mix of those things. Because, at the end of the day, stories are meant to be heard. They are meant to be read. It is rarely fulfilling enough for a writer to simply write for themselves. The satisfaction, for me, is not truly there until I connect with someone on the other end. Being given an opportunity for that, again, is truly joyful for me. And frankly, I cannot wait for you to meet the characters of THE SALT IN OUR BLOOD. Cat, the cautious, mature teen daughter who is still nursing a lot of old pain and resentment toward her mother. And Mary, the mother who abandoned her ten years earlier, fighting with her own feelings of guilt and shame while struggling to manage bipolar disorder. And Daniel, whose love of his city is infectious, even as Cat focuses on simply getting out. And of course, New Orleans itself. Because is there a more magical, terrifying place in the Northern Hemisphere? Plus, a deck of tarot cards that are so much more than ink on paper and a closet full of haunting family secrets begging to be excavated. It's truly a gothic fantasy full of heart about our need for connection, how family shapes us, and whether or not the truth can really set you free. If you'd like to receive an exclusive sneak peek of THE SALT IN OUR BLOOD, then sign up for my newsletter at the link below. My subscribers will be receiving a taste of this dark, Cajun wonderland directly in their inboxes any day now. In addition, they'll be privy to loads of exclusive material and first dibs as we move closer to release date, such as the cover reveal, finished excerpt, pre-order campaign preview, and more. Subscribe to my newsletter for THE SALT IN OUR BLOOD exclusives, and get a sneak peek emailed directly to you by the end of the week! Click here for your very early taste of this spring 2021 release: SUPER AWESOME NEWSLETTER LINK. RESURRECTION GIRLS - Out Now! Olivia stopped living the day her brother died. Three years ago, Robby toddled into the backyard pool and drowned. Olivia can no longer remember what it feels like to really be alive, until the Hallas women move in across the street. Kara, who is Olivia's age, has morbid fascinations—but Olivia's family has secrets of their own. The deeper Kara draws Olivia into the impulsive and seductive web of her world, the more Olivia finds herself confronting the unraveling of her family's connection to the land of the living. "It is a raw, captivating exploration of grief, friendship, and the reclamation of life." –Booklist Amazon Barnes & Noble Books-A-Million IndieBound Goodreads

Doubling Down on Sad: Where Depression and Grief Collide

I originally posted this to my grief blog: forloveofevelyn.com, but decided to share it here because it deals with depression in addition to grief and describes some of my early experiences of depression. I know I've posted about depression before, but because it is so prevalent, especially in young people, and because not everyone has managed to form a complete understanding of what it is and how it's impacting them, I thought, you know, this might do some good in the world. I had my first depressive episode when I was twelve. It was fresh on the heels of two early back-to-back traumas. Moving for the first time in my life, which threw me completely off balance and into the deep end of self-consciousness and anxiety as I tried to navigate a new landscape populated by new people and found I was woefully inept to do so. And my own early induction into the #metoo experience, when I learned the weight and shape of shame. How it lays across the shoulders. How it bows the head. How it nestles in your body so that you feel sick every time you look in the mirror. How it makes you hate yourself, blame yourself, hide yourself. Looking back, it's so obvious. But at the time, I had no vocabulary for what was happening to me, and therefore no understanding. No way to explain it to anyone else. And I did what most confused and hurting children do, I hid it. And then I acted out. Dividing my personality between these two opposing poles: the very good, very quiet, very nice girl, and the outspoken, obnoxious, do-anything-on-a-dare girl. Of course, the acting out only brought more shame. And amazingly, none of my parents—I had four—clued in to the fact that maybe, just maybe, something was wrong and I needed some help with that. I don't exactly remember when I came out of that episode. And maybe that's the problem, maybe I never really did. Somewhere in high school it got better. Kind of. At least, I stopped crying every day at school. And as I got older, I found more and more ways to act out, and more and more ways to self-medicate. I discovered alcohol in eighth grade, and I discovered drugs in ninth grade, and the rest of my high school and college years were a blur of blending the two. I made friends. Most of whom were also carrying confused and hurting children inside. And we found a certain camaraderie and validation in our shared, often unspoken pain. But after having children, the depression came back. After each birth, a long and grueling tangle with the "baby blues" ensued. A sinking energy level. A sinking mood. The same when my mother was dying of cancer. When my husband's work and family life became so hopelessly knotted together it seemed we would never pick it apart, not without hurting feelings, not without sacrificing boundaries. When my writing career did not launch at the time or in the way I'd hoped it would. When my job failed to fulfill me. When I didn't have a creative project to consume me. When the wind blew left instead of right. There were days in bed. Though I rarely indulged in that, even at my worst (because that is exactly how I was taught to view self care, as indulgence). There were conversations with the kids about "mommy crying". There were far too many bottles of beer. And bouts of attempting legitimate pharmaceuticals, or hormone therapy, or supplements, or dietary changes. I would always find some way to pick myself back up, piece myself back together, and move on. But if I'm honest, I have always felt a little broken. Even on my best days. It is the sense that the shadow you have been outrunning, and maybe even successfully for a while, is still there, always a step or two behind you. It's hard to explain depression to someone who's never experienced it. Sometimes it feels sad. But the sadness feels disconnected from anything solid, like a balloon bobbing on the water, even when it is clearly in response to an event or circumstance. Sometimes it feels hopeless. Less like the future will not be what you want it to be, and more like there is no future. It often feels meaningless. Like everything around you is a Hollywood stage set, propped up with two-by-fours and duct tape. And if you dare to peer around the edge, you will see there is nothing behind it at all. Always, it feels uphill. And even when you are managing the incline, there are days your feet are just fucking tired and you are really sick of climbing and fuck the peak who needs it anyway I just want to lay down now. At best, it makes me feel down. Like I need a quadruple espresso shot. Like I can't quite get my engine going. At worst, it makes me feel empty. Like there is nothing to me but a vacuum. And I have to fill and fill and fill that void up or feel it eating me alive from the inside. And the sadness comes in response to the emptiness. Like, a kind of sorrow echoing inside me at the realization that I am nothing where others are something. And I can't feel anything of value or substance or worth. I can't feel anything at all. I've read all the books and listened to all the talks. I've meditated and prayed and saged and filled my house with crystals and my yard with plants and gone outside and stayed inside and contemplated God and death and spirit and oneness and none of it amounts to anything when I am in the empty place. Because the empty place refuses to be moved. And then ... my child died. I remember, shortly after we lost Evelyn, crying to my husband and saying, "I'm not really the kind of person who is made to sustain this." And it's a ridiculous statement because who the fuck is? But also, what I meant was, I am already treading water. How can I possibly keep from going under now? How does someone, who already has navigated a lifetime of depression, also navigate the worst kind of loss and grief and emotional pain known to mankind? But the truth is, I don't think my bereaved counterparts who didn't experience depression before child loss are really any better off. Because pain is the great equalizer. We're all in it, and when we're in it, it just hurts. We're all struggling to keep our heads above water. Sometimes, we're all gulping down mouthfuls as we fight our way back to the surface. If anything, I can say that at least the depression aspect of this is no stranger to me. Yes, my lowest low has been reset. Yes, I have to watch my mental health with an unflagging eye. Yes, I have a really, really good reason to be really, really sad now. And sometimes it's very easy to give in to that. But also, I know this territory. I have some hard-won strategies and coping mechanisms in place. I recognize my triggers and the signs that I am sinking. I have made the choice to put my mental health first before, and I know what it feels like to say screw the job or the appointment or the insert-whatever-obligation-is-needling-you-here because today is about SURVIVAL. And I know that if I can hang in there, the empty place is only for a while. It's not always easy to detangle grief from depression. The truth is, they blend together. You think there is a point of singularity where one ends and the other begins, but there's not. There's just this mess in the middle where they feed into each other on a continuous loop. But sometimes I can taste the flavor of my tears, and I can say these are tears for Evelyn, or these are tears for myself, or it's anybody's guess what these tears are for but they're coming anyway. Studies have found that bereaved parents are significantly more likely to experience depressive symptoms and episodes, psychiatric hospitalization (particularly for mothers), suicidal ideation, health issues, and higher mortality rates. (Did we really need a study for that?) I don't say that to make you feel more hopeless than you already might, but to let you know that you are not alone and what you are going through is perfectly normal for someone who has had to absorb the shock of a blow like the one you have. Losing Evelyn has taught me a lot about my depression. It has opened me up to be more honest with myself and others about my mental health challenges. It has freed me to own my pain. Because I will never disown Evelyn. And Evelyn and my pain are synonymous now. There is no parsing them apart. It has enabled me to find more acceptance for who I am and what I am going through on any given day than I ever allowed myself before. And I wish, I wish, I wish I had come to all these things another way. I wish I was sitting here writing about how good friends and good wine taught me to love myself more. But I didn't, and I'm not. Instead, it is the parting gifts of my beautiful girl that have made it possible for me to write this post. To share openly in this way about my experiences of depression and those early traumas that led to it and how it shows up now. And I just want to add, for those who may read this that haven't lost a child and haven't experienced depression before, that those of us who have ... we are not weak. You are lucky. Good for you. I hope your every day is liquid sunshine and pink roses and extra whip on your latte. But when it's not, come and talk to me. I can tell you what it is to push. I can tell you what it is to surrender. To master yourself and then to be mastered by yourself. I can tell you what it is to fail. To sink. To drown. To swim. And I can tell you what it's not. It is not weakness. It's vulnerability. Maybe you were taught, like me, that those are the same thing. But those of us who have faced it and continue to face it know the difference all too well. RESURRECTION GIRLS - Out Now! Olivia stopped living the day her brother died. Three years ago, Robby toddled into the backyard pool and drowned. Olivia can no longer remember what it feels like to really be alive, until the Hallas women move in across the street. Kara, who is Olivia's age, has morbid fascinations—but Olivia's family has secrets of their own. The deeper Kara draws Olivia into the impulsive and seductive web of her world, the more Olivia finds herself confronting the unraveling of her family's connection to the land of the living. "Morgyn’s supernaturally tinged debut is a heartbreaking but hopeful exploration of death and grief." -Kirkus Reviews Amazon Barnes & Noble Books-A-Million IndieBound Goodreads Subscribe to my newsletter for book, event, and blog updates + free stuff, witchy graphics, and you know, me or whatever. Subscribe to (very cool, not at all annoying) newsletter here: VERY COOL NOT AT ALL ANNOYING NEWSLETTER LINK.

Social Media for the Emotionally Challenged

I'm not depressed. I am emotionally challenged. Actually. I'm grieving. And I have PTSD. And I'm depressed. It's a veritable Happy Meal of mental health diagnoses. No free toy included. I make it sound funny (coping mechanism #1), but it feels like shit. A lot. Writing and depression go together like ham and cheese apparently — not that I would know, as I eat neither ham nor cheese anymore. For me, they go together like tofu scramble and black beans, I guess. The internet says we are about eight times more likely to experience a depressive episode than our non-writerly peers. And there is a long list of famous writers who famously dealt with depression. I would argue that all artists are probably a touch more vulnerable to mental health problems. Not because depression is a prerequisite of good art, but simply because many people who are drawn to the arts are drawn precisely because they are looking for outlets to process their deep feelings. But I say that cautiously, trying not to heap more coal on the manic artist/sad writer fire. Stereotypes rarely serve us. While literature has a tendency to look back on its Hemingways and Plaths with a certain nostalgia, I'm not sure today's readers like their writers quite so melancholy. The reality is hardly romantic. And today's writers face a very different kind of publicity. Of course, I am referring to social media. Updating a network of online sites every hour on the hour with whatever I am thinking, feeling, doing is something I am naturally averse to. Call it the introvert in me. But even more than that, it's that what I'm thinking, feeling, doing at any given moment is likely not worth posting about, either because it is too boring or too depressing. The point, I'm fairly certain, is not to go online and take a virtual dump on everyone's day. Which pushes me into a space of choosing obscurity or inauthenticity. Neither of which feels very good. This constant push to keep yourself in front of everyone's eyes as an author can't be healthy, can it? And yet, we're all doing it. Because in order to be writers we need to sell books (or articles or freelance editing services or whatever puts food in your mouth). And in order to sell books people need to know we exist. And apparently in today's society the human attention span could fit on the tip of a needle. And so you must make your presence known every five point two five seconds. (Yes, I am aware this is probably not the correct way to write a decimal.) But what do you do when that feels like dipping your raw nerve endings in gasoline and setting them on fire? What do you do if what you really need, for your own well being, is just to disconnect? What do you do if the time and energy it takes for you to think of something witty and charming to say in 280 characters is time and energy you do not have to spare? My humble, honest opinion? You choose you. Mental health must come first. Everyone in this country needs that tattooed behind their eyelids. You ignore your mental health at your own peril. Believe me, you have nothing without it. And all the likes and followers and book sales in the world will not make up for it once it's gone. Social media, while great for staying connected with Aunt-Ellie-who-lives-four-states-away and seeing what your chiropractor's dog gets up to, is also a cesspool of comparison and fakery and toxic behavior most people would never attempt in person but feel protected and empowered enough to pull online. On the whole, it's benefit in your life is dubious at best. But it can be navigated in a fashion that prioritizes your well being, which in some cases, may amount to not navigating it at all. And that's my first tip — always put your well being first. And if your ability to survive the emotional turbulence of the day depends on your not getting online, don't do it. Don't push yourself. Listen. All of Twitter's angst and Instagram's photoshopping will be there tomorrow. Give yourself permission to log off. Which brings me to my next tip — third party platforms like Tweetdeck and Hootsuite and so on. You can often control what you want to see on those much easier, and you can schedule posts in advance. So if you wake up knowing it's going to be a shitstorm of a day, you can maybe spend thirty minutes that morning setting some things up to post at different times and then crawl back under the covers or whatever it is you need to do to get through it. I know scheduled posts are often criticized as coming off obvious or less genuine, but in a pinch, there's no reason not to take advantage of them. You're prioritizing yourself now, remember? Not your followers. My third tip is to get acquainted with your mute button, or unfollow function, or whatever it is that allows you to filter and screen what comes through your feed and lands with a thud in front of your spidery, red-rimmed eyes. It's okay to silence someone who is loudly voicing all of their divisive opinions in your feed, or conversely, someone who is waving that glittery new book debut in your face. If comparing is your Achilles heel, and you can't see someone else's success without it triggering your own interior panic alarm, you can simply turn it off for a while. When you have those runaway fears under control again, you can leave your congrats in their comments. And finally, my fourth tip is try being honest in your posts. Which is not to imply that you aren't being honest in the first place. I'm simply saying, if it hurts too much to put a smile on, then don't. Post about your feelings. Post about your struggles. Post helpful articles or links that promote mental health awareness. I have been so relieved to see other authors I admire share their journey with depression and anxiety and the publishing-beast-turn-pussycat-turn-beast-again. Because let's face it, there is a lot about being a writer that is Pegacorns shitting Skittles from a cotton-candy sky ... and there is a lot about being a writer that is like peering through a monocle made of Satan's arsehole. (But, I mean, you are wearing a monocle. So that's cool, right?) It's an up and down experience. One minute you're watching all of your childhood fantasies inflate before your eyes, and the next you're left standing there empty-handed while someone takes a pin to each one of them. Or there's the in-between bit, where you're frantically puffing to keep those dreams afloat as you navigate a maze of sharp objects at every turn. If you didn't have mental health concerns before you got into this, you certainly might after. I'm not really a social media expert, though out of necessity I know my way around most of it like every other person penning a book these days. But, if experience counts for anything, I might be an expert in surviving the kind of emotional fallout that can and does reach life-threatening lows. And so I wrote this post to add my voice to the chorus of other writers out there saying, Hey, it's okay. It absolutely does feel like a Slip N' Slide made of razor blades sometimes. You do you, man. It's okay to get off the ride from time to time. Or don a chainmail bodysuit before you buckle back in. And for those people who have a hard time giving themselves permission to prioritize their own needs. You officially have my permission to put yourself and your mental health first. RESURRECTION GIRLS - Out Now! Olivia stopped living the day her brother died. Three years ago, Robby toddled into the backyard pool and drowned. Olivia can no longer remember what it feels like to really be alive, until the Hallas women move in across the street. Kara, who is Olivia's age, has morbid fascinations—but Olivia's family has secrets of their own. The deeper Kara draws Olivia into the impulsive and seductive web of her world, the more Olivia finds herself confronting the unraveling of her family's connection to the land of the living. "A raw, poignant, unflinching examination of grief and healing wrapped up in a compelling story." -CJ Redwine, New York Times Bestselling author of the RAVENSPIRE series Amazon Barnes & Noble Books-A-Million IndieBound Goodreads Subscribe to my newsletter for book, event, and blog updates + free stuff, witchy graphics, and you know, me or whatever. Subscribe to (very cool, not at all annoying) newsletter here: VERY COOL NOT AT ALL ANNOYING NEWSLETTER LINK.

Post Release Blues

I'm doing that thing. That thing you're never supposed to do. That thing I have been warned against and keep doing anyway, where I get all vulnerable and emotionally honest and touchy-feely and over-disclose. I will probably eat a pound of shame for this later. But to be frank, I'd do that anyhow. Because everything I write and put out there feels too truthful to not be embarrassing, even my fiction. It's like I was born with truth serum running through my veins. And maybe it sounds #authentic, but trust me, it's not always a good look. Right now, I am experiencing a postpartum drop. I'd call it a decline, but that sounds gradual and friendly, where this is not. It is abrupt and hateful and buckle-up-baby-cuz-we're-going-dooooown. My book baby has finally been born. It's out there for all the world to see. And on the one hand, I am your typical proud mama. And on the other hand, I am mortified and trying to shove it gracelessly back up my skirt when I think no one is looking. This is a thing I do as a writer. Actually, it's a thing I do as an artist. I carry on an obsessive, psychologically-questionable love affair with my WIP, be it a YA novel or an oil painting or any other creative gambit, until it's done. And then I set it down in a public place and back slowly away, hoping no one will witness my hasty retreat. And I fantasize about all the ways I can cut ties and reinvent myself and bury this work so deeply in the artistic drivel of the collective unconscious that it never sees the light of day again, and I can shirk any and all responsibility for having created it in the first place. I am the Dr. Frankenstein of YA lit. It's so embarrassing. (You see? I told you it wasn't a good look.) Call it imposter syndrome. Or commitment phobia. Or child abandonment. I don't know. Whatever it is, it is probably my mom's fault (lobs one at the eternal dartboard of parental blame where everything, everything sticks regardless of aim). Whatever it is, I can't seem to help it. And it gets very uncomfortable when normal people with normal careers and normal reactions to their normal work start to ask me questions like: Aren't you so proud? Are you excited about your author event? IS IT SUPER FUN TO BE YOU RIGHT NOW? To answer that last one, no. No it is not. Reasonably, it should be. It should be very cool to be a writer IRL, to do what you love doing most in the world. Without question, that should be amazing. It should be Instagram-worthy. It should be selfies in wool scarves and felt-tip pen collections for autographing and what-completely-unnecessary-swag-will-I-order-and-give-away-today goodness. But it's not all Turkish coffee and poetry readings and deep, unrelenting contentment. It is so, so far from that ... for me. Maybe if you're, like, Stephen King level it is. Maybe he sits around in his Gothic mansion stirring a cauldron of piping hot personal satisfaction and best-selling premises. I don't know. I'm not Stephen King level yet. I'll get back to you. But to be honest, I'm not sure that will make a difference for me. I'm not sure that runaway commercial success is the tune to calm the savage beast of my crippling self-doubt and placate my tumultuous ego. And if I am actually listening to all those Alan Watts YouTube videos I fall asleep to every night, then it's most certainly not. I have a feeling, a sneaking suspicion, the higher the high, then conversely, the lower the low. And based on previous and current experience, my suspicion is dead on. Because as much as I want everyone in the world to read RESURRECTION GIRLS, I am also terrified by that thought. (Oh, dear god, don't let them see. Please don't let them see!) Don't get me wrong. I love my baby. I love her flat head and swollen face and constant mews for attention. But I also know that to a lot of other people, infants just look like human grubs⁠—all pale and fleshy and extraterrestrial. I mean, I think she's beautiful just the way she is. But the nature of publishing is that you are laying that precious, squirming little word-progeny out in the cold, harsh landscape of public domain and everybody's judgment. And that, even when it's going well, feels like a bit like making out for the first time, when you know you don't know what the hell you're doing, and you're just praying the other person doesn't catch on. And I think it will always feel that way to some degree. If I'm doing it right, every book I put out there will have the potential to utterly humiliate me. Not because it isn't good, but because I have poured such tender, hidden, soul-depths into it⁠—a whole cascade of hopes and dreams and sins and feelings and mindfuckery that I get to unload behind a very thin veneer of characters into a loaded weapon called fiction that I am aiming right at your face. Consider yourself warned. And so it falls to me to get a handle on this thing, this hormonal and biochemical withdrawal that seems to occur after each and every discharge (I realize my word choice is bordering on lewd here), and which I think I am pretty accurately predicting will only be greater the greater the shot fired. In other words, the kickback is relative to the size of the barrel and the barrel is relative to the size of the bullet and I'm getting a little turned around here 'cause I don't actually know that much about guns even if I am a native Texan. So, whether my work is well received or not, whether the numbers are buzz-worthy or not, whether the reviews are five star or two, it is up to me to level myself, to find some balance, some grounding or anchor, and to keep myself from riding, full-tilt, the crest of the wave and crashing it into a shore of innocent bystanders. I'm working on it. And I have to say, the best antidote I have found so far to the toxic overload of pre-release adrenaline and post-release withdrawal is simply this: the work itself. It is not responding to every review politely (though you should), or smiling so hard through your events that you chip a tooth (though you should probably do that too—definitely don't cry through them, which is literally what I did, but I have a good excuse), or tweeting some excruciatingly pithy author remark every five seconds (note: my tweets do no register as excruciatingly pithy, or even pithy at all). And it is definitely not obsessively checking your Amazon ranking (never do this), or cyberstalking anyone who leaves you less than three stars (definitely never do this), or drowning your disappointments at the bottom of a bottle of scotch (not recommended). And it's not the opposite of those either. It's not adopting a toxically positive attitude about the whole thing ("It's only up from here!" *cries into handbag when everyone's back is turned*), or just letting that invincible feeling run away with you when it's all swinging your way ("Muahahaha! I have reached orbital altitude; I'll never have to eat Ramen again!" *tells off day-job boss, hires a travel agent, orders gold-dusted brandy sniffer off eBay*), or making a desktop wallpaper out of your starred review (but really, doesn't everyone have one of those?). I'm not saying don't celebrate the victories. Definitely, definitely celebrate the victories, however small, because if you're waiting for the world to give you permission to kick off your shoes and down a dozen mojitos and sing the Ghostbusters theme song into the waking dawn whenever your ship comes in—or your dingy or your canoe or your bamboo raft lashed together with willpower, catgut, and spite—then you could be waiting a very, very long time. I'm just saying, find a center of gravity to hold onto when that happens. Or when it doesn't. And for me, that center of gravity is writing itself. It's the work that brings me joy, and total frustration, and a whole lot of stuff in between. But I can handle what the work throws at me. Whatever comes of the work, that's icing on the cake. That's the cherry on top. Or maybe it's the piss in your vinegar, the fly in your morning coffee. For me, it's a little of both. Either way, only the work can save me. RESURRECTION GIRLS - Out Now! Olivia stopped living the day her brother died. Three years ago, Robby toddled into the backyard pool and drowned. Olivia can no longer remember what it feels like to really be alive, until the Hallas women move in across the street. Kara, who is Olivia's age, has morbid fascinations—but Olivia's family has secrets of their own. The deeper Kara draws Olivia into the impulsive and seductive web of her world, the more Olivia finds herself confronting the unraveling of her family's connection to the land of the living. " ... a raw, captivating exploration of grief, friendship, and the reclamation of life." -Booklist Amazon Barnes & Noble Books-A-Million IndieBound Goodreads And, for a tiny, little crack-in-the-window length of time still: Now EXTENDED through October to celebrate our starred review from Foreword Reviews, click here to be taken to the Resurrection Girls Pre-Order Campaign form where you can provide your contact information (name, shipping + email address) and upload a picture of your receipt or request from your local library to receive your thank-you gifts: one signed Resurrection Girls bookplate, one genuine crystal skull, and one art print of this Resurrection Girls themed Death tarot card! First come, first serve while supplies last. US residents only. And last but certainly not least, if you're in the Houston area and you read this in time, please join me for an Author Chat Night with The Creative Birth & Death Study Group this Saturday, October 26th, at WITS (writers in the schools). Purchase (very cheap) ticket here: VERY CHEAP TICKET LINK.

The Novel I Wish I Never Wrote

They say life imitates art. I sincerely hope that isn't true. When my 18-year-old daughter unexpectedly died in her sleep two months after I signed my first solid book deal for a novel about a family that lost a child, that is exactly what I was afraid of. Which brings me to a facet of the experience of child loss that I don't often hear people talk about, but which I think is really common⁠—the fear that we as parents unintentionally manifested our child's death. This is different than survivor's guilt. It is different than regret. It is different than the constant cycling of the brain over every detail of every event leading up to your child's death where you obsessively pinpoint all the moments you could have chosen differently and maybe, possibly detoured from the fatal path you had no idea you were both on. It is different than feeling responsible in the normal, physical way. It is different than all the if onlys and should haves. That kind of thinking is based in fact. If only I had stopped my child from getting in the car that day ... If only I had taken her to the doctor sooner (my personal favorite) ... If only I had been there, said something, paid attention ... I should have said no ... I should have checked up on her ... I should have called sooner ... These are all tangible actions that might have been taken or that we wish we would have or didn't take in order to course correct. Thinking based in fact is rational. The kind of belief I'm talking about is irrational. It is not based in fact. It is based in fear. And it goes like this. When I did (thought/felt/said/etc) ________, did I make this happen? When I thought to myself that I just wanted a moment's peace, did I cause my child to die? When I felt frustrated and impatient with my child, did I cause them to die? When I watched that documentary about teen suicide, or read that article about children with cancer, did I cause them to die? When I didn't answer their call ... When I told them to handle it themselves ... When I bought them that car ... When I thought they could die from ... When I worried they would wreck or get sick or hurt themselves ... When I said, "You're going to kill yourself if you don't stop ..." The one that torments me is: When I wrote that book about child loss, did I cause Evelyn to die? Did I bring this on us somehow? This kind of thinking is the very same that forms the basis of superstition. It assumes that we carry a power or control we don't recognize or understand. It implies that we attracted our trauma—in this case, our child's death—into our life unwittingly through the mishandling of this sacred, unwieldy power. It circles the small ironies that pepper our daily lives unacknowledged until something large enough happens to cause us to pause, reflect, and dissect those previously meaningless events. Carl Jung called this synchronicity—the simultaneous occurrence of events which appear significantly related but have no discernible causal connection. I have heard it better described by author Robert Moss simply as life rhymes. Usually, we like synchronicity because it makes us feel empowered when we are otherwise powerless. It makes us feel watched over, cared for, communicated with by a larger, benevolent being, an entity that has our best interest at heart. Synchronicity gives the mundane meaning and helps us find purpose in a world that often forces us into purposeless tasks. It makes us believe there is a direction, a path laid out for us, that we can take to our grand destiny if only we are sharp enough to spot and heed "the signs". Synchronicity is implicit in our beliefs about intuition, the subconscious, magic, the law of attraction, and even God. Synchronicity gives us an edge. Synchronicity says that hawk that flew across the road in front of your car after you watched a nature documentary about hawks is more than just a hawk. It's a message. It's a sign. It negates entirely the perspective of the hawk, which was likely nothing more than, "Looks like there's some tasty mice on that side of the road—let me go over there for lunch." Synchronicity highlights the woman who dreamt about winning the lottery the night before she did, and negates however many other people might have dreamt about winning the lottery the night before they didn't. It tells us some things are are meant for some people and not for others. Synchronicity plays both sides of the chicken-egg dilemma. It tells us we have more control than is accurate because every major event in our life will be proceeded by this psychic imprint, which we can then use to inform our choices, thereby magnifying or avoiding the event entirely. Or it tells us we have more control because the tiniest flex of our subconscious muscles can send whole sequences of events winging into being. If we flex with caution and control, we can manifest what we want or avoid manifesting what we don't. It comforts us by telling us those who suffer, suffer because they weren't paying enough attention to external clues. Therefore we can avoid suffering because we will pay closer attention. Or it tells us that those who suffer, suffer because they weren't paying enough attention to internal cues. Therefore we can avoid suffering because we will pay closer attention. Even though synchronicity makes us wonder, What are the odds? Statistics are the nemesis of synchronicity. Because the odds are probably greater than you've calculated. Statistics remind us that things we oversimplify are often far more complex, and things we over-complicate are often far more simple. Statistics consider all the data—or at least a far larger pool of it—where synchronicity picks and chooses the data that most serves our desired or established beliefs. Statistics remind us that for every external clue or internal cue that appears to point to a proceeding event, there are countless more that don't. In other words, for every thought, feeling, action, or word you think led to your child's death, there are countless others that, if examined, negate that fear because they didn't lead to anything. Synchronicity works because our brains are designed to recognize patterns and our egos are designed to ignore data we don't like. While it may hurt us to believe we, at worst, did something to manifest our child's death, and at best, ignored something that might have helped us avoid our child's death, our belief in synchronicity is stubborn because it implies we can keep it from happening again if only we get it all right next time. I'm not saying there's no truth to synchronicity, or that's it's not real or not valid. I'm not trying to take your magic away from you. But I am saying that we have a very black and white way of thinking about synchronicity which may serve us when the chips are up, but doesn't when the chips are down. It is this faulty thinking about synchronicity that lies at the heart of a grieving parent's faulty belief that they are the manifestor's of their child's death. There are a number of bizarre synchronicities surrounding Ev's death, and in particular, the writing and publishing of the book I mentioned—a book that is coming out on October 1st. As the release date approaches, I can't help replaying them all in my mind. And I feel that old fear resurfacing ... When I wrote that book about child loss, did I cause Evelyn to die? Did I bring this on us somehow? Some days, the synchronicities of this book and Ev's death serve me. Some days they make me feel like there is a larger design at play. Something we have fallen accordingly into, rather than deviated from. Something that is watching over her and us still. Something that tells me I didn't fail, even though I often feel like I did. Something that even whispers, Perhaps she chose to go ... Perhaps she is playing a part I can't see, and at the very least, her death wasn't against her wishes. On these days, synchronicity makes me right. Other days, these synchronicities just add up to a dozen or more glaring signs that I missed, right alongside her symptoms, as I stumbled blindly at her side, focused on all the wrong things. They taunt me with hindsight. How oblivious can you be? they ask. Another mother would have seen. Another mother would have done something. We tried to tell you, they say. We tried. On these days, synchronicity makes me wrong. I'm never really sure which is true. Synchronicity makes me wish I never wrote a book that I am in fact incredibly proud of and grateful for. It causes me to forget that this little piece of her is left behind in my work, a piece I can hold onto when my arms ache to wrap around her shoulders. It overlooks the powerful work this novel can do around loss, death, and grief-awareness, and the voice Ev's death has given me—however much I may wish to trade it back for even a few more minutes with my baby girl. Synchronicity makes me feel stupid and blind. It makes me believe that parents whose children are all living are staring at me with judging eyes, thinking that the real internal flaw that led to Ev's death lies not in her heart or DNA, but in me and my failures as a mother, my failures as a person. But synchronicity also makes me see a kind of magic weaving itself around our family tragedy, holding Ev's spirit tightly to us as we navigate the rest of our lives and her death together. It is at the core of "the signs" we believe Ev has sent us—statistical anomalies that combined with unusual timing and deeply personal specificities seem to be directed straight from her heart to ours, helping us find snippets of hope in a once-desolate landscape of pain and sorrow. Synchronicity is writing a novel about a family moving through the paralyzing grief of child loss only a year before your own child dies, and then reading that novel almost like a manual you wrote to yourself with your deceased child's help after they are gone. It is writing an aquamarine ring into the novel's symbolism—a stone once revered for protecting people from drowning—and receiving an aquamarine ring as a gift after your child's death because that was her birthstone and you are drowning in your grief. It is writing the anniversary of the child's death in your novel as a day "divisible by that many threes" when the birthday of the child you will lose is also made up entirely of multiples of three. It is writing about a child who dies by drowning when the child you will lose has an astrology chart full of water signs—who you often tease for being at the intersection of Pisces, Cancer, and Scorpio. It is a thousand other things I can't get into here, large and small, that may mean nothing or may mean everything. It is a mythology that seems to have built itself up around this book, our family, and our daughter's death, that I can't deny but also must be careful about what I ascribe to it. It is a riddle I will never solve and a question I can never answer. But, let me say this. If you are a grieving parent who is also grappling with the unspoken fear that something you did or felt or thought or said somehow caused your child to die, I want to reassure you. Whatever those "signs" mean, whatever those ironies may be saying, YOU ARE NOT THE MANIFESTOR OF YOUR CHILD'S DEATH. You don't have that kind of power. You are not in control at that level. This is just another trick of a limited mind and a desperate ego trying to make sense of a senseless loss. When synchronicity works against you, shut it down. There is no point torturing yourself with your limited understanding. When synchronicity works for you, hold gratitude in one hand and perspective in the other. There will always be more than you can know, no matter what you think you know. If you are interested in reading my novel, you can click here to learn more and access buy links or simply go to my "Books" page. If you are a member of the child loss community, check out the trigger warnings on that page first to be sure you can handle the content of the novel. It may be fiction, but it is still a raw, unflinching portrayal of grief and several other dark subjects. And as my loving friend Tracey so often reminds me, you are already hurting—please be oh-so-fucking-tender with yourself.

Writing on the Dark Side of the Moon

I have always been a lover of words and those things only words can build ⁠— stories, books, the voices of people with extraordinary thoughts and powerful imaginations. My acuity for words, both spoken and written, has been an important skill I have relied on most of my life, including my childhood. I have worked it over many years, like a rare muscle, until it's strength was such it could support me. I never believed words could fail me ... until they did. On an early August morning in 2017, everything in the universe failed me. That was the day I found my daughter's body. There are no words for that moment or the ones after. All I could do was scream. That was the only communication worthy of the horror I was facing. What I didn't know before that moment, and have had to painstakingly learn over the last couple of years, is that trauma rewires your brain. It changes who you are on every level. Your personality alters, your tastes and preferences. Your needs are new and different in shape than the needs you used to work to meet. Even your body and physical appearance shift. Never in ways you like or appreciate. You age in an instant. It is reflected in every layer of who you are. And the way you think — your cognition — changes too. It suffers. I struggled with memory loss and disorientation after Evelyn died. I fell out of time. I couldn't focus for more than a few seconds. I was hypervigilant, unable to settle, full of anxiety and panic, waiting for the next blow. I couldn't read a book, much less write one. Three months after Evelyn's death I started my blog on grief and child loss. That first post was a struggle to write. I wrestled with every word, with the strength of will it took to hold myself still and shape the nameless hell I was feeling into cohesive sentences. My body flooded with dread as I faced the very real possibility that this all-important part of myself might be lost to me forever. I may never read or write the same way again. Now, nearly two years later, I can tell you that it's true. I will not ever read or write the same way again. But I can read, and I do write. It has been disheartening for me to face challenges that feel elementary in nature at this late stage of my life. To have to make excuses when I can't recall a word as simple as "similar" during conversation. To sit down to something as basic as writing an email and find my mind wandered moments in, and I have spent the last three hours (or three days) doing countless other tasks instead. To experience bone-deep fatigue after writing only a few paragraphs, or to realize that after a solid eight-hour day of trying, I am fortunate to have squeezed out a few pages. It takes me much longer to read a book now than it ever did before. And I am far more apt to put one down without finishing it. I feel slow and clumsy as my mind stumbles over the words it would have glided past so smoothly once. Writing fiction has produced a host of new challenges I never faced until recently. I can't often recall how I described this or that, what I've already addressed or haven't, where I wrote certain scenes when I need to refer to them again. It gums the process. It feels like writing on the dark side of the moon, looking enviously at others who get to enjoy the glow and remembering how much easier that once made everything. But what I can say is that I can see where, over time, incremental improvement is being made. I don't think I'll ever be completely without the cognitive issues PTSD and grief have gifted me with, but I do think they will continue to lessen, and I will continue to grow and refine my repertoire of coping skills. And the upside is that I don't take my successes and achievements for granted now, even if it's just completing a chapter or ⁠— most recently ⁠— finishing a whole novel. I know how much harder I've worked for that, and what a miracle it is to actually accomplish it. I hear a lot of writers complain about comparison, about how it feels when they think they should be keeping up with someone else's word count or success story. I can't say I'm immune to that, but I can say I am far less likely to participate in it than I once was. I know my life, my mind are different. And so my process and my outcome will be different as well. Not less, just mine. I sometimes wish I could impart a tiny grain of this experience to others, so they could order their priorities, feel the foruitousness of their circumstances, stop punishing themselves for such small infractions of perfection. So they could see and feel the wonder of being on the moon at all. So they could appreciate the light more.

Preventing a Tragedy like the Fosters'

In Resurrection Girls, main character, Olivia, is grappling with a family deeply paralyzed by their grief several years after the accidental drowning of her three-year-old baby brother. Robby's tragic loss mirrors the stories I heard or read growing up. Stories about kids who toddled into backyard pools, slipped under the bathwater, or found their way to ponds, lakes, or nearby rivers. My own tragic tale of child loss, the death of my beautiful daughter, Evelyn, does not come with so obvious a cause to point to. I cannot fill in the backyard pool as Olivia's father does in the story, or shake my fist at the unforgiving ocean. I cannot teach safety skills to other parents in hopes of preventing another needless death like Ev's. Because we still don't know or understand what took Evelyn's life. But as the author of this book, a book that features the aftermath of a childhood drowning, I can raise awareness of drowning prevention, water safety, and organizations like Live Like Jake Foundation, who work and fundraise tirelessly to support families who have suffered a drowning accident and prevent others from joining their ranks. Several months ago, I spoke at length with Stacy Van-Santen, a director at Live Like Jake Foundation. We bonded over the senselessness of child loss and the struggle for families to carry on in the wake of tragedy. We covered many topics like drowning statistics — drowning is a leading cause of death in children ages 1 through 4, 86% of parents are not taught drowning prevention measures or water safety skills by their pediatrician (or even have it brought up to be discussed at their child's appointments), and more than 77% of drownings in children under five occur in under five minutes — and the controversy over ISR, or Infant Swimming Resource, self-rescue survival swimming techniques taught to children between the ages of 6 months and 6 years. We talked about the mission of the Live Like Jake Foundation — awareness, education, self-rescue lessons, and scholarships for families with a child who experiences a near-drowning, or submersion incident, and often have lingering healthcare costs as a result. And we circled back again and again to one resounding point — how families view a tragedy like accidental drowning as something that will never happen to them, making awareness and education that much harder to drive home. There is a distancing technique that happens among the unbereaved. I've witnessed it several times myself since losing our daughter and can remember the experience vividly in my life before. It is the quiet but unrelenting belief that that other mother, that other family, is somehow not like yours, somehow deficient, somehow less than. They missed the signs you would never. They failed where you would succeed. It's harder to convince yourself of with a death like Evelyn's because we have so little to go on. Her loss cannot be chalked up to a lack of parental supervision or bad judgment. But when it comes to something like drowning, it's easy for parents to think they can and will watch their kids close enough that they don't have to worry. And that's simply not true. Ask any mother, and she will have a story to tell about her child slipping away, about that time they let themselves out the back gate or scribbled on the freshly-painted walls or ate an entire plate of brownies, all while she was right there watching. In a matter of minutes, or even seconds, kids can find trouble. Most of the time its benign. But it only takes one opportunity for it to be dangerous, damaging, even fatal. Stacy and I both want to stress the importance of educating yourself on drowning prevention. Live Like Jake Foundation proposes a four-pronged approach: fences, locks, alarms, and lessons. It's not as easy as choosing not to have a pool installed at home. Young children can drown in less than two inches of water, making everything from the bathroom toilet to a backyard fountain a risk. And in any given year, you may visit multiple places that house a pool or other water feature, or are near a natural body of water. If you're a parent of small children, please take a minute to visit the Live Like Jake Foundation website or speak to your pediatrician about drowning prevention. If you're a sibling of small children, you can absolutely advocate for their safety by sharing this information with your parents. For more information on childhood drowning and how you can help, visit livelikejake.com.

A Husky Lover Responds to Jerome Flynn

In totally unbookish news, Jerome Flynn — star who plays Bronn in Game of Thrones — has joined with PETA to post a video asking people to STOP buying Siberian Huskies, Alaskan Malamutes, and other wolfdog breeds from breeders and pet shops, and to consider adopting instead. Apparently, the popularity of the show combined with the wild appeal of the "direwolves" that appear in it has created a 420% increase in abandoned wolfdog breeds, or dog breeds that resemble wolves. Prior to its airing, the Dogs Trust charity reported 79 abandoned huskies, malamutes, and akitas in a year. However, by last year (2018), they were reporting 411 abandoned dogs of these same breeds. I believe Dogs Trust is a UK charity, but I wouldn't be surprised if shelters and charities in the US were seeing similar numbers. Because this breed — Siberian Husky — is so completely near and dear to my heart, I really wanted to speak to this and provide some encouragement, as well as some reasonable discouragement, based on our own experience. First off, huskies in shelters is already a bit of a thing without the help of Game of Thrones. Notorious escape artists, these lovers of freedom can be very bad about getting out of yards and fences and roaming until they can't find their way back. So they often get picked up and placed in shelters. If you want to own a husky and avoid this dilemma, you need to do three things: Secure your back yard or garden (or at least be prepared to). That may require higher fencing or even underground, dig-proof fencing depending on the determination of your dog. Supervise your husky. Our Ari was not allowed outside alone for many months. She is now let out to potty and let back in as soon as she wants to come in. We NEVER leave her outside unattended when we leave the house. Stimulate your husky. This breed is so, SO smart. They have sharp, inquisitive minds and they want to use them. Yes, they are energetic. But more than that, they love to figure things out and problem solve. And they need near-constant interaction. Bored dogs get into trouble. And finally, to be on the safe side, chip your dog. Even with the best intentions, your pup may get out of your hands. There are videos all over YouTube of huskies on roofs, on fence tops, on counter tops, on tables — nearly anywhere a dog shouldn't be. A chip will increase your chances of getting your baby back if this happens. We're lucky that Ari does not try to escape ever. But she rarely has opportunity. She is hardly ever alone and when she is, she is crated. In addition, because Ari is a shy/fearful dog, she behaves more like her ancient wolf ancestors might have and less like most huskies do today, which means she is very skittish of new people and experiences. That also seems to make her less likely to wander. She is most confident with her pack, a.k.a. us. So she seldom wants to be anywhere on her own. Aside from the escaping, huskies can have a lot of special needs. I don't want to discourage anyone from owning one of these lovely dogs, because they are THE BEST. Ari has literally saved us, and we don't know what we'd do or where we would be without her. You will not love or laugh harder than you will with a husky. But I do want to encourage you to do your homework and prepare yourself. We researched the breed and still discovered many things we were not prepared for. We have had to adapt our lives to continue to care for Ari in the best way possible, including paying for expensive (but so worth it) sessions with a dog behaviorist and rehoming our beloved pet cats of more than ten years. If you're thinking of owning a Siberian Husky or another breed like it, here are some things you need to be aware of first: Hair: It's everywhere. You will need to love your dog more than your house, more than your clothes, more than your food, lungs, etc. It will kill your vacuum. It is a plague. This is not exaggeration. Prey Drive: If you own any other kind of small animal, a husky is probably not for you, or could become a problem. This can include other small dogs. Ari thinks other small dogs are prey. She thought her cat-sisters were prey. Everything smaller than her (and thankfully she is small for her breed) is prey. That means she wants to chase it, catch it, and eat it in that order. And she does not care how much you scream her name at the top of your lungs or wave slices of lunch meat at her when she in "predator mode". Resource Guarding: This is not always a husky thing, though I see it mentioned more often with malamutes. Resource guarding means we can not have small children around our dog. It means we have to avoid buying certain treats and must read our dog's body language very well. It does not mean our dog is aggressive or dominant or bad. Exercise: These are high energy dogs that love to run and play and interact. They need walks, even with a large, fenced yard. They need to play with you every day. And they get very hyper multiple times a day (zoomies — it's a thing, look it up). Stimulation: I think this is even more important than exercise. These dogs need to interact with their people a lot. They need to have their minds engaged. Walks with lots of sniffing and puzzle toys help. We let our girl tear open cardboard boxes to get treats and toys. Car rides and baby pools and other fun and novel activities can help too. And even with all of that, she still tries to chew through our deck to see what's underneath. Claws: So, it turns out that huskies have these wonderfully adapted claws and toes for gripping ice. They are also excellent at gripping hardwood, solid bamboo, and other expensive flooring options besides carpet and tile. Our two-year old brand new flooring was trashed inside of six months. Had I not been in a stupor of grief and PTSD, I might have thought to get enough rugs before bringing the new puppy home. But then again, had I not been in a stupor of grief and PTSD, I would not have gotten the puppy at all. Destruction: Huskies can be destructive. If they are left alone they can become anxious and tear things up. Not small things like stuffed animals or throw pillows, but big things like couches. We have fortunately been able to reroute most of Ari's destructive nature with puzzle toys and things we allow her to tear up (like old boxes). But she continues to try to eat her way through our solid wood deck, scraping off the paint and getting splinters in her lips. She also thinks our recycle bin is her personal toy chest. So, there's that. All the Rest: Every dog is an individual. In addition to husky things, we have a lot of Ari things to contend with. For starters, she is a kleptomaniac. Combined with her resource guarding, this makes for really fun Saturday afternoon hostage negotiations. Because you never just walk up and try to take something away from a resource guarder. Unless stitches are your idea of a good time. She is also shy/fearful like I mentioned. Which is kind of like having an emotional support dog for PTSD who needs an emotional support dog for PTSD. The never-ending list of things Ari is still afraid of includes trash cans, other dogs over ten pounds, the beach, strangers, anything made of metal, the vacuum cleaner, and luggage. So the long and short of my response to Jerome's plea is this: I second him that you should try and adopt a husky or other wolf lookalike breed once you've decided that you are really ready for everything that package comes with. We bought our dog for so many reasons I won't go into, some of which I still appreciate. And I'll never regret that we got Ari because without us she could have easily ended up in a shelter, considering all of her special needs. That said, I did not know the plight of these breeds then. Eventually, we'd love to adopt a second husky, but Ari is still too scared of other dogs for that to be an option right now. If you are in our area (Texas) and are interested in adopting a sled dog, I recommend you get in touch with Texas Husky Rescue or Texas Sled Dog Rescue, or find a similar rescue group in your state. Additionally, Texas Sled Dog Rescue posts listings of sled dogs in shelters throughout the state on their Facebook page. You can read the full article from Daily Mail here. And as a bonus, enjoy these shameless but adorable dog pics of our sweet husky girl, Ari. And remember to preorder your copy of RESURRECTION GIRLS now! (If not for yourself, do it for me. If not for me, do it for the dog.) Click here to preorder on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Indiebound, or Books a Million. Click here to add it to your Goodreads. Click here to go to my Books page and read more about Resurrection Girls. And click here to subscribe to my newsletter so you don't miss a single thing coming up about Resurrection girls and Ava Morgyn. Finally, you can view my Husky Love Pinterest board here.