Kelly Coon's Blog, page 3

How to Manage the Circus of Life and Write a Book, Too

Photo by Becky Phan on Unsplash

It's a three-ring circus at all times in my house. Ask my mom. She'll tell ya. 

Between shuttling three boys off to sports practices and games, running everyone to and from school activities, working, working out, and doing all the necessary stuff of life like grocery shopping, laundry, bill-paying, yard-tending, on and on and on, things can get a little...

...hectic.

Laundry can pile up and remain stacked on the dining room table. My office can get completely out of control with clutter. We can all subsist on quick, Mexican takeout for days on end (not that I'm complaining about that one).

When life in general is nutty, how in the world do you just casually toss in a "hobby" like writing novels? 

As I progress through this book journey of mine, I'm finding that what started as a little side-job is taking more and more and more of the center stage. So, I've had to get really clever to fit everything in. Here are some of my foolproof tricks for managing life while also writing a novel:

Say "no" to things that don't bring you any joy or don't add any value to your life.

Yes, I'd say that scrubbing the toilet does not bring me any joy, but since it adds value, namely the value in not smelling the wolfish scent of urine from four males, I scrub, scrub away. But I'm talking about all the other things that contribute to the clutter in our lives we can easily nix: attending the birthday parties of every single kid in class. Signing up for events in which you don't want to participate. Going out with friends when you just don't feel like it. Volunteering past your availability in the community. It's okay to say no once in a while. IT IS, I SWEAR. 

Be honest about how you spend your time.  

A few months ago, I sat down and wrote out my weekly schedule from wake-up until bedtime. Do you know what I discovered, despite the crazed madness that is my normal life? I had 11.5 hours of free time each week that I either wasn't utilizing well (TV, social media, etc.), OR had completely free and didn't recognize it. Sometimes, just looking at your schedule head-on can alert you to the free time you actually DO have. 

Speaking of schedules...give one a go. 

I have been harassed loudly and with little tact about adhering to a schedule, but guess how I get things done, friends? I'm an editor for Blue Ocean Brain, a novelist, the marketing and promotions lead for our vacation rental business, a wife, and the mother of three little boys. I don't have time not to have a schedule. Yes, I unwind the ol' clock on the weekends and allow myself to relax (sleeping in on Saturday mornings is my THING), but having a schedule, and being disciplined enough to stick to it, helps me do the things I'm passionate about doing. 

Decide what you love. 

If you truly want to write a book, then you will write it. Nothing will stop you from fulfilling that desire of your heart, because it can't. Your own insecurities, busyness, family, commitments, and jobs will not stand in your way if getting that book on paper is your passion. You make time for the things that are important to you. If you don't, then maybe they aren't as important as you think they are. Ask yourself why you're trying to write this novel of yours. If it isn't for the love of it, then you may never find the time to devote to it that you need to. 

Forgive yourself for not having it all together.

Here's something I've learned as I've connected with so many wonderful, amazing women: no one has it all figured out. Yes, there are women who will be more successful than you. Yes, there are women who will have a sparkly clean house and organized Tupperware who go to work doing something amazing for humanity. Yes, there are women who have never once screamed at their children. (FYI, I am not one of them.) But even those women don't have it all figured out. Be kinder to yourself. Treat yourself as if you are your own best friend. Would you castigate your friend for sending her kid to school in wrinkly clothes or missing a deadline at work? Likely not. Champion yourself, believe in yourself, and forgive yourself for not being perfect. 

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My YA fantasy novel, GRAVEMAIDENS, comes out in the fall of 2019! Add it on Goodreads, below! =)

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What Editing a Novel for Publication is REALLY Like

Take it easy, lady. 

It's what I wanted to say the first time Kari Sutherland, my agent at Bradford Lit, did the first pass edit on my book. Since she used to be an editor at Harper Children's, a division of HarperCollins, (which was one of the reasons I queried her to begin with), she knew how to whip my book into the best shape it could possibly be so when we submitted it to editors, I'd have a fighting chance. 

I had no idea I was about to get SCHOOLED. 

Sure, I'd written a decent book. It caught her attention, didn't it? But GRAVEMAIDENS was nowhere near the YA novel it is today, and that is largely because of Kari's keen eye and the follow-up from Kelsey Horton, my editor at Delacorte/Penguin Random House. 

The GRAVEMAIDENS Editing Process

Now, before I sent my book out to try to find an agent, please keep in mind that I'd already completed several rounds of revisions myself. The first draft of any book I write is generally slop, so I have to go back through and make it as pretty as I can. Once Kari offered to represent me, GRAVEMAIDENS went on to polishing with her. 

Revision One: Kari tore into the big issues in her first pass edit. She wrote a 12-page document giving me insight into all of the characters and major plot holes. And hooboy, did I have some plot holes. So, after rolling around in agony thinking of all the work I had to do, I DID IT because I'm a good student, and sent it back to her. 

Revision Two: Not quite. She had me go back through some of my revisions and consider Kammani, my main character's, persona. Apparently, I'd written a character with a little too much sass, and not quite enough--how do I put it--likability. That was a little hard to swallow, but I dug deep, cried my eyes out, got over myself, shoved my personal failings into a closet, and got to work. Kammani emerged bright and beautiful with more heart than even I knew she could have. 

Revision Three: Line edits and annotations. Here, Kari went through my book line by line and suggested different phrasings or suggested I get rid of redundancy or wordiness or generally bad timing. She also hacked apart some of my not-so-clever jokes and made comments on my logic. Which wasn't always sound. I adjusted much of what she suggested because she is quite brilliant. 

Revision Four: Copyedits. This is where the commas and em-dashes and other what-not come into play. For the most part, I tend to write pretty cleanly--I am an editor. myself, although you may doubt that after you get this blog in its hastily-produced format--but there was some stuff. Mostly, I used the word bright like 189 times. And I couldn't figure out another way to talk about Rabi, one of the helpful Guardsmen in Kammani's life, without mentioning his eye color. So, there was some fixing to do. 

Once I fixed all that, we went out on submission to various editors in editor-land. Kari carefully chose who she thought would best match up with my book, and voila! She was right. Kelsey Horton picked up GRAVEMAIDENS which comes out in the fall next year and a yet-to-be-named sequel, which comes out in 2020. 

Now, I'm deep in the editing process with my editor, Kelsey. 

Revision Five: Kelsey did the same thing Kari had done. She went through a first pass edit, giving me big ideas about what she thought I should highlight and what she thought I might be able to nix. Cool thing? She wanted me to focus more attention on the girls who are to be buried alive upon the king's death, so I got to put a lot of insanely nifty details about their transformations from ordinary girls into Sacred Maidens in the book.

Also, upon her recommendation, I SLASHED one of my major characters--The Boatman--as I'd written some of the story from his point of view. That broke my heart a little bit, but after reworking the story, I realized that she was right. Darn her for being right!

I submitted my revision to her three weeks ago, and now I'm waiting for her line edits (Revision Six), which will be coming next. Then, it'll be off to copyedits, which will be Revision Seven. 

So, if you have any inkling that writers like me just wake up one day and write a story, then sell it to a big publishing house like I've done without a CRAP TON OF REVISING involved, then you're sorely mistaken, as was I before I plunged into the world of publishing. 

But honestly? I wouldn't trade it for a bucket of gold. I've learned so much, and am having the time of my life. 

It's Been a Year Since I Almost Gave Up On My Dream

If you'd told me a year ago today that I'd be sitting at my dining room table signing my contract for an unbelievable two-book deal from Penguin Random House, the world's leading trade book publisher, I would've asked you what you'd been drinking, and if you had any more to share. 

You see, right around this time last year, I'd decided I was delusional. I'd tried for ten years to get the publishing contract I'd so desperately wanted. I'd written four separate young adult novels, queried illustrious agents from all over the United States, and had been essentially told the same thing:

Buzz off. 

The day I decided to give up was bleak. I sat on the couch next to Matt after receiving another "it's not you, it's me" rejection email from a literary agent I had just known was going to be right for me. My heart felt as though someone had sent it through a paper shredder. While tears streamed from my eyes, I contemplated my own sanity.

Aloud. 

"I'm delusional. That's it. I've lost my mind. Yes, I am a good writer, but I am not a good enough writer for this. FOR THIS." I waved my phone in the air, that horrible, miserable messenger of doom, and leaned back against the cushions. 

"You're not delusional, babe."

"CLEARLY I AM." I blew my nose into a tissue and felt like melting into the couch, seeping in between the cushions, and disappearing into the cracks with all the Cheez-it dust and pennies and half-chewed dog bones, never to be seen again.

What was the point? 

I literally couldn't do it. I couldn't. I'd written four novels. I'd queried over a hundred agents in the past ten years. I'd been to writing conferences, participated in Twitter Pitch parties, taken a novel-writing workshop, read books on craft, researched and planned and studied and crafted and edited and tried and tried and tried.

I even had my undergraduate degree in CREATIVE WRITING for heaven's sake. 

Novel writing, apparently, was beyond me. 

It was better that I stick to what I knew, move on, and forget about fiction. I'd work at my editorial job, (which I loved), blog, and pick up creative freelance gigs when I could. I was kidding myself. I HAD been kidding myself. I thought I knew what I was doing, but I was so incredibly wrong. 

Matt looked at me, his brows knotted in concern, set his computer aside, and pulled me to him, tucking me neatly underneath his arm. He kissed the top of my head and murmured as I cried and said he was sorry and that the agent who'd rejected me was stupid. 

Then, he told me what I needed to hear: I wasn't delusional. I was a great writer, and someone, someday would recognize it. He told me not to quit. Not to even think about it, because that's not the Kell he knew and loved. His Kell wasn't a quitter. 

My mom told me the same thing when I called her, crying my eyes out, asking if I had any talent at all. If I ever had. She repeated Matt's refrain. She said I'd come this far and couldn't quit now, because I was made of tougher stuff than that. I'd find a way. She said that one day, I'd be sitting there with a book deal in my hand, and a novel about to be on every shelf, and I'd look back at this moment and laugh. 

And...you know what? They were right. Because, here I am, contract in hand, signing my name in triplicate, and tucking the dozens of sheets into an envelope addressed to Penguin Random House, where some guy in the legal department has a file with my name on it.

But, despite what my mom said, I don't look back on the moment of despair and laugh. I look back on it with tears rolling down my cheeks. In fact, I'm wiping them away now as I type this. But this time, the tears are ones of absolute joy. And maybe a little bit of nerves. But mostly, heart-bursting levels of joy. Because I know the amount of work it took to get me here, and the number of people I needed to push me along. Sometimes (scratch that--ALL THE TIME), you need people in your corner, rooting for you. You need family members and friends to pull you out of the dirt of self-loathing and help you untangle the chains of misery from around your throat. 

On that day,  I was ready to give up. But you know what? That Tuesday was just TWO DAYS before Kari Sutherland, my DREAM agent, someone I'd queried without any real hope of getting a response, let alone an offer, sent me the email I've copied below. Just before I struck gold--was a mere millimeter away from it--I was ready to put down the shovel. 

And it's okay to have those moments of gloom, as long as when you're at your weakest, when you're ready to tap out, you have some else's strong arms pulling you back into the ring. 

Thank GOD, my mom and Matt were there for me that day. 

Every day. 

"Dear Kelly,

My apologies for the delay in getting back to you, as I'm sure you're eager to send this manuscript out. As such, I wanted to send you an update although I'm not quite finished yet. I'm two-thirds of the way in and really enjoying it, although I do have some editorial suggestions. I was wondering if you have any time either on Monday or Tuesday of next week for a phone call to discuss the project, my feedback, and for us to get to know one another better.

Best wishes,
Kari"

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Alessia Dickson is a Teen Author and Motivational Speaker Despite her Illness

Full Name: Alessia DicksonHometown: Toronto, OntarioAge: 18 Tell Me About Your Strength!

I'm an award winning motivational speaker and teen author of my YA book series, The Crystal Chronicles. I stared writing at novels at age 6 and began writing The Crystal Chronicles at age 10. When I was in tenth grade at age 15, I published my book and it was eventually released a year later just after my 16 birthday! Soon after, I began touring local elementary and high schools as a motivational speaker, empowering students to dream big and realize their own potential. Since my publication, I've toured 48 schools and have spoken to over 20,000 students. I've won literary awards, appeared in a television interview, and was featured in a magazine article alongside James Patterson. I'm currently working on releasing my second book, and of course, continuing my work as a motivational speaker and attending university!

What a lot of people don't know however, is that I suffer from a debilitating chronic migraine disorder, which is actually one of the most debilitating diseases in the world! It has caused huge mental health issues in my life and I lost almost a year of school due to the condition. I'm a huge advocate for mental health and continuing to achieve things and keeping up hope while living with a physical disability. I would love to share my story to empower as many young people as I can! 

Alessia's website

Alessia, you are truly an inspiration to me! I can't imagine achieving what you've achieved at your age, but it goes to show you that you cannot discount someone just because she is young. I'm so impressed that you continue to fight for what you want despite your chronic condition. Way to show your strength! XOXO - KellyAre you a strong young woman? Click here to tell me your story and you could be featured, too!

An Afternoon With the Divine Keys

This past Saturday, I was invited by a couple of my friends to a ladies luncheon at Brio Tuscan Grille, which is ridiculously good if you haven't had it. The creme brulee alone is enough to send your eyes rolling into the back of your head in pure, unadulterated bliss. 

I, of course, decided to go. I got to buy a new dress (burgundy was the theme), and got an afternoon away from the kids to spend with women who are decidedly some of my favorite people on the planet. Sylvia and Dawn, you know who you are. 

I had no idea what "The Divine Keys" were, but I expected heavenly food, great conversation, and a good cause; we'd all lugged in canned goods to support a food bank, after all. But I was unprepared for the absolute delight of a lunch spent in the company of women who believe in what they are doing. 

The Divine Keys, "is a concept, not a social group," says Celeste Salgado, the woman behind the annual luncheon. She started the event seven years ago, so that women could get together to share aspects of their lives to help each other grow, nourish each others' spirits, and uplift one another with kindness, praise, and heartfelt warmth.

Outside of this past Saturday, I'm not sure I've ever been at a lunch that does exactly that. 

A trio of singers started the lunch with gospel songs that had nearly everyone up on her feet. When we sat back down and dove into our meals, a presenter, a high-powered sales rep, spoke eloquently about weaving her marriage back together after it had come unraveled. Another presenter, a woman in the C-suite at a banking institution in Tampa, lifted the entire room in praise as she told the story of waiting on God's timing for everything in her life from her studies at Brown University to her bold career moves to her recent marriage. 

I sat in awe at the power of these women's words as they spoke with such vulnerability and passion, and was humbled by the way each of them opened herself up to the rest of us without fear. 

At the end, when the emcee asked each of us to peer into our little golden gift bags to reveal which "key" we were to focus on for the upcoming year, we uncovered things like "Health" (which was mine), "Dreams," and "Break-throughs."  These little challenges were the perfect way to end the lunch, and personally, I was glad I pulled the health key, especially considering the way I'd devoured most of that creme brulee. 

To date, the Divine Keys has blossomed, tendrils spinning off from the main vine with offshoot clubs for runners, book divas, marriage groups, and charities. In fact, while we were at the lunch, those responsible for charity asked for donations to help support two teenage girls who'd aged out of foster care and were living alone.

To say I was blessed by this luncheon would be an understatement. I felt encouraged, warmly welcomed, and inspired to get out there and do something good for someone else in this world. 

And if that isn't divine, I don't know what is. 

 

Despite Her Nerves, Olivia Stepped Up to Be the Leader

Full Name: Olivia RackHometown: Cincinnati, OHAge: 14 Tell Me About Your Strength!

Around September of 2015, my select soccer season finally began. I was beyond exited to start off the season and to see my soccer friends after a very long time. After a couple of weeks of training and hard work, my coach thought it was a good time to pick someone to be the captain of the team, or the leader on the field in other words.

I thought that it would be such an honor to be chosen for such a great role.

Later that week, it was time to announce who was going to be chosen. I was anxiously waiting to hear who he was going to pick. Once I heard my name I was thrilled! I was also nervous since being captain is such a big role. As captain you have to talk to the ref about their outrageous calls, cheer up your teammates after a rough game or practice, always be encouraging, always stay positive, and most importantly, never give up. I knew it may be hard, but I was ready. My strength is to always encourage others to work hard and to be a leader.

Something Unique About Me: I love volunteering to help out others in my community.

Olivia, I'm so happy you stepped up to take on this leadership position even though you were nervous. You learn the most about your strength when you face your fears head-on. So proud of you! XOXO - KellyAre you a strong young woman? Click here to tell me your story and you could be featured, too!

Bounce Back

I love rap music.

The rhythm.

The engagement of the senses.

The raw emotion—fear, anger, rage, triumph, sadness, bravado.

I think this love is a natural fit for me as a writer. Rap artists can make their words pop like bullets from a gun (Eminem, Busta Rhymes, Bone Thugs N Harmony) or let them slide over you like a caress (Nas, Rakim). Many rap artists are incredibly clever with their turn of phrase—Biggie, Tupac, Jay Z—as they weave their stories of grief, rage and triumph with puns, hyperbole, synecdoche, and irony.

Others are incredible crafters of language. Eminem, in particular, masters alliteration, onomatopoeia, and assonance so well, his songs are pure poetry that hum and snap to the bassline.

I know many people disagree with the level of violence, sexuality, profanity, and misogyny in rap lyrics, and there are some beats I won't listen to because the words hit me in all the wrong places. But there are some I go to again and again when I'm driving alone, or running hard and need to feel something through the words and the downbeat.

One of those is Big Sean's "Bounce Back." You can listen to the clean version in the video below. This song is more than just the sounds of the words or the rhythm for me (although I can't help myself but dance when this comes up next on my playlist). It's the message behind the words.  "Last night I took a L, but tonight I bounce back."

He took a loss. But he bounced back from the loss to stand triumphant. And he did it with hard work and determination:

"Yeah, I call shots while you call off

Never takin' summer or fall off

When you stay that committed to it, you just fall down and never fall off."

In my current line of work—writing—there's no better message for me. Because I experience failure all the time. I submit essays that aren't picked up. Someone reads something I've written and sends me an email explaining the ways I've gotten it all wrong, and after I contemplate, I realize maybe the person is right.

But, like Big Sean, I take the L, and I bounce back with a little bit more perspective. I work hard at correcting my many and varied mistakes, and get back at it.

Listen to the song below and pay attention to the message. Then, just try to refrain yourself from singing "I WOKE UP IN BEAST MODE" at the top of your lungs after you get a little inspired.

It's impossible. ;-)

When Motherhood and Dreams Collide

My celebration flowers from my husband, and Brennan, the notorious photo-bomber.

"Are you sitting down?"

The question travels more than 2,500 miles to get to me.

It pings from my literary agent's cell phone in Southern California across the desert states, through the vastness of the Texas prairies and the Louisiana bayous until it lands, like a promise, in my ear near Tampa, Florida.

"Yes, I am!!!! Why? Do I need to be?"

Goosebumps pop out on my arms, the arms in which my preschooler is currently wriggling around. He didn't nap. He was supposed to have napped. Of all days, this was the day I needed him to just lie down in his room and sleep for once in his four-year-old life.

It's a crazy Thursday morning in an even crazier Halloween week. I'd joined my kids at school for Trunk or Treat two days ago, we'd trick-or-treated half the night, I'd spoken at a women's group yesterday, I'd just received a huge project from work this morning, and our school's fall festival, of which I am a chair, is tomorrow night. I'd spent an hour earlier today filling up my grocery cart with hot dogs, popsicles, condiments, and buns while attempting to keep Brennan from climbing the cereal shelves.

To say I am frazzled is to say the Carolina reaper pepper is spicy: understatement of the year.

And now, I'm seated at my desk, breathless with anticipation while Brennan whacks me with a tiny packet of Whoppers filched from the Halloween stash. "Mommy! I can't open it!"

"Shhh! I'm talking to my agent!" And this is the phone call I've been waiting for my whole life!

Today, I'd find out if Penguin Random House would publish my two young adult novels, the first of which I'd been working on for years. Years. Brennan, of course, does not care. He wants the chocolate, and I'm the one who can assist.

I'm Mommy, opener of candy, kisser of boo-boos, massager of backs, fixer of lunches, scolder of naughtiness, and driver of children. Laundress extraordinaire…maybe on a good day.

But definitely not some random author whose hopes and dreams rest in the next words this woman on the other line is going to say. He doesn't care that my heart is jack-hammering in the agony of the seconds before she replies.

I take the chocolate from him, my ear pressed into my cell phone. "I'm listening, Kari! What did they say??" I try to tear the wrapper. It doesn't budge.

She laughs on the other end of the line. "Are you ready for it?"

"Yes!" I screech, biting the end of the packet. The stupid thing won't open.

"Well…It's a two-book deal, Kell. They've met our counter offer."

"WHAT?!"

"Yes. I'm serious!" She laughs. "You're going to be published with Penguin Random House!"

My hair stands on end as my throat tightens. "Really?"

"Yes!" she cries. "Yes, it's true!"

A laugh mingled with a half-sob works its way out of my mouth, as tears spring to my eyes "I CANNOT BELIEVE IT!"

"It's true!"

And then I'm laughing and crying at the same time. Years of pent-up emotion spills to the surface and down my cheeks. Kari says things over the line, but I'm not getting most of it, so she promises to send an email with the details and give me a half hour to compose myself before she officially accepts.

I hit end on my phone, and wilt onto the floor, bringing Brennan with me, crying into his golden hair with wild abandon. It's the closest to hysteria I think I've ever been. My blood feels like it's going to burst right out of my skin. I've finally—FINALLY—caught up to the dream I've been running down, and that sucker was fast.

But Brennan still wants his chocolate.

"Mommy! Open it, Mommy!" He wiggles out of my arms, and takes the chocolate from my clenched fists. He dangles it in front of my face.

The mother in me wants to get after him about his demands. Tell him to use his polite words. Put him back in his room and ask that he take his required rest time, even if he isn't going to sleep. Attend to his needs and his desires. You know, like I typically do.  

But for a moment, I allow the mother in me to take a backseat to the little girl in me curled up with The Bridge to Terebithia in her butterfly bedroom, wondering how those magic words could make her feel so much inside. Wondering if someday, she could possibly make another person feel that way, too.  

I throw my head back and laugh long and loud and hard into my office, filling up the room with my joy.

"Mommy! I don't like it when you laugh like that!" Brennan puts both hands over his ears and stares me down like I've lost my mind.

I mostly have.

"But I did it, Brennan! I did it!" I pull him back to me in a bear hug. I give into my joy, and let it take me away. I ignore his pleading and whining, and allow myself to push away the thought that says I should get a grip, attend to his needs, and get on with my day.

"No you didn't open it!" He holds up the candy. "It's right here!"

Laughing, I take it from him and wrench it open with one mighty tug. I coax the three little chocolates out and into his grubby, outstretched hand. "That's not what I meant, bud." I wipe the tears from my face as he pops all three candies into his mouth and chews.

Chocolate runs down his chin and I wipe it away, planting a kiss on this green-eyed boy who pushes me past my breaking point some days. I can't explain the thrill of what I've just experienced to him—the absolute bliss. He wouldn't understand the bitter tears I've shed before this day. The thousands of hours I've spent honing my craft. The endless fighting through the roughest days and forlorn nights to get to this exact moment on this exact day.

He would not get it, because he doesn't see me as someone with dreams. I’m just Mom.

But I'm well-acquainted with the dreamer in me. The little girl who stayed inside to read when the other kids played in the yard, joined the journalism staff in high school, and studied creative writing in college.  And now, looking back on her, this girl who grew to be a woman with a fierce longing in her chest, I take her hand across the expanse of time and whisper: "You did it. Believe it or not, girl, you did it."

And then, because I am a mom, an unshakeable, undeniable fact, I take my littlest boy in my arms again and squeeze him tight, knowing that because of the 2,500-mile conversation I had today, I may one day be able to understand him a bit more if he's ever nipping at the heels of a monumental dream, and wondering how fast he can run.

My deal! Woohoo!

Rachael Tried to Be a Light On the Darkest Day

Full Name: Rachael HamadHometown: Cincinnati, OHAge: 14 (almost 15!)Tell Me About Your Strength!

On November 10, 2016, I walked into school on what I thought was a normal 8th grade day. My friend and I were walking to homeroom all cheery, but when I walked into the classroom, my mood drastically changed. All of my classmates were crying uncontrollably and I had no idea what to do. I was so confused as to what was happening. I asked one of the girls in my class what was going on. She told me that a 7th grade boy on the football team had committed suicide. 

I practically went into shock. I had heard of this boy but I didn’t know him very well. Even though I only heard of his name and knew his face, it made an impact on me. The rest of that day, my classmates and I went to many counselors, the principal, and other members of the school staff. They were trying to help us make sense of what had just happened, but it didn’t really help.

I couldn’t grasp the incident.

I talked to some of his friends and teammates on the football team and they didn’t understand either. They said he was relatively happy all the time and didn’t seem like he was going through anything so bad that he would make the choice to kill himself. This made me realize that people, not only in my generation, but everyone, need to be nice to everyone around them. They don’t know what others are going through and we need to treat others the way that we want to be treated. I know this phrase is used a lot, but it’s so true, and I can’t express it enough. You never know what’s going through someone’s mind and we need to realize that.

That day, my friends came to me to talk about this. They recognized my strength of being able to talk to others easily and being able to help. I helped them through the day, and tried to make them a bit happier even though it wasn’t easy. My goal was to put a smile on their faces and get through the horrible day that changed us all.

Rachael, I'm so sorry you had to experience this, but I'm so grateful for the message you've given us today: treat everyone with kindness because you never know the struggles they are going through . XOXO - KellyAre you a strong young woman? Click here to tell me your story and you could be featured, too!

Spring Rain

The spring morning smelled of dank earth. Dense clouds, thick and rolling, hung heavy on the horizon. A few leftover drops from last night’s shower ran in rivulets down the drain where she could hear the water surging beneath the city.   

She couldn’t cry anymore.

Her throat burned like tears, but the rain that fell from bloated clouds could not fall from empty eyes. Her cheek still ached from his back-handed blow. She traced shaky fingers across the swell. At least her injury came from his open hand and not his fist this time, or a belt like last Memorial Day when Patty from down the road found her sprawled on the tile, beaten bloody.

A door creaking open and shutting softly raised the hair on the back of her neck.  Heavy, wing-tipped footsteps echoed down the hall and he appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, shaking drops off his overcoat. Holding two dozen long-stemmed red roses.

Twelve more than last time.

Go away.

“Babe." He cleared his throat. "Will you forgive me?”

His request resonated loudly in the room, like pots and pans on her eardrums.

No.  

But she would. She always did.

His face made her dizzy –his hangdog look. He wasn’t sorry. She pressed her fingers against her eyes and ached for gin. Anything.

“Are you okay?” He moved to steady her when she swayed on her feet. The inaccuracy of his concern and unwanted touch snapped her back to reality. With a valiant effort, she yanked her arm from his grasp and turned away. Felt herself go hallow. She heard his sharp intake of breath. Behind her, his tension seethed.

Fear tingled up over her hairline and she apologized. She murmured something about being tired, glancing up the stairs toward her bedroom.  She heard his ragged breath behind her—the barely controlled rage. 

His apology was hoarse. Forced. “Baby. I am sorry. You have to believe me. This will never happen again.” 

She stared at her feet.

"I know I get a little out of control. I need to change things. I know that. Will you look at me?” 

She started counting. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three…

He slammed his fist into the wall near her head.

Flinching, she gave in. Turned to face him. He took her face in his hands. Her gaze drifted to the clock near the stairs. 

“Why do you bait me when you know…” he ended the sentence with compressed lips. Then dropped his hands.

“Look. I'm sorry. I know it's not your fault." He shook his head.

"I have to leave. I’ve got that work thing—if I could skip it I would—but when I get back, I’ll fix it, Jen. I'll fix it. I promise you.”

His fervent face swam in front of her eyes. 

“Okay,” she whispered and backed away from him. “I’m going to bed.”

“Are you sure you're all right?"

"Right as rain." She laughed lightly, but her voice sounded strange. She drifted away from him, slipping up the curved staircase.

"Jen?"

She turned. 

"Put the roses in some water or they'll die.”

* * * * *

He flew out to Chicago that night, straight from work. This trip would give him time to think about his marriage. He knew he'd made mistakes. He knew he needed to change. She did too, he thought, then silenced himself. Obviously her mistakes were smaller than his.

The sun dipped low in the sky as he jammed his hands deep into his pockets and stared out the window over Michigan Avenue. Below, people scurried past. A man placed his hand on a woman's back as they trotted across the street to make the light. The last ray of sun felt warm as he lifted his face to the amber horizon. It glowed gold, then the softest pink.

Unbidden, the image of his infant son's flushed face crept into his mind. That little nose. The tiny stubs of eyelashes. The pink in his cheeks the seconds before he'd gone limp in his wife's arms. His skin had been so soft. Impossibly soft. Like feathers. And when he'd felt that small pulse at his son's throat shudder, then give way...well then. His eyes pricked at the memory. He remembered his wife's shoulders. How they'd looked so fragile, so tiny, as she'd cradled the baby and keened in agony. He'd tried to help, bumbling his massive hands into all the wrong things and eventually staggering out of the room so he didn't explode into a million pieces.

They'd never been right since. He'd never been right since.

He clenched a fist and vowed right then to make the necessary changes.  He'd never lay a hand on her again. It wasn't her fault. He had to believe that. He'd join AA. Quit drinking for good. Love her like he did in the beginning. He couldn't bring him back—no one could—but he could fix this.

Flight 242 from Chicago brought him back home to another rainy spring evening. Excited with the wide open field of possibilities shining like liquid sunshine before him, he slung his briefcase over his head and hurried through the downpour to his car. He slid wet onto the leather of the driver’s seat and was revving the engine when his cell phone buzzed in his breast pocket. 

It was Patty from down the road.

They’d found her face down in a bathtub full of rose petals. The police weren't saying much, but the housekeeper said her bottle of Valium was empty. 

A terrible waste. An inexplicable tragedy, Patty bleated into his ear. 

She said it wasn't his fault. 

His eyes held the truth as he stared numbly at the wiper blades slicking the water evenly away from the blur of his windshield. He gripped the steering wheel—wet from the rain—and hung his head.

Outside, the wind howled.