Delilah S. Dawson's Blog, page 10

We Hate Our Bodies, and It's Not Our Fault.

I'm going to tell you some deep, dark secrets here, and your job is to not do the following:

Do not comment that I'm wrong. Do not tell me what I am or what you think of my body. Just listen, because there's not enough of that going around.

The thing is, I don't like my body and I never have.

I want to, but I don't know how.

*

The first time I remember hating my body was when I was 7. I took gymnastics and ballet, and that year, both my gymnastics instructor and my ballet instructor pulled me aside and told me that I should consider dropping out of class because I had the wrong body type and was wasting my parents' time and money.

"You're just too fat," the gymnastics teacher said. "You can't even skin the cat."

"You might try Jazz," the ballet teacher said. "The costumes are more forgiving."

I quit both.

When I was 8, we were vacationing with another family, and their daughter was my age and the kind of girl the 1980s told us would always get the guy. Thin, blond, tan, bikini. I was pudgy, introverted, and tomboyish. There was a boy vacationing at the dock, and we hatched plans to meet him. I wore one of my dad's shirts over my bathing suit because even at age 8, I knew that mine was not a body that boys would like. She ended up kissing him while I sat on the roof of the houseboat and cried.

When I was in 10, a boy called me Gorilla Girl and pulled a tuft of hair out of my arm. He went on to mock my unibrow. I went home that night crying. My mom taught me how to shave my legs and pluck my eyebrows. I learned my body hair was ugly and must be destroyed. The boy still made fun of me, but for different reasons.

At 12, I had what I'm pretty sure was my first real bout of depression. I quit all the sports I loved, got dumped by my best friend, and quit caring about myself. I became an insomniac and spent most of my nights awake and watching the Disney channel with my parakeet. When I refused to wash my long hair, my mom had it all cut off. I thought I was getting rad, undercut, skater girl hair. I got the Mary Lou Retton wedge. My clothes weren't cool, I had bad hair, and I was overweight. It was a really, really bad year.

When I was 13, I got my period and started puberty. I was mocked for not wearing a bra, so I went out and bought bras. Then I was mocked for wearing a bra and had the band snapped by whoever was sitting behind me. "Your tits aren't big enough," a boy told me. My period was so bad that I bled through my pants at school and ended up staying home one day a month, sleeping on towels on top of garbage bags. I learned that boys did not like my body, and my body did not like me. I wore baggy clothes and played a lot of Mario and DuckTales. 

The summer between middle school and high school, I decided to pull a makeover montage on myself. I put myself on a strict exercise regimen, rode my bike 10 miles every morning, and stuck to a diet of 900 calories per day. If I was watching TV, I had to get up and do sit-ups or pull-ups throughout every commercial break. I let my hair grow out and studied fashion magazines and met a cute boy at the skating rink. He told me I was pretty. Then he told me he was gay.

Remember the blond girl in the bikini when I was 8? She invited me to my first boy-girl party. I was the heaviest girl there, and I had glasses. Every time the bottle landed on me, the boy nudged the bottle and said it was pointing at the girl next to me. I did not get kissed. But I learned most of the words to Ice Ice Baby, so there's that.

15 was better. My summer montage worked, and I was pretty. A boy in my pre-Cal class asked me out using a TI-81 calculator. We dated for nine months. He was my first kiss and various other things. He told me I was beautiful. But I never let him see me without clothes. When he came to the beach with my family, I wore a t-shirt over my one-piece bathing suit. I had confidence that my face was good enough, but my body felt like a dirty, ugly, lumpy secret. If I let someone see it, would they still like me? We broke up after the trip.

When I was 16, I messed around with a friend. I let him peel off my shirt and see my body under a streetlight by a lake. "You are a woman of definite curves," he said as he traced my stomach, and all my brain could recognize was that his girlfriend was thinner and more perfect than me and that I could never be what she was. It did not feel like a compliment.

I was pretty but overweight. I was smart but a nerd. So I overcompensated with snark and humor and cleverness. I became the cool girl. I made fun of girls who were too thin, who were fashionable, who knew what to do with makeup. I made them the enemy because I hated parts of myself. I thought if I was pointing fingers at their bodies, no one would notice mine.

I dated a boy who called me an angel. "I'm not an angel," I said, over and over again. He insisted I was. When I dumped him, he stalked and raped me. For a long time, my body felt like an alien thing, like my head was a balloon tethered to this dangerous, unpredictable landscape. My body had betrayed me. It hadn't fought-- it had lain there, limp, and taken the abuse. I felt empty inside. I wore baggy jeans and flannel shirts and big, stompy boots as armor. I didn't trust skirts anymore. I didn't trust anyone.

I tried to kill myself when I was seventeen. I failed. For a few years after that, I forgot to care so much about my body. There were other things to get depressed about, after all.

One day, after college, I was reading a fashion magazine and had a little epiphany. They were feeding me all this negative bullshit about my body, about how I needed to spend money on pills and makeup and undergarments and clothes and beauty products. They showed me women who were starving to death and used lots of exclamation points to tell me I could look like them if I followed Ten Easy Steps. I took off my clothes and looked in the mirror. It wasn't so horrible, this body. They were making me hate it. Everyone, from the media to my parents to the other kids to my gymnastics teacher, were making me hate myself. I got so mad that I burned the magazine over the sink and bought myself a cake. I thought I had taken back control.

A month later, I was at the store, looking for more slimming pants and new hair products. In the cashier's line, I bought another fashion magazine.

The only time I've ever been happy with my body was when I was pregnant. Of all the parts that I criticize-- the flabby arms, the weird boobs, the jiggly thighs, the unwanted hair-- I hate my stomach the most. At my thinnest, it's still round. I've never seen my abs. But when I was pregnant? Oh, it was deliriously wonderful. I loved my body, loved what it was doing, loved my big, beautiful, glowing, round belly and up-two-cups boobs. I was that girl on the beach, 8 months pregnant and wearing a teeny bikini. I was powerful and strong, and I ate whatever I wanted to because I was creating life, and that's pretty fucking insane. I loved buying maternity clothes. I had photo shoots. I was a living goddess who didn't look at a scale or think the word 'diet'.

Having children changed my body. The moment the kids are out, all that glowy goddessness... deflates. There are new wrinkles, new stretch marks. Your hair starts to fall out. Your skin stops glowing. Nothing goes back to where it was before. It's as out-of-control as a bad game of Tetris. You develop a sleep deficit the likes of which even god has never seen. When you wake up to humanity a year later, you look ten years older. They don't tell you that in What to Expect.

*

I'm 37 now, and let it be known: This is THE YEAR YOUR AGE STARTS TO SHOW HARDCORE. I never had to put in the work with my face before, and now I do. Without makeup and concealer, I look like a slack-skinned zombie. Without my hair styled, I look like a hobo. If I spend a week eating whatever I want, my skinny jeans don't fit. Hell, if I forget to put on mascara before a public event, I get to see myself tagged all over social media looking like Gollum. I used to laugh at the idea of crows feet, but that's because I didn't have them. Maintaining beauty feels like running the wrong way up an escalator. But the models only get thinner, and the ads only get more perniciously doctored, and now women my age are played by the same 25-year-old actresses playing high school kids on Glee.

When I look at my body now, I despise it. For not being thinner and effortlessly lovely. When I see someone post that meme about stretch marks being tiger stripes, I want to claw their face off. I guess I always had this weird assumption that as I got older, I would grow thin and angular and have some sort of wise gravitas, but I persist in being a goofy, curvy weirdo. 

There was a post this week about body types through the ages (watch it here), and it made me feel... furious. Because I look at these women and think... really? That's what they thought was beautiful? All the movies and TV shows tell me that the ideal woman has always been 105 pounds with big boobs and curvy hips and plush lips. And she has to do Crossfit and yoga and be a great cook and love craft beer and have a thigh gap that she never mentions. To be quite frank, the thought that if I'd just lived in a different time, my body might be not only acceptable but desirable? Is maddening. Because in all the real and made-up worlds and all the time frames of our current media, no one ever shows us a woman worthy of love and desire who's over 120 pounds. 

That's the most maddening thing, really-- that I don't feel like I ever had a chance. There was no point in time (outside of those two, glorious pregnancies) that I felt good about the body in which I was doomed to spend my entire life. No time that I felt empowered to love it. No matter how many (still Photoshopped) ads Dove shows me, urging me to embrace my curves, I just see another company manipulating me in a new way to sell more products to make me feel beautiful when I don't.

At the height of my power as a woman and a human being and an author, I am terrified that someone will discover that under my intelligence and humor and beautiful hair, I am flawed and ugly and have somehow managed to successfully hide it, all these years. I don't leave the hotel room without makeup. I dress to look as small as I can, to hide my stomach and that weird place at the top of my arms. I put filters on my selfies to hide the wrinkles around my eyes.

No matter how many times anyone, even my husband, tells me I'm beautiful or that I look pretty, my brain alters it to, "My face is beautiful. Everything else, not so much. But they didn't notice. I'm safe."

You know how women are often threatened with having nude pics end up online? I've never been scared of that. First of all, because no one has ever taken nude pics of me. Secondly, because it would almost be a relief. Once everyone saw what I looked like, maybe I could wear baggier clothes or not adjust my shirt every time I sat down to hide my tummy rolls. I'd just be all, "Welp, the jig is up. I weigh 140 pounds and always have and FUCK THIS NOISE." And I'd put on a shapeless shirt and pajama pants and eat some cake and not be pretty for a while.

If you're a woman who struggles with her weight and is reading this, chances are you're thinking the same thing I think when my husband holds up his shirt and says, "Two months of pizza and hamburgers and my six pack is still a four pack." And what I'm thinking then is FUCK YOU TO HELL, SKINNY. YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THIS IS LIKE, HOW MUCH I THINK ABOUT FOOD AND DENY MYSELF PLEASURE JUST TO HOLD ON TO WHAT I HAVE.

And I don't know what anything else is like. I just know that I'm a size eight and hate my body and always have, and if that's not being trapped in your own personal hell, I don't know what is. Because there's this weird pressure--like, once you've been called pretty, you owe it to the world to continue providing that prettiness. Like there's a Pretty Police that's going to catch you and kick you out of the club, and people will stop treating you like a person. I am terrified of getting old, because what will life be like when I'm not pretty, when my thyroid disease really starts kicking my ass and nothing can keep me from going up a jeans size? What am I going to be worth when I don't fit the paradigm, when I stop trying so hard to fit it and let the Mr. Goodbars into my house and throw the scale in the trash?

I don't know if it's going to feel horrible or like I've finally escaped jail.

*

The reason I'm telling you all this is because my 8yo daughter pinched her belly today and said, "I think I'm getting pudgy," and I was horrified. Because I have never, ever let her into this private closet of body hatred hell. I stand naked and proud in front of her, tell her it's nobody's business if I don't shave my legs in winter, and never, ever comment on her body. 

"Why do you think that?" I asked.

She shrugged. "I don't know. Because I can pinch my belly."

"That's your skin," I said. "Your belly is covered with skin." I pulled up my shirt and pinched my belly. "Everybody's belly sticks out."

My 6yo son saw my belly, ran into the room, and put his cheek against it. "I love your soft, squishy belly so much," he said. "It's my favorite part of you, because it's so soft and good to hug."

And it's like something broke in me. Like, I've hated this stomach all my life, and having these two amazing children just made it uglier to me, but he loves it. He thinks it's beautiful. Maybe he'll grow up loving women with round, pudgy bellies. Maybe he'll meet a girl who loves her belly and her body and doesn't suck it in or wear too-tight pants, a woman who owns her sexuality and doesn't let anyone tell her to quit dancing. Maybe he'll change the world because when he was little, I let him hug my belly and didn't tell him how ugly I think it is. Maybe when he tells a woman she's beautiful, she'll just smile and say, "I know."

I don't know how to change this paradigm. I can't tell anyone else how to start loving their bodies because I don't love mine. I don't know how. But, God, I want to. I wish every meal didn't feel like a mine field, like getting dressed wasn't the equivalent of donning camouflage. I wish I could look in the mirror and say, "I look awesome," and not, "My face and butt look great, but the rest...ugh." I wish I could put on a bathing suit and not worry about every little ounce of fat and every stray hair and just think about having fun. 

But, again, I don't know how.

Still, there's hope. I'm a late bloomer. I didn't write a book until I was 32. I didn't know how to roast a chicken until I was 36. And I didn't learn how to keep a clean house until this year. If there's a great how-to book or a show like What Not To Wear called How Not to Hate, please let me know.

I tell you all this not because I want pity or compliments or rage. Please, please don't offer those things, because they don't help anyone.  I tell you this for the same reason that I told you about my depression, about my suicide attempt, about being raped, about losing my shit during a miscarriage. I tell you this because we're not allowed to talk about it and I think we need to talk about it. I tell you this because I want you to know that if you feel the same way, you are not alone and it is not your fault. This is a thing that is done to us, that is insidious and bone deep and subtly reinforced in every single facet of our lives from the ads in the Facebook sidebar to the clickbait links about Eat This One Fruit and Never Diet Again.

I tell you this because I see things on tumblr that say YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL JUST THE WAY YOU ARE, and I hit reblog thinking, "I don't believe it, but maybe you can." Because at some point, we have to figure out a way to buck the system, to reject the idea that anyone gets to tell us what beauty is. That anyone gets to imply that we're not good enough without expensive eye cream, or that we don't know we're beautiful unless they tell us. We've got to get over this idea that beauty matters so fucking much.

They got to me, when I was a kid. I don't know how to break free.

*

Beauty is a complicated thing. Like pornography, we can barely describe it, but we know it when we see it. It's in the eye of the beholder. It's not skin deep. It's biological, a function of symmetry and the ability to produce healthy offspring. It's in our power. It's out of our hands. But we're drawn to it, always. When a writer writes an unbeautiful character, it's always for a reason. Sometimes, there's an Ugly Duckling moment, a makeover that turns them from zero to hero. Sometimes, it's part of the character arc or represents a hidden flaw of character that will be revealed later on. Sometimes, it's because it's an easy way to make the character seem relatable. But a character's level of attractiveness is always mentioned, whether obviously or subtly. We need to know how to categorize these people, after all. We need to know who to love.

In the book I revised this week, WAKE OF VULTURES, the main character bucks the binary in a lot of ways. She's raised as a slave and told she's nothing, ugly and flawed. But there are few mirrors, and she meets few people other than her keepers, so once she's out in the world, she has to redefine beauty on her own terms. What is pretty? What is handsome? What is it that makes some people good and others monsters? In the first draft, I didn't describe her physicality much--I didn't think it mattered. But my editor requested a description. And I struggled with it. How would you describe yourself, looking in the mirror for the first time, when you'd been told all your life that you were ugly and worthless?

Writing a character who thinks herself hideous yet still has pride and inner strength made me think about the ways I hate on my body, the unkind thoughts I think about myself. Like Nettie, I don't like my body... but if anyone else complains, I'll get riled up like a damn honey badger. Like Nettie, I feel like my worth is based on what I can accomplish and how I treat people, which means that I feel pretty good about myself most of the time. But, like Nettie, when I'm standing directly in front of a mirror and unable to look away, I frown and start categorizing flaws. Like Nettie, most of the things I count as flaws are things that are never going to change. Things that shouldn't *have* to change.

*

I was on a panel at a con once, sitting next to a very famous author. During the Q&A session, a young woman stood and asked a question about strategies for writing a character who is very different from you. The famous author pointed at the girl and shook her head.

"You're too pretty. You'll never be able to write someone who's suffering because you don't know what that's like. You've never been ugly."

Rage flared up inside me, and I opened my mouth to protest, but this girl needed no white knight.

"I recently lost 150 pounds," she said, "So I assure you that, yes, I *do* know what that's like."

The room went silent, and then everyone broke out in applause.

And everyone else on the panel tried to give that girl an honest answer to her question that might actually help her become a better writer instead of making her feel bad about how her physicality reflected who she was inside.

We need more diversity in our literature, and that requires more empathy. That requires us to ask exactly the same question that young girl asked. How do we write The Other? How do we build worlds filled with people who look or think differently than we do? Every hero can't be a physically attractive white person fated for glory, and we need to stop expecting that to be the default. I know this. And yet... I was once told to submit a new proposal because my proposed heroine had dark skin,and that wasn't what my readers could relate to. I've had two covers start out whitewashed and have to be done over. The industry says it supports diversity, that it wants diversity, but I don't think it knows what to do with it.

And even when you buck the default, it's hard to write an ugly character. It's almost impossible, in traditional publishing, to write a fat person who finds love and success. No matter what we think we know, we want to write beautiful people that everyone will love. Because we all want to be beautiful people that everyone loves.

The thing is, looking at someone, you have no idea what struggle they're going through or what they've experienced. You don't know which thin girl is sad, which fat girl thinks she's fucking awesome, which person is wrestling a devil or kicking ass in ways they never dreamed of. You don't know who fights depression or social anxiety, who has cuts all up their thighs, or who is going home to another inescapable black eye. Everyone is fighting a fight you can't see, and most of us are hiding it behind a smile.

The only way I know how to escape these feelings is to get the hell away from the mirror. I may never look at my body and feel pure love and appreciation for what I see there, but I can take a flying trapeze class or swim with sharks or paint or ride my horse and forget, for a while, that what my body looks like matters at all. Those are the moments that my heart is happy and my well is refilled--when I forget that I'm a soul in a weird, lumpy, breakable body. When I simply am. That's one reason I love writing: I forget that I'm anything else.

*

So where do we go from here? 

I'm not going to impel you to go write down five things you love about your cellulite or tell you to make love with the lights on or eat a steak. I'm just going to remind you that the prettiest person you've ever met has probably considered suicide and the thinnest person you know still has one patch of fat that she can't eradicate. If you can love your body, honestly love it, then you're already ahead of the pack. No matter how you feel about it, just remember to treat it well. It's imperfect, but it's the only one you get. Good food, deep sleep, and lots of hugs feel good no matter what you look like. Find the thing that makes you forget what makes you sad and do that thing regularly. Be kind to others. Be kind to yourself.

As for me, I'm going to bake brownies and snuggle my kids, because they think I'm perfect, big squashy belly and all. One day, I hope I can learn how to believe them.

 

5 Things About Worldbuilding: Don't be a Puny God

I'm teaching a Worldbuilding 101 class for Litreactor starting February 5, which means I'm thinking a lot about how to inspire new and reaching writers to improve the rules and details that make their book's world real. Odd as it may seem, hitting them with electric whips and doing the Jelly Legs Jinx doesn't really get them writing. But here are a few things I've learned about worldbuilding since I started teaching this online class and critiquing my students' work.

1. The magic starts when you make the tough choices.

New writers are often overwhelmed, especially when they sit down to write a book and see limitless possibilities spread out before them. The first week of class is about the Foundations of Worldbuilding, and the homework involves filling out a World Profile sheet to explain what makes your world different from the real world. I see a lot of "I'm not sure yet-- he could be a merman with ultimate power in a Viking fire land or he might be a really great bowler with two left feet who commands an army of pangolins in a hypercolor jungle." And my job here is to say CHOOSE ONE NOW. This was my biggest problem the first time I tried to write a book, too. Instead of choosing something and plowing onward, I just stared at the screen, paralyzed. That's why I try to help my students make choices that will lead to the most interesting story, if they are likewise paralyzed.

2. There is no perfect story--there is only this story and the way you tell it.

If you try to craft a perfect hero or a perfect world, your book is going to suck. Sorry not sorry. Characters and worlds need flaws, or else nothing ever happens and there's no tension and both the writer and the audience are bored. Your world, just like ours, should be full of checks and balances. Magic? Has a price. Those flawless mountains? Are full of angry snakedeer. Your hero is Superman? He has a deadly disease that's making him crazy. You have a utopia? Great, but what about the slaves who do all the work? And even if you must begin with a near-perfect hero, she's going to make some horrible decision that changes her path and, ultimately, her. Which leads me to...

3. Your world must challenge and change your character or else... nothing happens.

Let your world be the fiery forge that shapes your hero. Plan them in tandem for this very purpose. Harry Potter has a miserable life-- but he's special in the magic world-- but is cursed! Wolverine is indestructible and lives forever-- but he doesn't remember his own history-- and the magic girl he loves loves a dudebro-- and everyone he loves dies. Your world should get in the way of your hero and also give her a way to become great-- and give a satisfying character arc, which is a lot easier to manage during the planning stages.

4. When in doubt, do something unexpected.

It's funny how you can come up with this amazing world and this phenomenal cast of characters and then get to a certain point in your story and feel trapped and say, "I've written myself into a corner and I'm stuck!" Nope. The possibilities? Are still endless. There is *always* something that can go wrong. You can avoid tropes (like the dreaded deus ex machina) and still find a way out of that corner. What tools have you planted on your main character that could suddenly come in handy? Which one of your crew is going to mouth off and start the fight? Who might say something ridiculous as a bluff? What kind of animal or tech could botch up even the best-laid plans? When you feel "blocked", it's because you're shutting off the possibilities instead of opening them up. Get in the bath, go for a walk, talk to your critique partner, and see why you're creatively constipated. I find it works well to ask my husband what should happen next. He'll offer scads of great ideas, and I'll say, NO, NO, THAT WOULD NEVER WORK... BUT NOW I KNOW WHAT WILL.

5. The magic happens in edits, and edits don't happen until you have a first draft.

In my class, we start with a World Profile, then a Character Profile, then a first chapter critique. It's amazing how even a well-detailed, lush World Profile can really come to life once you start writing it. My last lecture includes info on how to turn good writing into great writing and integrate telling details into your voice, and it's always exciting to see how each student injects their style into a world and character that should be familiar. I have a personal offer for each of my LitReactor students that if they FINISH THE BOOK in the next year, edit it, and send me their first two chapters (up to 4000 words), I will critique it on my own time and dime. And that alone, ahem, is worth more than the cost of the class on the open market. Just sayin'.

If you're looking to finally finish or polish that book, I hope you'll consider signing up.

And if I don't convince you, how about this guy?

 

That's right. Chuck Palahniuk, WRITER OF FIGHT CLUB, endorses my class. I am Jack's blushing kidney stone.

If you're curious, I can tell you that each of my 4 lectures is over 5000 words and includes examples, explanations, and an assignment that I will critique to help you move forward with confidence and evil intentions of torturing your characters. You can ask me questions any time through the LitReactor classroom or via a private message through their system. I also tend to give my classes glimpses of how I would critique my own past writing, including the AWFUL first book I wrote in 2009 about a woman who accidentally boinks Zeus on a ferry and starts seeing mythological creatures everywhere. And if you're a fan of my Blud series, I reveal the original first two chapters and what I did wrong in 'em. BLACKMAIL FODDER, YO.

Any questions about the class or the five tips above? Just ask, whether here or on Twitter.

Good news: WAKE OF VULTURES sold to Orbit Books!

Remember this vulture feather tattoo? And all those hints about "kill what needs to die"? And how many times I listened to all the Gangstagrass albums and asked people for old-fashioned terms for liver chestnut?

The book in question has finally come home to roost, with the hardcover expected to land this fall. Yep. THIS FALL.

I hope y'all will love Nettie Lonesome as much as I do. You can be sure that as soon as we have a cover and a pre-order link, I'll be howling about it from horseback.

How to Approach Authors in the Wild

Authors are wild animals: skittish, easily frightened, biologically fragile, and hungry for human blood and whisky. How do you fanboy/fangirl without terrifying them? Keep reading.

This could be a controversial post, mainly because you might not like what I say, or because it might make you feel sheepish about past experiences. But please understand that it comes from the heart to help you maximize your interactions with cool people. These are tips I've adopted myself when approaching bigger sharks in the authorly sea, although it might be noted that I began an interaction with Joe Abercrombie last week with, "Yo, Joe, so this is going to be super awkward, but..."

Because here's the secret: Authors are people.

At the ConFusion 2015 bar with authors Wes Chu and Myke Cole, with bonus Mallory O'Meara.

Authors are not gods, monsters, or robots that exist for your pleasure. And if you piss them off or terrify them, they're going to avoid you. So, how do you stalk these wily creatures?

1. Via Social Media

Do: 

Offer insight, compliment books or posts, remark on covers, congratulate on awards or reviews, show them fan art, alert them to news stories relevant to their books, tell them you enjoyed meeting them at a con previously, ask when their next book is out, let them know about a nice review, join in a thread to which you can relate. Be respectful and not a dick, as you would to anyone you met in line at the post office. Just because we can't get in a fistfight doesn't mean you want to poke us like bears. 

Just pretend you're a normal person standing around the water cooler at work, really.

Don't:

Correct them, point out a spelling or grammatical error in a tweet, add them to a 1000-person Invite or thread on FB for which the notifications will explode, try to be obviously clever, send them a Wikipedia link because you think that perhaps they literally believe that Yeti eat babies, admonish them gently for their parenting choices, tell them you hated their book, ask them questions that can be easily answered by a simple online search, creep on them, or command them to do anything, really, such as, "Tell me why I should buy your book," or "Explain to me why Yetis eat babies, you Communist."

Adding: Don't act too familiar until you've met in person and gotten along and they understand your sense of humor. You might *think* you sound sassy and jovial when in fact you sound like a complete ass. I've been on both ends of this stick.

Newsflash: Using a ;) emoticon after a dickish statement does NOT make it any less dickish; probably more so. And, dear gods, do not tweet or DM a link to your self-published book.

If you have enough positive interactions with a writer you admire, they will begin to think of you as a friend, much like a pack of wolves accepting a stray kitten. If you constantly piss them off, peacock them with your Google-fu, or shake your finger at them as if you are some powerful demigod/overbearing mother, they will at best ignore you and at worst block you or tell you off.

No one comes to social media because they want randos to crap on their day.

2. In person

Do:

Bring alcohol or cake, preferably that you didn't make yourself. Bring books for them to sign or ask for some bookmarks to put out at your local bookstore or library. Start off the conversation by telling them your Twitter name and mentioning a conversation you had; our memories are full of lies and plots, but we want to know we know you. Ask for a pic, if you want. Enter a group/bar conversation gently and contribute as you would among colleagues. Watch for social signals and back off if it's a bad time or someone looks like they're about to cry or murder you. Wait your turn in line, if they have a line, and take a reasonable amount of time without monopolizing them. Remember that while authors are "on" during panels and signings, if you catch them at the bar or in a restaurant, they may be "off" and enjoying downtime with close friends--do not automatically sit down unless invited. If they say, "So I'll see you at the con/in my next panel," that's a signal to back off.

Note: The faster you establish your bona fides-- I'm @iloveyourbook on Twitter, I'm that book blogger who gave you five stars, I met you at your home con and love your books, I'm friends with this friend of yours--the less awkward and guarded an author will be and the more likely they are to be warm, welcoming, and open. Because you feel *safe*.

Don't:

Don't bring food or beverage items that could be toxic/awkward/full of your beard hair. Don't ignore all social signals or follow the author into the bathroom. Don't ask them where they're doing dinner or where they're staying. Don't tell them at length all the things that you thought were wrong in their book. Don't pitch them your book or the idea you'd like them to write in their next book. Don't ask for an intro to their agent or editor. Don't use them as rungs up the ladder to meet bigger celebrity authors. Don't start arguing religion, politics, or barbecue recipes. Don't stand very close behind them, breathe heavily, and claim to be reading their tattoos. Don't try to pick them up, skeeze on them, or ask them for a threesome with their significant other-- and, yeah, this happens. Don't hover just outside a circle of authors at the bar but never engage anyone. It's not a zoo. Technically. 

See, we love coffee and alcohol, but there's a difference between, "So.... can I buy you a drink?" *eyebrow wiggle, lip lick* and "I loved YOUR BOOK and promised on Twitter last week that if I ever met you, I owed you a Scotch. Is now a good time? You like Laphroaig, right?"

Because yes. Yes, I do.

*

As John Henry Cardinal Newman said, "It is almost a definition of a gentleman to say he is one who never inflicts pain." If you approach writers (or, yeah, even celebrities) with that in mind rather than grasping at what you consider an ideal meeting experience or getting what you want out of another human being, you'll have far better success. Even if you have purchased an author's book(s), they don't owe you anything; the money you paid was exchanged for their work, and that transaction is done. Most writers are, at some level, nerds, and we know what it's like to be gripped with anxiety and self-consciousness. We're forgiving, but more so if you're genuine, kind, and read social signals to avoid making us uncomfortable or overstepping your bounds.

For me, and believe me, I'm not a celebrity, you can get a much better meeting if you tell me your Twitter name or somehow establish how we know each other online. I have social anxiety and respond much more warmly to people I "know." 

tl;dr: Authors are people and will respond with warmth if you're kind, genuine, and show appropriate social understanding. Or if you buy alcohol and cupcakes.

10 Reasons to go to a Con (Even if it's your first con and you're scared)

I'm going to assume that if you're reading this post, you're either a writer or a reader or someone who loves writers and reading or who wants to eat writers. And if you've never gone to a con, which can stand for CONvention or CONference, depending, you totally should. And I will tell you why without threatening you at all. Promise!

Full disclosure: My first con? SUUUUUCKED. They rejected my guest status, so I paid my own way and volunteered, during which experience I was propositioned for sex and then insulted by a well-known science fiction writer who claimed I was ruining his genre. And I lived to tell the tale--at much better cons. I can't imagine what I would be missing if I had let that bad experience influence my feelings about cons. You probably will have a much better time, but carry a switchblade just to be sure.

Now, here's why I think you should go to your first con, a new con, or ALL THE CONS:

1. It's super fun. 

SERIOUSLY CRAZY FUN. Whatever you're into, people are getting together to celebrate it. That might mean you hit a small, focused con like JordanCon in Atlanta to squee over Wheel of Time. Or maybe you would prefer a gigantic comicon with a little bit of everything--my personal favorites are Phoenix Comicon and Dragoncon. But chances are that you grew up with geeky interests that your cohorts might not have shared, and there's something healing about being around people who love Doctor Who or Transformers as much as you do. So there are panels, signings, movie showings, tabletop and RPG gaming, room parties, art shows, costume contests, shopping in the vendor room, and the chance to be near famous people to see how tall they really are. Or that time that I was standing next to Jewel Staite in a bar and discussed the merits of white chocolate fondue with Kaylee, because OMG. 

2. You will hang out with awesome people, even if you're never met them in person.

I'm an introvert, although you wouldn't know it at cons. As long as I "know" people, they don't scare me. That's why I look up the people I'll be on panels with or join the Facebook page for cons I'm going to attend. I see who in my Twitter or FB feed is going to be there. Basically, I pre-condition friendships to hack my social anxiety, and IT WORKS. It's also pretty easy to identify someone's fandoms by what they're wearing, so you can more easily strike up conversations by complimenting someone's Jayne hat or asking where they got their Archer dolphin puppet. Cons generally feel pretty safe and have policies in place to handle harassment and keep out non-con creeps. I always try to have Moo cards with me and instantly find people I meet on Twitter.

3. You will learn stuff.

If I'm at a con, I love checking out new panels and live-tweeting new info. You have the chance to sit in on discussions with industry professionals who offer knowledge, tips, and honesty about topics that aren't always discussed. You can ask questions in the panels or stop by a signing/meet and greet later to ask them one or two questions in person. You'll hang out at the bar and make friends and learn from them. I've even learned stuff in the dealer room, asking how someone molds their leather or getting a great book recommendation from the con bookseller, like Joseph-Beth at Fandomfest in Kentucky. It's a great time to try something new with no pressure. If you don't like the panel/panelists, you can slip out the door and try something else.

4. You will be inspired.

Sitting at home, it's easy to sink down in complacency like Artax in the Swamps of Sadness. But life's not worth living if you're not moving forward, facing your fears, and kicking ass. When I'm at cons, I am filled with energy and inspiration. I get new ideas, spitball ideas at friends who encourage me, and ask trusted professionals the best way to move forward on projects where I've hit a pothole. I leave cons refreshed and ready to get to work. 

5. You will try new things.

Cons are a great place to step out of your comfort zone. Step into the Fencing panel or the Bow Staff Fighting Workshop. Join a flash fiction workshop. Stop by the absinthe tasting. Buy something in the dealer's room that you've always wanted. Spend $50 for a critique from an editor and give her your elevator pitch. Stay in a haunted hotel. Go for a walk in the area around the con and see a movie or a show. Go to the Star Wars Speed Dating. Join a Star Trek trivia team at the bar. Stop by a publisher's booth and pick up a free book that wasn't on your radar. Every experience you have grows new synapses in your brain and informs your writing.

6. You will eat interesting new foods.

Con food is... usually a joke. But it doesn't have to be, if you're smart. I've eaten at the Holy Taco Church in Phoenix, had a feast at Ollie's Lebanese and eaten at Buddy's Pizza twice in two days in Detroit, gotten drunk in a mask at the McKittrick in NYC, devoured a chocolate armadillo in San Antonio, and kidnapped Pat Rothfuss to eat cake at a diner in Atlanta. It's okay-- we were in a group, and we asked nicely first. I also got really excited to have my first Ben & Jerry's milkshake in 15 years in the Chicago airport during a snow storm. Whether you prefer to hunt for your favorite food on Yelp.com or you ask the locals what's best in their area, cons are a great (and often tax deductible!) way to try amazing new foods. I've been told we're doing Korean BBQ in Phoenix this year, and I can't wait.

7. You might learn what writers are like after half a bottle of Scotch.

Mind you, you'll have a better chance of managing this if you're also a writer, if we've met you before and consider you a friend, or if you're buying the drinks and/or brought a cake. But if you think we're wacky online, we're even more fun at the bar. You'll hear horror stories, happy stories, and possibly have people take hilarious pictures of you later for blackmail purposes. 

8. You will see things that challenge your worldview.

Y'all, this is so, so important. If you only listen to one side of a story or only live and work among people who look and act the same as you, you're not going to grow as a human being but will instead harden and calcify and become Rush Limbaugh. And that hampers your empathy and your writing. You're going to run into furries and people in body paint and people of all colors and sexualities, and I'm not saying you have to approve of everything, but you need to know that there are billions of people all over the world living vastly different lives. I'm a firm believer in #WeNeedDiverseBooks, and you're more likely to write a wide variety of characters if you've been around a wide variety of people. Hell, this even applies to people who feel strongly about traditional publishing vs. self-publishing. Listen to people. Really listen. And let that inform your writing.

9. You will expose yourself to new possibilities.

I have been invited into anthologies in a hotel bar at 3am. I have been offered book signings while eating a pilfered cookie cake. I have met a friend of a friend and found a new friend, again and again. A great writer I met this weekend got his first big-time Comics job because he was standing in line next to an editor at just the right time. The illustrator who drew my first BOO! comic for Monkeybrain is the significant other of a museum docent I met while coordinating a steampunk art show, and I gave him a free book, and now we're conspiring on graphic novels. Open yourself to possibility, don't be afraid to speak up and ask for what you want, and you never know what might happen because you were in the right place at the right time with the right attitude.

10. You will refill your well.

This one is probably the most important. Writing is awesome, but it's also a hard, lonely slog that we each do separately in our pajamas. It's easy to feel lonely, not good enough, or like you're not where you want to be in your career. Even if writing is a hobby for you or you're a reader and reviewer instead of a writer, there's a good chance that a con will be a vacation from your everyday life. I have two small children, a husband, a house to clean, sick relatives, and plenty of non-writing worries, and nothing refills my well and refreshes me like a con. Ok, maybe the ocean, but cons work pretty well. Cons are my reset button.

So go forth and con! With a little leg-work in advance, you can set yourself up to have a great time.

11 Things My Broken Back Taught Me

On October 21, I put on my new boots, grabbed my new saddle, and hopped on my horse, as I'd done hundreds of times before. But this time, she bucked. I fell off and landed on my back. Here's what I learned.

1. Just because it's your birthday doesn't mean horrible things won't happen.

Did I mention October 21 is my birthday? Yeah. I spent my birthday in the ER.

2. Just because horrible things happen doesn't mean you can't laugh.

The first thing I said from the ground? WELL, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! And every time someone in the hospital or pharmacy asked for my birthday, I said TODAY! When the fast food restaurant asked what flavor milkshake I wanted, I shouted VALIUM FLAVORED. When I walked out of the hospital room holding a disc of my X-rays proclaiming a compression fracture in my T12 vertebrae, I sternly asked my kids which one of them had stepped on a crack.

Outside of the crippling pain and tears, it was pretty amusing.

3. Trauma is traumatizing.

Falling off a horse isn't necessarily a big deal. This was my first time doing it, and it was fairly straightforward. I didn't get dragged or stepped on or trampled. I wasn't paralyzed. I kept smiling and cracking jokes. Hell, I drove myself home from the barn before asking my husband to drive me to the ER.

But then, after my X-rays came back, I was getting dressed in the hospital, and I couldn't buckle my own bra, and I started shaking uncontrollably and crying. Big, gulping, uncontrollable sobs. My brain and mouth said it wasn't a big deal, but my body said GODDAMMIT THAT WAS TRAUMA AND YOU WILL STOP AND RESPECT IT.

For the first few nights, I would wake up when the pain meds wore off and have recurring panic attacks as my brain presented me with a thousand ways it could've been worse. They were basically waking dreams of me getting my head busted open, of being dragged half a mile over rocks with my new boot caught in the stirrup. Such a minor accident, really, but the nightmares were insane. When I started acknowledging the fear and the pain, facing it head on instead of drugging it away, it started getting better.

4. Being broken is emotionally disturbing.

Outside of recovering from an unwanted emergency C-section (when everyone is super sweet and attentive because NEW BABY), I've never had a major injury. Never been in a car crash or an ambulance. Even when I was raped at knifepoint, I wasn't physically damaged. I have always felt strong in my skin, and breaking my back was the first time that I felt physically helpless.

I thought the first few weeks would be the worst, but it didn't work out that way. At first, when the back brace was new and I had pain meds, everyone around me was accommodating and sympathetic, happy to bring me water or drive me around. But a month in, I was still helpless, and people were ready for me to be back to normal. It was horrible, asking for help. My husband went out of town at one point, and I was scared that something would happen--a fire or a break-in or a random bear attack-- and I wouldn't be able to get out of bed in time to take care of it and save my children. 

For the first time as an adult, I couldn't take care of myself. It was terrifying.

5. People don't know how to deal with weirdness.

And by weirdness, I mean things they don't understand and are socially conditioned not to ask about... like a weird back brace that looks like a silver cross worn over your chest. I flew to Tucson to teach a writing workshop, and people seemed to treat me 3 ways:

1. Like it was a rad costume.

2. Like it was a major inconvenience to them and unnecessary to me.

3. Like I was SO SO BRAVE.

One TSA guy in the Tucson airport made me take it off and put it through the X-ray machine. One old lady thought I was advertising a science fiction book I'd written. One lady started sprouting tears because I was SO SO BRAVE. Really, I was 90% of my normal self but with a major backache and hindered fashion sense. I had to ask my host to stop by the drug store so I could buy a heating pad, and that was the extent of my bravery.

Most people ignored it, because people are good at ignoring things that make them uncomfortable. I understand that my experience with a removable back brace is probably 1/100,000 as troublesome as people with disabilities or physical differences, and I have a new appreciation for what it feels like to be in the world and not fit the default.

6. Sometimes, the fix is worse than the problem.

For the first two weeks, I could barely function, and the back brace felt like a benevolent cage that kept me upright. At night, flopping braceless, I had to build a nest of pillows so I wouldn't thrash and damage myself. But after that, after the rest of my body had unclenched and the pain meds ran out, the brace became a torture machine. It made writing painful, driving awkward, and everyday activities uncomfortable. I couldn't even sit in a chair without squirming. 

I wasn't mad at the broken back or the horse or bad luck; I just wanted to murder the brace.

7. Chronic pain makes you a different person, one you might not like.

I remember seeing an episode on House M.D. about chronic pain, and several of my loved ones live with chronic pain, but GODDAMMIT, PAIN MAKES ME A BITCH. I couldn't concentrate. I didn't want to listen to anything anyone else had to say. Small talk made me murderous. People asking for favors were likely to get covered in growlspit. And my pain was temporary. Temporary!

The thing is, there are tons of ways people can be invisibly hurting. You never know if the person who cut you off in traffic is in pain and on their way to the pharmacy, if the lady bitching about the post office line has fibromyalgia and could barely get out of bed. Most people who live with pain don't advertise it. Breaking my back made me want to give people a break.

8. You have to get back on that horse.

Right after I broke my back, I was sure that I would have to give up horseback riding. My horse was dangerous, I was a bad rider. Then I thought I should sell my horse and buy a dead-broke pony who would never hurt me and who would be so short that my feet would drag the ground. I wrote a long, complicated, excuse-filled, perfectly reasonable message to a horse friend asking for her thoughts on how to find Polly a great home where she wouldn't be mistreated--like the one I rescued her from--and right after I hit Send, it hit me.

I was being a total wuss.

It was right there, in my own words. I was too damn scared to get back on my own horse.

So I sent a follow-up message telling her to ignore everything previous and emailed another friend asking for help with training my horse to make us better partners. The day my brace came off, I was at the barn. After two weeks, Polly wasn't so much a different horse as a horse who'd been taught not to buck me off. Yes, I asked my friend to get on her before I did. Some days, I still do. But the point is that getting back on Polly's back wasn't even scary because I'd put in so much work to insure she wasn't dangerous. If I'd done that work in the first place instead of assuming everything would be cool, I wouldn't have broken my back.

9. Accidents happen. Your job is to use them to level up.

For the first few weeks, my brain would serve the accident to me again and again. How I put my boot in the stirrup wrong, where I held the saddle wrong, the bad leg placement that made her buck, the lack of speed with which I failed to correct myself. Like sports commentators watching footage again and again to see what went wrong in a play, I kept studying what had to be 15 seconds of my life, hunting for meaning or the moment it all went wrong.

Once I got out to the barn, however, I realized that it all went wrong way before the accident. It went wrong a year ago, when she gave a little crow-hop as I mounted, and I said, "Whatever--she's fine once I'm in the saddle." It went wrong when I saw a problem and glossed over it, assuming everything would be cool. It went wrong when I noticed she was sensitive to boot tips in her side but didn't stop and desensitize her to that feeling. When I let her be precious instead of working through her fear and discomfort.

Accidents are accidents. They don't always happen because you did something wrong. They don't mean you're a bad person or you made a stupid mistake that you should feel guilty or angry about. The point is what you do afterward. The changes you make to become better at not only what caused the accident... but everything else around it. 

Breaking my back made me more proactive. Instead of waiting until the last minute to pay a bill, I take care of it. Instead of walking by my messed-up closet, I toss out all the crap that weighs me down and organize the rest. Instead of putting off writing that hard email, I just get it out the damn door. It's a lot easier to solve problems when they're little and new than when they've gotten big and grown teeth.

10. You can't let discomfort stop you from doing the things you want to do.

I had two questions for my orthopedist: can I still go to my book signing on Saturday, and can I still fly to Tucson for my workshop in November? Thank heavens he said yes to both. People (my mom, mainly) freaked out. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU'RE GOING TO GO DO THE THING? WITH A BROKEN BACK?

Uh, well, what I was going to do at home was mostly walking around and sitting uncomfortably. What I did at the book signing was mostly walking around and sitting uncomfortably. What I did on the flights to and from Arizona was mostly walking around and sitting uncomfortably, aside from that night I took the hotel shuttle to the best restaurant in Tucson and treated myself to an amazing meal. If I was going to be uncomfortable, I might as well do it in other places while eating pork belly instead of sitting at home, feeling sorry for myself.

This is also the reason why I flew to New Orleans on a one-way ticket the day my eye doctor said my conjunctivitis was almost healed last May. Even if I looked like a zombie with blood-red eyes, I might as well go to the conference, accept that award, and hang with my friends. It's not like my eyes were going to hurt any more in New Orleans than they were in my own bed.

Sometimes, we're just looking for a reason to say no instead of admitting that it's fear or annoyance holding us back, especially fear of failure. It's awesome to have an inarguable reason for doing nothing. 

DO THE THING. You'll feel better. Doing nothing doesn't make your life magical.

In conclusion, always wear your helmet. Because...

11. Whatever happens to you? It could be a lot worse.

I remember laying on my back on the grass, wiggling my toes and staring at the beautifully blue sky. And I was grateful. Because even if something horrible had happened, I wasn't paralyzed, and my big ol' brain was protected. It could always be worse.

 

The 3 books that changed my life in 2014

First of all, let me tell you a secret: 

If you're not constantly changing your life, then you're probably getting stagnant. I don't do New Year's Resolutions so much as I try to constantly improve myself. They say that if you start out walking in a straight line, you'll eventually veer off course, whether because the terrain gets bumpy or you have one leg that's longer than the other. Your brain is like that, too. If you're not constantly checking your goal and your path, you're going to end up in a different place than you're aiming for. Or, worse, you won't move at all. You'll just walk in circles and never get anywhere.

So although, over the years, many books have changed my life for the better, these are the three from 2014 that made the most difference:

1. The 4 Hour Work Week by Tim Ferriss

I own and love all of Tim's books, which center on hacking your life and body to live the life you want. Although a lot of this book isn't applicable-- I won't be starting my own business or hiring assistants from India-- there are some true gems in there about how to discover what's truly important to you, identify what's holding you back, and moving forward with agency instead of making excuses. 

Another great takeaway: Deadlines affect how you see the work on your plate. A deadline that gives too much time exerts enormous pressure and makes the task expand to fill the available time. That's why having 9 days to write 25k for Follow Me Boy felt doable and energizing but 4 months to write STRIKE feels like a huge undertaking. Once you recognize that deadlines are kind of stupid and just start doing the work, the panic disintegrates.

If you're unhappy with your body and want to be healthier, try his The 4-Hour Body. If you want to learn how to cook some cool stuff, try The 4-Hour Chef. These are books that you need to own in hardcover form, dog-ear, write in, underline, and put on the table whenever you start to veer off course.

2. Everything That Remains: A Memoir by The Minimalists

What if everything you wanted isn't actually what you want? That's the central question of this quick, lightbulb-moment read. Thing is, in 2014, my husband and I realized that we weren't happy in our big, suburban house in our busy suburban neighborhood. We felt trapped under a mountain of things, and yet we kept acquiring *more* things. We ended up donating or giving away half of what we owned and moving to the mountains. And six months later, stuff started piling up again, so I picked up this book for a reminder. 

The current climate of America is that things will make you happy. Online shopping, a bigger TV, a nicer car, a bigger house. And yet no one is particularly happy, and the high of each new possession wears off quicker and quicker. Most people spend 40 years of their life working 8 hours a day just to keep up with the parade of things we think we want, and yet we all dream of more money, bigger houses, grander vacations... that still won't make us happy. If you're sick of stuff and a messy house and never feeling satisfied, this book can help you sort through why you think you want what you think you want... and how to find what will really make you happy.

Here's a hint: Experiences are worth more than stuff.

3. The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up by Marie Kondo

Okay, so you decide to get rid of a bunch of stuff. How do you decide what to get rid of, and how do you arrange what's left so that you don't accumulate more crap? This book seems deceptively simple, and there's a lot of page-filling fluff, but some of the major points are literally life-changing. When I read a self-help book, I often enjoy the "high" of wanting to make a difference and seeing what the general ideas are... and then fail to follow through. With this book, I took several of her action items, put them into action, and saw immediate results. 

As a writer working from home, I spend a lot of my time dealing with other peoples' junk. And this book made me realize that there were certain areas of my house that feel like Bogs of Eternal Sadness. Places where junk accumulates, and no one claims it, and every time I walked by them, they made me feel crappy and snarled up. The day I started this book, I tackled two of these places and saw a huge change in my energy and attitude. As a writer, the space where I work affects my writing, and I really appreciate how decluttering my area helped give me the momentum and agency to attack my writing to-do list and deadlines. 

Do you see a common thread here?

Less clutter, more quality.

Mentally, physically, emotionally.

One of my biggest pieces of writing advice is GET OUT OF YOUR OWN WAY. And it's kind of amazing when you pan back and realize that almost all of your problems are... you. You want to travel more? Figure out why your brain is making excuses for why you can't travel. Hate your job? Figure out why your brain is so scared to try something else. Your house is a mess? Ask your brain why it's holding on to so much unnecessary crap. 

I'll never forget that day I whined to my husband that all I'd ever wanted in life was to ride horses, and he asked me why I wasn't riding horses. I mouth-vomited a ton of excuses--money, time away from the kids, too far to drive, I didn't have boots or a helmet. And he said, "If not now, when?"

It's become my rallying cry for things I want to do.

If you want to change your life in 2015, don't join a gym or promise to throw out one bag of trash from your junk room. Go all in. Do something drastic. Read these books and figure out how you're getting in your own way.

And then get out of your damn way.

 

Your Brain is Lying to You: Why Writing and Dieting Are Impossible

I have a book due at the end of the month.

I have never missed a deadline.

And yet I can't stop online shopping.

I mean, I'm not buying all the crap I put in my cart. I'm closing windows and opening new ones and clicking ADD TO CART again. I don't actually need anything. So why do I keep compulsively hunting for clothes and boots and purses AND AND AND?

Easy.

My brain lies. Yours does, too.

Our brains like comfort. The same old thing. The same routine. The same habits. The same crutches. Our brains like easy. When I'm stressed, I want cake. When I'm in pain, I want hamburgers. When I'm happy, I want tacos. And when things get hard, it's a lot easier to hunt for promising possibilities than it is to buckle down and do the work.

The only way around this problem? Identify your loops, your crutches. Figure out why you're doing that behavior. And instead of changing it, change something else. Your brain vastly prefers picking up a new habit to dropping an old one. 

Here's how it worked for me today:

BRAIN: Ooh! Look at that pretty outfit! Let's buy it!

ME: Why do you keep going to ModCloth and shopping for clothes? I don't need any clothes. I barely ever leave the house. 

BRAIN: Well, I don't feel pretty. I want to feel pretty. I think these clothes will make me feel as pretty and carefree as that model looks.

ME: Why don't you feel pretty?

BRAIN: Well, I gained 7 pounds while my back was broken, and I still feel a little weak and fragile, and at this weight, I don't feel like myself and my jeans are kind of tight. I need new jeans!

me: Shh, brain. You don't need new jeans. You need to get back to the weight that feels right. You need to work on feeling strong again.

BRAIN: That's scary and hard! I want to eat cinnamon toast until I feel comfort!

me: Shh. No. That's the opposite of what you need. Sugar and bread only make you feel worse about yourself and crave more sugar and bread. Sugar and bread make you feel bad about your body and guilty about eating something you know is ultimately bad for you. What you need to do is stop shopping for crap that won't fill an emotional void and start taking small steps to getting where you want to be. Let's start with breakfast. Eggs and beans, historically, is the breakfast that gives you the fuel you need, doesn't make you crave sugar all day, and helps you get to your happy weight.

BRAIN: BUT I DON'T LIKE EGGS AND BEANS.

me: Do you like feeling unpretty and shopping all day for shit you don't buy and then getting annoyed when you're not getting closer to feeling good or finishing this book on time?

BRAIN: ...uh, no.

me: Okay, then try something else. Try having eggs and beans for breakfast.

BRAIN: BUT I HATE COOKING.

me: Then turn on that awesome song from Vance Joy and dance around with the spatula while you cook. And open all the curtains and turn on the Christmas tree, while you're at it. Let your hair down from that ratty bun and brush it. There. Now warm up your coffee and eat your eggs and beans. Don't you feel like a person again?

BRAIN: You know what? I totally do! You win this round! Now, about that edit...

In telling you this, I don't want to start a dialogue about weight and beauty and how that compares to inner beauty. I just want to show a fight that I have with myself every damn day of my life. You probably have a fight like that. Maybe you're not happy with your life, maybe you want to lose weight or start a new career. And you want to change, but your brain says BUT THAT'S HARD AND SCARY, and you find reasons not to do it or you get stuck in stupid loops that keep you from pursuing something real. Maybe your crutch is TV or alcohol or arguing on internet forums or video games or Pinterest.

Point is, there is likely something you do with your time that you don't actually want to do. It might even be detrimental to you. But you do it without thinking, not knowing why you do it.

How does this problem connect to writing?

Well, writing is hard. Your brain wants to write... or it says it does. But what your brain really likes is talking about writing, thinking about writing, and thinking about being a writer. Your brain really, really loves having written. But it most likely, hates writing--or at least the harder aspects of writing. The soggy middle or the edits or the synopses or the part where you've written yourself into a corner and can't get out.

When people tell me they don't have time to write, I want to shake them until their teeth rattle.

Do you have time to check Facebook? To watch TV? To be on Twitter? Do you have an hour a day, stolen at 5am or after midnight or over a lunch break on your laptop in your car? Writing isn't this grand montage where you quit your job, go all Walden, and produce some magnum opus that instantly hits list. Writing happens word by word, minute by minute, whenever and wherever it can. Writing is like picking blackberries, one at a time, taking the scratches and stings and forging forward even when it hurts. Writing takes time and rewriting takes even more. And your brain will fight you every step of the way.

I write for a living now, and as I'm trying to show you, I have to fight my brain constantly. My brain wants to plan trips. My brain wants to paint and play bass and clean out closets and go hiking. My brain wants to write super long blog posts that no one will ever read.

And that's how I know that I'm in a place where the writing is hard.

A place where I have to buckle down.

A place where the only way out is through.

So instead of chasing the easy fix, instead of clicking BUY or mixing up a batch of brownies or watching videos of Tom Hiddleston snuggling puppies while reading Keats, I'm going to finish this goddamn revision.

The things we want are hard. The only way we'll ever get them is to identify why our brain is dicking us over and trick it into getting the hell out of our way so that we can succeed.

So what's your bad habit, and what is it hiding?

I'll be over here eating eggs and beans while you quest onward and kick ass.

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Need some merch? I now have a Zazzle store!

Check out some of my available merch and let me know what else you want. I'm happy to design something based on any of my books or characters!

Servants of the Storm Tote Bag

This is the basic tote, but you can use this design on a fancier tote, a different color tote, or a grocery bag.

Servants of the Storm mug

Bludbunny mug

These mugs are customizable-- any style mug, any color. As you bluddy wish!

Servants of the Storm skull shirt

You should be able to customize this design with the kind of shirt you prefer in the size and color you want!

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Coming up: Bludbunny Brigade mugs, Bludbunny totes, Servants of the Storm and Bludbunny stickers. 

Have a favorite quote or character I haven't done yet? Let me know!

Note: You can save a ton of money today on Zazzle with code ZAZCYBER2014. Regular tote bags are under $3 and mugs and shirts are 30% off. Go forth and beware the storms!

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