Delilah S. Dawson's Blog, page 8

How to Defeat Soggy Middle Syndrome

On Ideas: How do you decide what to write next?

Giveaway: Win an ARC of VIOLENT ENDS!

Up for grabs is (1) review copy of VIOLENT ENDS, an anthology out September 1 and featuring stories by 17 YA authors, including myself. 

More on the book:

It took only twenty-two minutes for Kirby Matheson to exit his car, march onto school grounds, enter the gymnasium, and open fire, killing six and injuring five others. 

But this isn't a story about the shooting itself. This isn't about recounting that one unforgettable day.

This is about Kirby and how one boy—who had friends, enjoyed reading, played saxophone in the band, and had never been in trouble before—became a monster capable of entering his school with a loaded gun and firing on his classmates.

Each chapter is told from a different victim's viewpoint, giving insight into who Kirby was and who he'd become. Some are sweet, some are dark; some are seemingly unrelated, about fights or first kisses or late-night parties. 

This is a book of perspectives—with one character and one event drawing them all together—from the minds of some of YA's most recognizable names.

“Provocatively and effectively illustrates the multidimensionality of someone considered to be a monster.”
-Kirkus

a Rafflecopter giveaway

WAKE OF VULTURES galley + Cannibal Owl pendant giveaway!

Up for grabs: (1) signed and coveted paperback galley of WAKE OF VULTURES, my October 27 Western Fantasy release with Orbit Books, written as Lila Bowen, and (1) bronze Great Horned Owl skull necklace from the amazing folks at Fire & Bone.

Here's how to enter:

a Rafflecopter giveaway

The fine print:

1. This rare, early copy of WAKE OF VULTURES will come to you signed and personalized with pressed four-leaf clovers found by the author. It'll also be stuffed with swag from my other books (written as Delilah S. Dawson) and might include adorable drawings.

2. The giveaway is US only right now, as I've had major problems shipping fancy giveaway stuff overseas. WAKE OF VULTURES will be out in the UK the same week in October, so I'll do a UK giveaway in October with another skull pendant.

3. The Great Horned Owl skull pendant giveaway is sponsored by the super cool folks of Fire & Bone, makers of elegant and oh-so-shiny animal skull pendants 3D scanned from real skulls and then cast in metal using the lost wax method. They're super amazing, and I own three and wear them frequently. This skull is bronze and comes with a wooden stand and matching chain. There's a bad guy in Wake of Vultures called the Cannibal Owl, so it goes perfectly with the story. Give 'em a follow on your social media platform of choice, as they're always doing Kickstarters for their new designs. They make cufflinks, too. Thanks, Fire & Bone!

4. No purchase is necessary to enter the giveaway.

Please use your voice wisely: The Court of Creep

Disturbing things are happening on the internet. tl;dr: A teen on tumblr called John Green creepy, someone else demanded he defend himself against accusations of harassment/abuse, he got upset, his friends and other writers jumped in to defend him and, in some cases, remind teens that publicly saying "he's creepy" doesn't mean he's a child molester. Then some other folks jumped in to remind *them* that telling teen girls to shut up when they're feeling creeped on isn't cool, and what's more, that privileged white adult writers need to be better allies for their audience.

In other words: People got upset for several legitimate reasons. 

And that makes me want to tell a story.

Back in high school, I had two male teachers. Let's call them Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones. 

Now, Mr. Smith was creepy. When my girlfriends and I discussed him, we did that teeth-gritted shiver. CREEPY. No one wanted to have him as a teacher or be in his classroom. Not that he ever did anything inappropriate or said anything abusive or threatening or gross or touched anyone. He just... looked creepy. Dressed creepy. Our gut instincts told us he was flat out freaking creepy.

Mr. Jones, on the other hand, was cool. Everyone wanted to be in his classes. He'd even been my basketball coach and was the dad of an acquaintance. I'd known him for most of my life. He let us watch movies, played board games with us, cracked jokes, and was well-liked by everyone.

When I turned 18, Mr. Jones touched me inappropriately. And I told myself that maybe I was imagining it. That surely he hadn't meant to do that. That I was imagining things.

And then he did it again.

When I mentioned this to my girlfriends, the truth came out: He'd done it to all of us. And we all hoped it was just an accident, because surely Mr. Jones was too cool to do that. Because adults weren't supposed to do that. Because we trusted him and liked him.

So we took it to a teacher, and she took it to the principal, and soon we were being interviewed separately to get all the facts. I was ashamed, but I told the truth, anyway. So did my friends. So did other girls who had stepped up. At the end of the interview, they asked me one more question. What about creepy ol' Mr. Smith? Had he ever tried anything funny?

And I thought back. He was creepy. I thought so. Everyone did. 

But I didn't say that. I told the truth: No, Mr. Smith had never done anything inappropriate.

Mr. Jones got fired. Mr. Smith did not.

As an adult, looking back, I'm mortified by the amount of power I wielded in that moment. One false word from me, one assumption, and a man could've lost his job, possibly his career and reputation. Just because he wasn't friendly and fun and cool and didn't look the way I wanted an adult to look, I'd decided that Mr. Smith was a creeper. He had actually done nothing wrong. 

And this is the double-edged sword of having a voice: You can use that voice to help or harm.

When someone is listening to you, they want the truth. The truth can get a child molester out of a school before he can do real harm and damage someone forever. But telling the truth and wielding that kind of power is heady and intoxicating. It feels good to be heard, to have that power, especially if you're someone whose voice has been silenced in the past, someone who feels helpless or mute in their life situation.

When you use your voice to make assumptions, to say something flippant that might be true or to treat an assumption as a reality, you can destroy lives.

Now, I don't personally know John Green or most of the authors who defended him. I did not make my feelings about what occurred public because this is not my fight. But when folks start attacking Chuck Wendig--now, that I take offense to. I haven't read every tweet or blog post that Chuck has made, but he's one of my best friends in the writing world, and he'd probably take a bullet for me, provided it landed in an area that wouldn't kill him. And he's doing the best he can to be an ally and to use his megaphone for good. He owns his privilege, and when someone tells him to listen, he listens. That doesn't mean he's right all the time, but it means he's trying to help. 

Chuck got attacked on social media today in a personal and dangerous way. I read the chain of what happened, saw what was being said. And I can't fault his attackers for their feelings and would not seek to silence their voices. But I wish we could all step back for a moment and see that no one here is telling teens to shut up or to ignore their gut instincts. What they're saying is that unless someone has evidence, they probably shouldn't go online and spread rumors that could ruin someone's life. It's not an adult vs. teen thing, not a race thing, not a man vs. woman thing. It's a The Internet Gives You a Voice and a Megaphone; Please Don't Use It to Ruin the Lives of Innocent People thing.

Even posting this, I'm worried I'll get attacked. That I've said something wrong, or that someone will accuse me of urging young women into silence. I don't want you to be silent. When you feel oppressed, I want you to tell people. When you are harmed, I want you to tell people. But when you're not quite sure, when you just have this feeling, when you don't like something and want to lash out... I hope you'll wisely use your energy for something else.

That same year that I helped get Mr. Jones fired, I was raped by an ex-boyfriend. He was the son of two teachers, popular and admired around the school. And when I told my friends, they didn't believe me. Surely he wouldn't do that; he was in the Honor Society! I told a teacher and mentor I trusted and asked her if she thought I should go to the police, and she told me no. She said there wasn't enough evidence and no one would believe me. And that it would reflect poorly on me anyway, make me look like an attention-seeking whiner and liar.

Because she told me not to use my voice, I didn't tell anyone in power, and that's one of my greatest regrets. Sure, I told several of the girls who dated him that they needed to be careful, up until he left for college and I lost track. But I didn't trust my own voice, and to this day, I wonder if he hurt other girls, other girls who thought no one would believe them. I wonder if anything I could've said or done would've saved them. I'll never know. And that's why I'll never tell teen girls to shut up, but I will encourage them to speak wisely.

It takes time and experience and confidence to find your voice.

Please, use it for good.

 

 

ENOUGH is a wretched concept

I'm not crazy; I'm sick: That time the hospital missed a major medical problem and told me it was all in my head.

The last selfie before my surgery. This is my METAL FACE.

Are you depressed? Do you have anxiety? Are you on SSRIs? Better be wary when you hit the ER for a physical problem; they might tell you it's all in your head. That's what happened to me. I recently went through five months of pain for no good reason. One simple, non-invasive test could've solved a serious medical issue, but I wasn't given that test in the ER.

Here's why.

Last February, out of freaking nowhere, I came down with the worst indigestion of my life. To be clear, I'm 37 years old, 5'5", 140 pounds, and generally in good health. I didn't change my lifestyle, eat a 40 ounce steak, or do anything unusual. But this indigestion-- it took over my life. Chest pains, pressure on my trachea, acid in my throat and belly, trouble breathing. Every moment was agony. Every time I went to sleep, I felt like I was going to die. I tried every over the counter remedy available, from Beano to Gas X to Pepto Bismol. Nothing helped. So I went to my general practitioner.

He said it was simple acid reflux and prescribed Nexium. I decided, while I was there, to ask for an antidepressant. February is my darkest month, and I decided that after all these years of battling depression, I would finally give Celexa a try. Normally, I go home and Google every medicine any doctor prescribes, but this time, I decided against it. I didn't want to look at a long list of side effects and toss the Rx in the trash as I had in the past. I wanted to feel better. 

That night, I took two pills: Nexium and Celexa.

Shortly thereafter, I had a bad reaction while watching Spiderman 3. Oddly enough, it wasn't due to what a horrible movie Spiderman 3 is.

I thought it was a heart attack... until I Googled "Celexa and Nexium drug interaction" and saw a bright red stop sign to indicate a major problem. It was terrifying. I couldn't breathe, my heart was hammering, my ears were ringing, my body was alternating hot and cold, my fingertips and feet were numb, I was dizzy. I was home alone with the kids, and I was afraid I was going to pass out, so I called 9-1-1. 

The 9-1-1 responders were amazing. They ran several tests, including an EKG, and concluded that there was nothing life-threatening going on, that it was most likely the drug interaction combined with a panic attack. They suggested I have someone drive me to the emergency room, as going in the ambulance with two kids would only make me freak out more. I spent that night in the ER, hooked up to an IV and having dozens of blood tests. I told the doctors and nurses every symptom, with heavy emphasis on the indigestion that had started it all and was ongoing. Reflux, they said. Simple as that. They discharged me and told me to follow up with my general practitioner the next day.

Know what my chart said, what they didn't have the guts to tell me to my face?

There was nothing wrong. I was just having a panic attack.

The general practitioner claimed that the Celexa and Nexium, as prescribed, constituted too small a dose to cause the reaction I'd had (even though it matched every symptom of the reaction as described online). He said to keep trying with the Nexium, which I refused to do. He offered me a different antidepressant, which I rejected. He said it was probably just anxiety and gave me anxiety meds. And I took them, because I was terrified of that same feeling, that panic that I was dying.

For the next four months, off and on, I'd get better... and then have the indigestion again. There seemed to be no trigger. After the Nexium incident, I was scared of reflux medicines. I stopped eating fat and fried foods and milk, basically just consumed toast and ginger ale. I couldn't wear my usual jeans because I was so bloated. Every time I thought about having a panic attack, every time I was in the car and my mouth went dry, every time I saw a movie and vertigo kicked in (I'm talking to you, Jupiter Ascending)... I felt my heart jack up, and I took an anxiety pill. For my stupid anxiety. 

And then, in May, the indigestion hit a peak. I was talking to my kids, and suddenly, I was out of breath. I couldn't finish a sentence. I was wheezing. I took an anxiety pill, and it didn't help. I calmly got dressed and asked to go to the ER-- of a different, bigger hospital in a larger town forty miles away. The whole way there, I sipped my water and clutched the car door hard enough to make my knuckles white. I was scared. I couldn't breathe. It was like someone was sitting on my chest, slowly crushing me.

The first thing they asked me in the ER?

Do you still have your gallbladder?

Well, yeah. The last ER said it was fine. They ran blood tests.

But did they do an ultrasound?

Well, no. They said if my blood didn't show signs of infection, then my gallbladder wasn't the problem.

And the doctor made a very annoyed face and sent me right off to have an ultrasound, which revealed a big, fat GALLSTONE blocking the neck of my GALLSTONE-PACKED gallbladder.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" the doctor asked when I was wheeled back to my room.

"I'm going to Phoenix Comicon," I said.

"What are you doing the day you get back?"

And that's how we scheduled the surgery shown above... for the day after I got back from a con. They wanted that gallbladder OUT. And so did I.

My gallbladder was a shitshow. Totally useless. That whole time, it wasn't even functional. This huge, D20 stone was blocking the whole damn organ. Bile was backed up my esophagus. I couldn't digest fat. No wonder I was a mess for five months.

FIVE.

GODDAMN.

MONTHS.

If they'd run an ultrasound IN FEBRUARY, I could've been spared so much pain and worry.

But instead, they told me I was crazy.

Not in so many words, of course. But they told me that all of this pain was in my head. That it was anxiety. That I should calm down. That I was doing it to myself.

They gave me... more pills.

They sent me to a general practitioner who told me it was reflux and who sent me to a gastroenterologist who also told me it was reflux. I went to a gynecologist to see if it was hormone related and was told it was... reflux. When I told these people, "I am having a serious problem and it's taking over my life," they brushed it away and said to try a new reflux medicine. More pills.

Now, I know that there are dozens of variables here. Maybe I didn't give the ER docs all the info they would've needed to check my gallbladder; I was freaking out at the time. Maybe they were too busy focusing on the drug interaction to pay attention to the original symptom that started the entire chain of events. Maybe things would've been different if I'd gone to a different hospital at a different time, talked to a different doctor. Maybe they heard I was a writer and decided I was being hyperbolic. Who knows?

What stands out to me is that I told them I was on Celexa, an antidepressant, and they seemed fine with skipping other tests and telling me it was all in my head. My concerns were brushed off. They missed what I was told, later, were glaringly obvious symptoms of a messed up gallbladder.

All that time, I thought I was doing it to myself. That it was all in my head. That if I could just calm down and chill out, I'd get better.

Bullshit.

They gave me anxiety because they missed the problem.

Not only that, but they treated anxiety not as an actual illness with physical symptoms beyond my control, but as something that I was doing wrong, something that could be fixed through sheer force of will and a little meditation.

Every time I had a gallstone attack from February to May, I thought it was a panic attack. I took my Lorazepam and focused my breathing, as if it was something I could control. Which it wasn't. It never was.

Anxiety is not something you can control any more than a gallbladder is. Your brain is just as much of an organ as your gallbladder or kidney or heart. We all deserve answers and treatment, and if we have to get pushy, then so be it. Ask for more tests. Whip out your phone and Google your drug interactions. Demand that they deal with the problem instead of slapping a drug band-aid on you to get you out the door.

I'm now three weeks out of gallbladder surgery, and I feel great. I've lost 6 pounds. I can wear jeans again. I'm not having panic attacks. I'm learning how to eat without my stupid, blocked-up gallbladder donking up digestion. It's not a perfect solution, but it's so much better than what was happening before.

My message to you: Take care of yourself. Demand answers. 

Don't let them tell you it's all in your head.

I'm not going to punch you. Here's why.

We often hear the phrase Don't punch down, but I don't believe in punching at all.

Don't punch down, don't punch up, don't punch sideways. Don't punch bunnies or bears or sharks. Because-- big surprise-- no one likes being punched.

No one listens to you when you're punching them. They just think about how much they hate being punched and how hard they'll want to punch back.

That's right, folks-- I'm talking about social media.

If you tweet writing advice I disagree with?

That's your business. That's your megaphone. If I don't like it, I can unfollow you or offer different advice on my own feed. Everyone has a different path and a different process. What works for you, works for you, even if it doesn't work for me. If you wanted my thoughts, you'd ask me personally.

I won't correct you.

If you made a misspelling in your social media or blog post?

Well, he'll. Everybody makes mistakes, and English is an insanely ridiculous language. In between typing, fat thumbs, non-native speakers, and the perils of Autocorrect, we're all guilty. Every writer's first drafts are full of mistakes; that's what copyeditors are for. I just assume you know how to spell 'rebuttal' and go on with my life.

I won't correct you.

If you ask an offensive question or post a link that disgusts me?

BFD. It's insanely self-centered to think that my opinion is going to change yours or that you want my personal input on a topic about which you feel strongly. Being my friend doesn't mean we have to agree on everything. The last thing I would want to do is assume the worst of someone asking a question. And if your post offends me, I can click "I don't want to see this" and make it disappear without actively hurting your feelings. Enough of those, and I'll click Unfollow. It's not my business to tamper with or police your megaphone... but it is my business to stop listening if I don't like your message and to Unfriend or block you if I find your opinions actively damaging or toxic on a constant basis.

But I still won't correct you.

What's the point here?

Everyone wants to be right. Everyone wants to be valued. But constantly correcting each other with a gently admonishing ;-) isn't the way to do that.

Social media gives you a voice and a megaphone, and you get to use it as you see fit. Eventually, that megaphone will grow and allow you to spread the word of your books, your sales, your events far and wide. But if you start out using that megaphone to punch down or up or sideways, to punch bunnies or bears or sharks, your audience will dwindle, and no one will hear your voice. People will never say I REALLY LIKE THE WAY THAT GUY CONSTANTLY CORRECTS EVERYONE, AND I WANT TO READ ALL HIS BOOKS.

And if they did? They'd be vindictively hunting for mistakes to tear you down.

Don't punch down reminds you not to be a bully, but punching up can be just as damaging to your career and reputation. Constantly correcting, arguing with, or harassing someone with a bigger megaphone than you won't get their attention-- it will get you blocked. 

Writers talk. Agents and editors talk. And we all have very long memories.

So are you ready for the bad news?

No one cares about your thoughts.

No one cares about your beliefs, your feelings about their beliefs, your thoughts on current events, your preference of dog breeds and breakfast sandwiches. Unless and until you're A Really Big Deal, no one cares. Your mom, maybe. No one else.

You start out with zero influence.

Your megaphone is a thimble.

But here's the good news:

You can make people care, one by one.

Every message you send out into the internet should reaffirm why they care. And you should make them care so much that they share what you say and tell others to listen to you. You tell them, every day, that what you say is more than punching, lashing out, correcting-- that it adds value to their day. That's how you build an audience. That's how you grow your megaphone.

Not by punching.

By building.

Building up other people, building up the community, building up your backlist, building up your own Fortress of Quality that beckons others with cheerful banners and a message of warmth and welcome, or at least knowledge and thoughtful contribution.

Correcting someone on the internet might make you feel superior momentarily, but it's punching. Use that energy to build your own castle instead of trying to poke holes in someone else's walls.

So here's my advice, and your mileage may vary:

Whenever you catch yourself thinking, SOMEONE IS WRONG ABOUT WRITING ON THE INTERNET, AND THEY REALLY NEED MY INPUT, close the window and go work on your book. That's how you can change the world.

And the only thing you have to punch is the keys of your laptop.

 

Ignore the Haters and Be Whatever You Want: Lessons on Taylor Swift

10 Ways Writing Is Exactly the Same as Having a Dirtbag Gallbladder

After six months of torture, I had my dirtbag gallbladder removed on Tuesday. Here's what I learned.

1. AT FIRST, THEY WILL TELL YOU YOU'RE CRAZY.

That's right-- the first time I showed up in the ER with a laundry list of scary symptoms from vertigo to indigestion to chest pain, they told me I was having panic attacks and should consider seeing a counselor. The general attitude was Give the crazy lady some nice pills and send her home to her husband. Worst of all, they made me doubt myself. I was convinced it was all in my head. I started having panic attacks about having panic attacks. 

And that was bullshit, because there was a legit medical problem that they missed.

When you tell people you want to write a book, they often have a similar response. Your family, especially, might think that you're just making stuff up or talking big. But writing a book is a job, and if you take it seriously, it can become a calling. Don't let someone tell you it's just in your head. GUESS WHAT, FOOLS? IT'S REAL.

2. IT'S GOING TO GET WORSE BEFORE IT GETS BETTER.

As it turned out, I had a bum gallbladder full of gallstones. It took 3 different specialists and 2 trips to the ER to figure that out. I had a 15-day long gallstone attack, which basically means that I had the worst indigestion of my life and thought I was going to die in my sleep every time I closed my eyes. It hurt, and I didn't know if I was on the right track, and when I thought that it was my new normal, I got very depressed and hopeless.

And, hey! That sounds like querying! When I didn't know if my writing was good or bad and couldn't get any insight into how to improve or move forward. I felt hopeless all the time and like a total failure paddling in a sea of suck. Turns out that suffering is part of both processes. Even after you know what you're doing, it's going to be hard sometimes.

3. MAGIC WOO WON'T SOLVE YOUR PROBLEM.

So I had this problem with no answer, and I did what anyone does in 2015-- tried to crowd-source a solution. I was told it was hormonal, it was a virus, it was reflux, it was silent reflux, it was NINJA REFLUX, it was a heart attack, it was a pinched nerve. I was told to do yoga, to drink tea, to take pills, to see a chiropractor. Once we found out it was my gallbladder, some thoughtful folks who were not doctors and had never suffered through gallbladder pains gave some lovely advice around "paying attention" to my gallbladder and "eating around" the symptoms. Because, you know, when your ORGAN IS DYING, you can reverse that by NOT EATING BUTTER. 

Point being, it's up to you to do the research. To take all advice with a grain of salt, check sources, and make sure that the experts really are experts. There's a lot of bullshit advice about writing being shouted and sold by people who don't have the insider knowledge or experience you need. There are e-books on Social Media for Writers by people who have less than 1000 Twitter followers. There are people giving advice on how to get an agent who have never had an agent. There are people talking in-depth on plotting when they've never written a single book. And that might not be the best source of advice.

There is no magic pill to fix a gallbladder or get an agent or sell a book. If a solution seems too easy and too good to be true, it probably is.

4. THE ONLY WAY OUT IS THROUGH... A HOLE IN YOUR BELLY BUTTON.

For my suffering, there was only one answer: laparoscopic surgery to remove my gallbladder through a hole in my navel. I was so excited when the ultrasound showed gallstones, because that meant I had an answer and could take steps to get better.

How is this related to writing?

Because you can surgically remove your book from your navel, obviously.

KIDDING.

The thing is, plenty of folks would postpone having that surgery in hopes that it would get better on its own. We often know what we need to do, but we're too scared to do it. Some people will finish a book and dread revisions, choosing instead to start a new book. Some people will let a perfectly lovely edited draft sit on their hard drive because they're scared to query too early. Some people will keep throwing their query at increasingly less well-matched agents because they're afraid to shelve their book, accept that it's not going to happen this time, and write a new one.

And screw that. The steps are clear. Go boldly. Do the thing. You'll feel better.

5. DON'T LET IT STOP YOU FROM LIVING YOUR LIFE.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" the surgeon asked, poking my belly.

"Flying to Phoenix Comicon."

"Okay, so what are you doing the day after you fly back?"

That's how we scheduled my surgery. Sure, I could've canceled my trip and had surgery the next day, but I wasn't having an attack at the moment and really wanted to see my friends and make good on my commitment. The doc's only advice was, "Make sure you know where the good hospital is and don't eat any fat."

The latter was hella harder than the former.

If you pay attention to social media as a writer, it can feel like everyone is running a race that you're perpetually losing. Every day, someone's getting an agent, getting a deal, announcing foreign sales, selling movie options, or otherwise having amazing things happening to them that you'd very much like to happen to you. Suddenly, there's this immediacy around writing, like if you don't stay home and write 10k today, everyone else is getting ahead.

But writing is a long game. Publishing is a marathon, not a sprint. Today's deal book was written two years ago. Sometimes, you need to close the laptop, flip a bird at your gallbladder, and go live your life. Whatever you're doing can keep a few days, provided you don't have a fever. Go have adventures. Connect with people. Live. The surgeon and your WIP will still be there when you get back. A great book is going to sell just as well tomorrow as it would have today. My gallbladder did not explode, but I had a hell of a time in Phoenix.

6. YOU HAVE TO GIVE UP CONTROL. TO A SCARY DUDE IN A MASK.

Okay, so maybe not the second half, unless your agent/editor is into cosplay.

Thing is, there's a point as a patient when you're wearing a buttless dress in someone else's bed, stuck full of needles and watching an anesthesiologist juggle bottles of mystery juice, and the only thing left to do is stop fighting, close your eyes, and go to sleep. Which is scary as hell, but also liberating.

Same thing in publishing.

If you want to be traditionally published, your goal is to sell a book to an editor at a publishing house, and at that moment, your book is no longer your baby. You must cede control. You must trust your editor's taste, knowledge, and savvy and figure out how to do whatever they ask. You must put your writing into their hands and trust that they will make it better. If only we could edit while heavily sedated, right?

7. IT HAPPENS SLOWLY AND THEN ALL AT ONCE AND THEN YOU FORGET EVERYTHING.

The countdown to surgery took foooooreeeeeveeeer-- as my Twitter timeline shows. But once the IV was in, everything went very quickly, and suddenly, I was waking up stoned out of my mind with a ginger ale and lots of polite questions.

Publishing is like that, too. You wait and wait and wait-- because publishing takes forever. And then suddenly it's release week, and there's not nearly enough time for everything. And with each release, you forget everything and hope for the best, asking your publicist the same questions and tweeting the same tweets.

I apparently asked, very politely, if they'd given me a prescription for pain meds. Four times! Because I kept forgetting the answer. Because medicine is magic.

Point being that time moves very strangely around publishing and surgery, and as long as you smile and thank everyone several times, you'll probably do okay.

9. EVERYTHING INSIDE YOU GETS REARRANGED FOREVER LIKE A SNOWGLOBE THAT GOT REPEATEDLY STABBED.

My stomach is a hot mess right now. The outside is all bruising and glue and weird shapes, and the inside feels shaken up and destroyed. 

Just like my heart feels after I finish a book.

Each story... changes you. You learn about yourself as a writer and a person, and the process of first drafting and editing leaves lasting impressions. You're not the same after becoming a writer. Sometimes I think about quitting, and then I can't imagine what I would do with my time, with my thoughts. I'm creative, but not creative enough to contemplate a life without writing.

My gallbladder, though? I don't miss it a bit.

10. YOU ARE UNIQUE AND MESSED UP, AND THAT'S OKAY.

The doctor said that I had a uniquely floppy gallbladder. That in the 10k+ cholecystectomies he's done, mine was the easiest, because the damn thing was barely attached.

Which, frankly, terrified me. I mean, are all my innards sub-par? Am I barely held together? Could I fly apart at any moment?

But no, he assured us. There is no normal. Everyone's organs are unique. Everyone's insides are weird in different ways. And that's okay. He even let me keep the troublesome gallstone that was blocking my duct and making my life hell--and the thing is beautiful, like a faceted, polished D20. I'm kind of amazed that all my pain was caused by this glorious, horrible, scary, freaky, brilliant monster rock that I made out of cholesterol.

You have something like that inside you, too.

You have a story to tell, something unique to contribute. And you will have hard times, and writing will challenge you, and you will want to give up. But always remember that you have something no one else has. Maybe it's a floppy gallbladder or a delightful voice or an amazing ability to plot. Hell, maybe it's all of that and a bag of sparkly gallstones. Point is: Do your thang. Have a great time. Be you. Because you're awesome.

And that's totally not the painkillers talking.