Writers are Weird and We Like Butterflies

So, THE
LEGEND OF JACKSON MURPHY is officially “out there” and ready to buy. I’m
excited and nervous, again, but this time because I know his antics aren’t for
everyone. I’m very curious to see how many readers get the message of Jack’s
story, and how many can’t get past his dirty deeds. Stay tuned.



I know I promised a sample of a WIP, and that will come, but
later in the week. (Not because I don’t have one, but because I haven’t gotten
it ready yet. Sorry.)



In the craziness of the past few months, I’ve shoved down
feelings of loss and grief over the passing of my Dad because I’ve just had too
much shit to deal with. I knew I’d have to deal with it at some point, but
(perhaps mercifully) I just couldn’t pause to indulge in things like crying or
missing him. Kurt moved to B.C. to work, we started renovating the house so we
can list it for sale, moved out of the house and into an apartment so said work
could be done and thus packed everything we owned up before we could do that,
got rid of about 2/3 of our crap, and cleaned and fixed whatever needed
cleaning and fixing at the house. On top of that I launched two books and worked,
cleaned, mothered, etc. It’s been a long few months of too much shit to do and
not nearly enough time for one person to do it.



BUT…I’ve done it. The house is listed, with a few odds and
ends I still have to do, but they’re minor. (Thank God) Within a couple of weeks,
my days will be somewhat less full, and I can work and write a little more. So
now that I finally have time to breathe, I find myself missing my dad more and
more each day. It’s not a terrible feeling; just sad. Lonely.



So, anyway, my mom started talking about how she’s always
wanted a tattoo, and I was all, “You know, so have I.” We discussed and agreed
we’d go together to get one. Making the decision of where said tattoo will go
and what it will be wasn’t easy. I mean, this shit’s there FOREVER so you want
something that is either kickass or really special. The whole “forever” concept
is going to make my decision seem batshit, but not to anyone who truly knows
me.



I thought Dad would find the whole process pretty cool, and
I wanted something that reminded me of him. However, I didn’t want something
that was all cliché. You know, the ones with the name and date of birth and
death, or a giant soppy heart with “Dad” through it. Gag. No, that’s not me and
that’s not my dad. Besides, we writers avoid cliché at all costs, right? So
what did I do?



This:



 

 

How you like them apples? I think they’re pretty damn
awesome, but I’ll explain why there is an f-bomb permanently painted on my
skin. My dad used “Fuck it” to express many things. Someone pissing you off?
Fuck it. Not worth your time. Wish you had more time, money, etc.? Fuck it. Do
what you need to do to get it. Not sure if what you’re doing is right or wrong?
Fuck it. If you’re happy, it’s always right. The list is really endless.
Worried someone might be offended at the f-bomb tattooed brazenly on your back?
Fuck it. Bunch of pussies.



The most memorable fuck it moment between my dad and me was
my wedding day. The march was playing, my bridesmaids were making their way to
the front of the church, and Dad stood with me in the little alcove inside the
doorway. He touched my arm and said that I didn’t have to go through with it. I
was all, “Dad, it’s kind of late for second thoughts. I’m doing this. What
about all those people sitting in there?” He was all, “They don’t matter. If
you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to. Fuck it. Fuck them. We can take
off right now. You don’t owe any of them anything.”



Part of me wishes I was the woman I am today. She’d have
agreed with him, but I wasn’t quite there yet. So I smiled and told him to stop
being an ass. And we walked down that aisle.



Every time I hear, say or see this phrase, I hear my dad and
THAT makes this tattoo more special than any other I could have done. The two
butterflies soften the blow for the pussies. They also represent (for me)
freedom, creativity, and love. The big blue one is symbolic of my oldest
daughter and the little pink one (can’t see the pink in the picture, I know) is
symbolic of my younger daughter.



Basically, I got the special meaning without being cliché.
Okay, so maybe butterflies are cliché, but…fuck it. I like butterflies.