A Lot To Be Thankful For

Thanksgiving is a tough holiday for me. In fact, they all are. But Thanksgiving is a holiday that centers around the dinner table, and as the years go by, it becomes harder and harder to ignore the empty spaces. Some spaces are empty because the person just isn't there, other spaces are empty because that family member is no longer with us. For me, it’s the empty chair at the head of the table that hurts that most.

Part of being older is handling these moments, moving on and looking forward. But it's difficult. It's too easy for me to focus on what is gone, instead of being thankful for what is still there. I find myself at the end of Thanksgiving, the end of the holidays, a little sadder, a little older. Just thankful that the season's cheer is over.

This year I found myself overly defensive when people asked my Thanksgiving plans. With the changes in family dynamics, it was going to be a smaller celebration of festivities than normal. I found myself justifying my plans to other people. “Oh just a small gathering,” I would say, “But those can be the best. More pie for me!” Plaster on a fake smile, and I would be set.

But why? What was this need that caused me to excuse my holiday plans? As if a gathering of loved ones, because it was small, was no longer enough.

It makes me think of a book I read: Hector and the Search for Happiness. The story centers on a psychiatrist who sets off on a journey to discover how to be happy. Hector comes up with a list of rules, one of my favorites being: Making comparisons can spoil your happiness. I have to admit, I’m all too guilty of this.

It is very hard to not want what other people have. From little things to big things. It is so easy to compare what I have, to what someone else has, and always want more. I can focus entirely too much on the happy Facebook posts, viral videos of wonderful moments, and beautiful Instagram photos. But social media is a filter just like another of those available on Instagram. People share pieces of their lives, as carefully and brightly packaged as any Christmas gift.

My holiday goal this year is to actually be thankful. To look around me and focus on the things that I have been blessed with. Whether it is my personal life, my writing or my job. To take a moment each day to be thankful for what I have, to recognize the gifts that have been given to me. So thank you for reading and thank you for being you. I hope you have an amazing holiday season, as special and perfect as it can be just for you.

Why Can't Every Month Be November?

Okay, it’s possible a crazier statement has never been made. But just hear me out. Yes, I know November is miserable. It’s dark before you get home from work, it’s dreary, it’s cold, and if you live on the "wet" coast, you’ve officially turned into a wrinkled prune and commercials for tropical beach resorts actually make you weep just a little bit.

If you’re a writer, it’s also the craziest, most stressful, most rewarding month of the year. It’s the month where writers around the world go a little cray-cray and neglect their families, their exercise routines, and their personal hygiene just to write ONE. MORE. WORD.

It’s NaNoWriMo, ya’ll! (Um, yeah, I’m Canadian—I don’t know where that came from). National Novel Writing Month is that crazy time of year where people far and wide compete to write a novel (or fifty thousand words of one if you’re stupidly verbose, like me) in a single month.

That’s a lot of words. Trust me. It really cuts into the Facebook time.

Last year, I was struggling through the first twenty thousand words of The Faithful's sequel. I’d been researching and hemming and hawing for months and months, really just being completely unproductive. NaNoWriMo saved my lazy ass. There’s nothing like a bit of competition and accountability to get those fingers flying across the keyboard, and I somehow managed to bang out fifty-five thousand words during that month. It got me over the hump, and I completed the first draft in December. NaNoWriMo forced me to get out of my own way. To shut down my prissy little internal editor and just bloody write.

Fast-forward a year. I’ve been hemming and hawing and doing my research for a new detective novel about a family of four who goes missing, and I’ve only managed about fifteen thousand words. But fear not! November was nigh, and I knew I could bang out most of this novel during one crazy month. So I nagged and cajoled my writer friends into joining me on this no-time-to-bathe adventure, because everything is better when you’ve got friends along for the ride, right?

And here we are, twenty-four thousand words written in the first twelve days, and counting …

It leaves me with one question: Why oh why can’t I find this kind of momentum the other eleven months of the year?

Life Reflects Art – and Vice Versa

Writing the Hengist series of books has been life changing. The concept of a modern-day warrior with medieval values came after spending a day stalking the incredible Kevin Hicks (that's him with the flaming arrow) round Warwick castle. Not my fault. When he shot 100 arrows through a piece of rope the size of a man’s head in five minutes, it woke up this warrior who’d been lying dormant within me for many decades (centuries?). That evening, as my friend Lyndsey and I treated our kids to a pub meal, the character Archer was born and by the time I went to bed that night, images of the alternate universe he came from were filling my head, along with the gorgeous girl he was sent over to our world to protect. Her ability to read people’s auras had caught the attention of a ruthless military scientist developing mind-control drugs. Phew, nothing trivial, then. Understandably (with 3 young children and a full-time day job), this project took seven years to complete – particularly when it got interrupted by another full length novel and a series of six teen novellas demanding to be written.

When I finished it, I loved these characters so much I wanted to spend more time with them, so I embarked on telling Archer’s story as a teenage boy when his phenomenal warrior powers were just developing. Sorry did I forget to mention that he can loose an arrow and it will hit the target, even if his eyes are closed? Or that he can work out all the angles and forces required to clear a pool table when he’s never even held a cue stick before? The man’s got a military computer for a brain. So, eighteen days later, Archer was written. By the end of that year (ok, so I took a year off from the day job), initial drafts for the next four books were completed. Although each book featured a different boy, their stories were so intertwined, I had to get to the end of the fifth book then go back and insert scenes signposting the connections between all the events. Only then could I start publishing.


Was the year away from the treadmill the life-changing thing? Yes and no. What I learned that year has become my way of life. During the eighteen days (yep, 18) spent writing Archer, I did virtually no research. Details about jousting, sword-fighting and creating a bow from a yew stave poured into my keyboard with barely a single click on wiki or any other internet resource – when did I have time? There were still meals to make and stuff like that. But when I started researching it to verify the accuracy and replace the techtechtech words with proper names like trammazone (a sword-fighting move) and toxophily (art of archery), I was astounded to find it was all true. The thing that resonated most was the Pagan festivals – these were so real, it was as though I remembered them from a former lifetime.

Never one to do things by halves (yep, I watched jousts, visited real bowmakers and joined sword-fighting forums, plaguing these poor guys to read my scenes and correct anything which didn’t sound real), I had to attend a real Samhain ceremony. Two actually; and after the incredible experience at the second one, I knew I’d come home. This was the life-changer, the way of life I’d unwittingly been following since I was a precocious seven-year-old who knew the names of trees and birds and insisted my mother re-used carrier bags.

So now, I'm a fully-fledged, card-carrying Pagan: living in harmony with nature and celebrating with the sun and moon. What’s not to like about a religion which has a cool party 21 times a year? And although I try to rein it in, I’m not above using the ’fluence for some green traffic lights when I’m in a hurry or to reserve me a parking spot when I reach my destination.

The Simple Truth

I opened the folded letter, my twelve-year-old daughter watching my face for any information. The words I read took me aback. “To reduce pressure and stress anxiety, we recommend that you not ‘prep’ your child by saying s/he will be tested, but rather let your child know s/he is doing well in school and will be given an opportunity to complete some more challenging activities to help the school understand how to best meet his/her needs.” 

My daughter is currently entering the screening process to see if she can be moved into the “gifted and talented program” at school. Now, I don’t know about you, but if I were a kid and my parents informed me I had some “challenging activities” coming up, and then was greeted with a test, I wouldn’t be thrilled. Number one, I’d be stressing over what kind of activities I’d have to complete. Number two, it’s a test. I looked at my daughter and said, “You’re going to have some tests.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I know.” 

Her breathing remained normal, her pupils did not dilate, and I did not detect the smell of sweat. I must not have stressed her out too much with the awful truth. I plunged ahead. “It doesn’t matter how you do on them, right? They’ll just see where you’re at and, if you score high enough, they’ll move you up. If you don’t, they’ll keep you where you are.” 

“Yeah, that’s fine. I know that, too.” She may have rolled her eyes, but I was busy reading the extra pamphlet, and might have been mistaken.

“Okay. Hmm … it says here the ‘uniqueness of the gifted renders them particularly vulnerable and requires modifications in parenting, teaching and counseling in order to develop optimally.’” 

“What? I don’t need to be parented differently!” 

“Well, apparently I might have to start doing something differently if you pass the tests. Maybe I should be meaner and less honest. And do things like not tell you that you have tests coming up.” 

“Not ‘tests,’ Mom. ‘ Challenging activities.’” 

“Oh, yeah.” I looked down at the papers in my hand. “Why would they think you can’t handle the truth about what you have to do in order to get into the program? Don’t they realize you’re smart enough to figure out you’re actually taking a test?”

I’m not a gifted person. I don’t know the answer to these kinds of things. I kind of figure sticking as close to the truth as possible allows for a real conversation where you can actually assess the stress level, vulnerability, and true desires of your children. Just like when you’re at the doctor’s and they’re getting a shot. You tell them it’s going to hurt at first, but then it’ll stop and they’ll be fine. You can’t lie about it; they’ll know the truth as soon as the needle slips into their skin. The concept goes along with when they’re young and you have to leave them: It’s better to look them in the eye so you can say “I love you; I’ll see you later,” than to sneak away in order to avoid a potential meltdown. All they learn from that move is you disappear when they’re not expecting it and, therefore, you’re not very trustworthy.  

What about teaching them that they are strong enough to handle whatever comes their way by being responsible for their own choices, actions, and behaviors? That sometimes they might succeed and other times they might not. That they need to respect who they are, faults and all, before anyone else can respect them. And that you love them. No matter what. To the moon and back. Basically, you know, giving them the opportunity to keep trusting you as a parent and themselves as intelligent individuals.

Her sly grin let me know she was pretty smart, regardless of untaken test results. “Maybe because I’d be particularly vulnerable, I wouldn’t be able to cope with tests anymore. I could only manage challenging activities.” 

She’d caught the irony of the program already setting limits through word-terms of partial truths. Meant to calm the nerves, the program is insinuating a gifted child is likely to be fragile and full of anxiety and may obsess over test-taking. I’m suggesting kids will learn to react to situations through the behavior of their parents. If I don’t spaz about a test, my daughter will never need to assume she can’t handle it. Just like if I don’t spew hate and racism and all the other shoddy “-isms” in our English language, she won’t have those traits ingrained in her. If I teach her to be open and loving towards all people regardless of religion, gender, color, etc., she’ll never put limitations on herself, on who she can be, and on what she can achieve.

“So, you’re okay if you pass and make it in?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And you’re okay if you don’t score high enough?” 

“Yeah, totally.” 

“Alright, I’m signing the permission slip.” 

“I knew you would. What’s for dinner?”

Is the truth really stranger than fiction?

I guess the answer to that question depends on what kind of fiction you read. For me, the answer has always been a resounding “No!” What in real life could possibly be weirder than vampires turned priests, or immortal demon hunters? Yes, my choice of reading material sets the bar pretty high on the strangeness meter.

Lately, though, I find myself rethinking my position.

When I’m writing a book, I spend an enormous amount of time doing research. I need details on everything from street names to historical figures to weather patterns to, well, everything. I’ll spend hours poring over articles, news clippings, videos, and pictures. Oh, and on a side note, I have no idea how authors were able to do all of that before the internet. Kudos to them.

That research often ends up taking me to places that I never knew existed and sometimes, if I’m really lucky, it will reshape my story into something I’d never imagined. It’s those times that have made me wonder if the truth really isn’t more interesting than fiction.

My research into the Grand Canyon uncovered some incredible things. Rogue’s storyline and setting needed to be rewritten a few times in order to incorporate those unbelievable findings. I’d never before questioned why most of the north side of the canyon is off limits to everyone. Nor had I wondered why so many of its rock formations had Egyptian names. A local newspaper article from more than a century ago gave me answers to questions I’d never even thought to ask.

And then there are the details I can’t get through the internet. Not because there isn’t enough information floating around out there, but because there’s just too much. That’s what I’ve been dealing with for Chaos, the book I’m writing now.

I have several characters in this story who are witches, and the only personal experience I have with that is the Halloween costume I once wore as a child. Somehow, I just knew that the green-faced, cackling old shrew with the pointy black hat wouldn’t work in my book. So I fired up my laptop.

Days later, I found myself bogged down with mountains of information. It seemed as though everyone had an opinion on what witchcraft was, what it entailed, and who could wield it. I was lost in a sea of contradictions with no yardstick by which to measure.

After visiting hundreds of websites, one kept drawing me back. I can’t explain why, but I somehow knew it would be the site to help me. Then, after hours of clicking from one page to the next, feeling like a second grader sitting in on a high school physics class, I gave up. I clicked the “contact” button and sent an email to whomever it was that ran the site, introducing myself and asking for help.

And this is how I met a real life witch. Not the curious college student who sits in circles chanting prayers to Mother Earth while updating her Facebook profile to say Wiccan, but an honest-to-goodness, born-and-raised, magic-wielding witch.

After weeks of emails and conversations, lessons and corrections, I’m now thoroughly convinced that the truth is most definitely stranger than fiction, no matter what your choice of reading material. 

Good Things Never Die

Near my area of the world, in a small Canadian town, a two-year-old girl and her father were just murdered. Although I’m a writer, I just can’t find the words to express my horror and sadness. The mom in me takes over. When my head hits the pillow, instead of sleeping I imagine (in glorious Technicolor) what their family must be going through. I imagine how I would feel if it was my own precious daughter. I lose myself in the land of fear. (Oh heck, who am I kidding? I’ve been living in that land almost exclusively since I became a mother. Am I alone in that?) I’ve often thought a healthy imagination is as much a curse as a blessing—especially at 3AM, when nothing stirs but the monsters in my head.

As a writer, I’m often asked where I get my ideas. There are many answers to this question, each a small morsel of a greater truth. But the largest, truest chunk of all is this: I write what I fear.

And what do I fear, most of all? What every parent fears: losing their child. In The Faithful I wrote about children being kidnapped, because this idea haunts the dark corners of my mind. I can only just begin to imagine the anguish of having your child disappear, of never knowing what happened to them. How do you go on? How do you survive in that limbo between faith and despair? I don’t know. But when those murky thoughts tangle around me, there’s only one thing I can do: Write about them. And in so doing, I usually find the exit ramp back to hope.

As Stephen King, the master of writing from fear, once said, “Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things. And a good thing never really dies.”

I’d like to believe that’s true. I’d like to believe, on dark days like this one, that there’s a new little girl on the other side of the darkness. She’s safe in her daddy’s arms, dancing and laughing and playing, and she knows a truth I’m still too blind to see: That good things never die.

Some One to Catch You

Picture this: A young girl, short blonde hair, white puffy jacket, wrapped up tight against the cold, pink pants tucked into white sneakers. An older man holding on to her hand, gray hair and red jacket, slowing his longer strides to match her small steps. An amused smile on his face as he listens to her chatter on. They walk slowly, but the girl is abuzz with excitement, pulling against his hand to reach their destination.

Up ahead is the neighborhood park and within, a mountain lies. A rocky challenge, with treacherous toeholds and tricky finger supports, only to be braved by the most courageous. As soon as the little girl sees it, she is off at a run, the man following her at a much more leisurely pace.

He watches as the little girl struggles up the rock. Although it comes no higher than his waist, to the little girl, it towers above her. There are times of doubt, where she pauses and reconsiders. How can I reach the rocky top? Finally, after what feels like hours of laborious toil, she reaches the top. Victorious, she stands surveying the world around her. This is mine, she thinks, secure in her place in the world. All I have seen, I have conquered. And then …

Without the slightest hesitation, she races out to the edge and hurls herself into the waiting abyss. There is no fear, no concern. Because her grandpa is there to catch her. Again and again, without fail. The air flies by, the swoop of excitement. And then his arms wrap around her and gently deposit her back to earth. He will stand there and catch her for as long as she wants. And when she is tired, he will take her hand and walk her back home. Once again listening to her excited, perhaps slightly exhausted, chatter with the same calm patience.

Of course, I was that little girl. I dedicated my first book to my grandpa. Honestly, I’m not sure the book would have existed without him. He is there, in Alistair, the gray haired man who watches over the young protagonist. Another piece of him is in Maggie, the brave soul battling against cancer, but whose spirit always remained strong.

My grandpa never got to see my book, to hold it in his hands. I never got to hear what he thought about it, tell him how my quest to make something of my dreams was all because of him. He lost his fight to cancer September 2011. There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t miss him, and I still find myself feeling like I’m forgetting to call him and catch him up on my day.

The world lost a great man on that day. And I lost one of my greatest supporters. A common joke- whenever I was feeling down about something, he always offered to call someone and tell them how important I was. “Don’t they know WHO you are?” See? Always there to catch me when I jumped off that rock.

It took me awhile to jump off any rocks after he was gone. When my grief finally started to fade, I realized that even though he wasn’t physically with me, his constant support and encouragement were still there. He believed, without a shadow of a doubt, that I could do whatever I set my mind on.

The world can be a very scary place. Scary when you have to take those risky jumps with only yourself to rely on. But hopefully, if you are very lucky, you will have someone to help you when you are in need. To love and protect you until you have the strength to race out on your own and jump into that waiting air.

I will forever miss my grandpa. His absence will always be an empty spot in my life, and there are so many things I wish he had been here for. The first draft of my book, that first hard copy, the first review. Because of him, I was strong enough to write down my words. To believe that I had a story in me that was worth telling.

I will always be thankful for his protective arms guiding me safely back to earth. He helped forge a woman who can land on her feet. It can be terrifying, and I’ll probably get some bruises. But, while I can’t see him, I know he’s still here. Cheering for me from the sidelines.

So thank you, Grandpa. For your love. For your support. These words are for you, and the words before and after. Now I have to go conquer some rocks. I hope I make you proud. 

Forever the best of friends.