Isla Drake

She tended toward fanciful notions but sensible shoes. It was no good running toward your dreams in heels. Plus, she lacked the grace for it. She wore lots of black even as she smiled brightly. She was loud and seldom serious, but she loved fiercely.

[isladrakewrites]

So, I guess I'm back after a long hiatus. What have I done in the years since I last posted on this app, you ask. I'm happy to tell you.

I raised 3 boys into adulthood, moved across the country twice and published another 11 books. I finished the Praetorian series (under my real name) and switched to writing spicy contemporary romance after the world went to shit in 2020. (I'm not sure if you noticed the switch in my name, but it used to be different.)

The pen name isn't so much for anonymity as it is for clarification. The Praetorian Saga is distinctly a different genre than the one Isla writes in. And I'm not sure if anyone even noticed when that series was quietly pulled from publication. I have plans for it, but I'm not sure when they'll happen. For now, I'm happily writing smut and enjoying the community of readers and fellow authors I've found online.

If this post is confusing, I'm sorry. It probably only makes sense to people who were here back when I was writing urban romantasy books. Don't worry, Bree and Declan are still very much alive in my heart and my head. And I still plan to bring them back to life for my readers one day.

[isladrakewrites]

Two Hours

I grew up a middle child in a working class family. I was the second daughter and I arrived barely a year after my sister, but more than three years before my brother. I was the quiet one, the bookish one, the least likely to make trouble or cause a scene. I was comfortable in that role and it’s one I’ve fallen back on from time to time over the three and a half decades of my life. When confronted with a stronger personality than my own, I tend to move aside and make room. In my family, that seemed to include everyone but me. Still does, really.

I had parents who were trapped in an unhappy marriage that eventually ended when I was 16. By that point, my sister had already moved out of the house to live with a guy she thought was a better option than our less-than-happy home. A year later, I did the same. My guy turned out to be the home I was missing. Twenty years later he still is, but that’s not the story I’m here to tell.

When I left home and ran off with my Navy guy at the ripe old age of 18, I was happy to be free of the chaos and bitterness that seemed to be woven into my childhood. Part of me considered the fact that I was leaving my 14 year old brother behind to wade through that chaos and bitterness alone, but I was just a kid myself. I couldn’t have taken him with me. Besides, there’s no way my dad would have let me.  So, I moved halfway across the country and didn’t speak to my father for nearly a year. Trust me when I say there were Reasons. Again, that’s another story.

I eventually made peace with my father, for a time. When I was 21 and had two kids of my own, I came home for a brief visit. I hadn’t seen much of my brother in a few years, but the gangly kid I’d left behind had somehow grown into something man-sized and almost unrecognizable. He still had the crooked smile I remembered from when we were kids. He still made goofy jokes that weren’t all that funny. But he’d become someone else in my absence. He’d grown into another version of himself and I’d missed it happening. It was as though the last invisible string tying me to my childhood had been cut. He and I had always been a team. Against our parents, against our sister, against assholes on the school bus who tried to bully him. But he’d changed so much and I felt like I didn’t know him anymore. It’s strange when you realize that while you were growing up, time didn’t stand still for everyone else. They grow and change too. That was something I had to realize about my baby brother.

That night, we went fishing in the pond in my dad’s backyard. I can’t remember whose idea it was, but we were both on board. It was summertime and the air was hot and sticky. In the country, there were no streetlights to cut through the blackness of the night. You could see every star in the sky. Also, the bugs were eating us alive and we didn’t catch a thing, but that didn’t matter. We sipped cheap vodka and laughed and talked until the mosquitoes won their war and we were chased inside. And I got to know the man my brother was becoming. That visit and that night changed the way I saw him. He was no longer this little kid being bullied on the school bus or the little boy who refused to speak until he was 4. I could see this glimpse of the man he would become and I felt such pride in him. And selfishly, I think it helped ease some of my guilt. Leaving him behind hadn’t damaged him beyond hope. He hadn’t been broken by the things that had driven me from home. He still had that kindness and compassion inside him that had been part of him since birth.

Looking back, it was just 2 hours on the bank of a pond that doesn’t exist anymore. It’s hard to explain why, but it was somehow so much more than that. It’s a feeling I get when I pull up the memory. It’s a happy page from a chapter in my life that didn’t always have the happiest pages. And it’s 2 hours I wouldn’t trade for anything. It’s 2 hours I’ll never have again. I’ll never have another chance to drink and fish with my brother. When he was 23, he was killed by a drunk driver.

It’s strange the things you miss about a person when they’re gone. For a long time, I missed his laugh, his voice, that crooked smile. I still miss those things, but they’ve become faded in my mind, like an old photo. The older I get (and the younger he remains in my mind), the more I miss the possibility of him. Who would he be today? Would he have gotten married? Had kids? Grown a beard? Stopped listening to terrible rap music and driving his car too fast? I don’t know and I never will. I think the worst thing about death is the sudden halt to every distant dream, hazy future and possible plan you imagined for that person. All the amazing and wonderful possibilities are just gone. Stopped. Silenced. So for me, I like to think back to the 2 hours I had with him on the bank of a pond. A time when the world was full of possibility and dreams didn’t seem so far off. When I could see his future laid out before him and I felt like the proudest big sister ever.

[probably-voldemort]

12 Monkeys is Something You Should All Watch

Idk how many of you are following me for Timeless or The 100, but if you enjoy either of those shows or just enjoy sci fi in general, 12 Monkeys is the thing for you!

I’m talking about the TV show here, not the 1995 movie.  In my personal opinion, the TV show is a million times better, but if you want to watch the movie, it’s decent and I’m not going to stop you.  Just know that the TV show is fantastic.

What is 12 Monkeys, you ask?  Why, let me tell you.

We start with this hunk, James Cole, in the year 2043.

He really likes burgers, which he can’t get in 2043.  Why? you ask.  Why can’t he have burgers in 2043?  Are they illegal?  Nope.  Not illegal.  Extinct.  Just like humanity almost is.

That’s right.  There was a plague.  It started in 2016 and killed over 7 billion people.  Cole was 7 when that happened, so he was old enough to remember Happy Meals and want them back.

Anyway, Cole lives in this burgerless wasteland of 2043 with his pal/adoptive brother Jose Ramse.

Ramse was slightly older than 7 when the plague hit, so he basically grew up keeping Cole from getting himself killed.

So what’s the first thing we see Cole do?

That’s right.  Almost get himself killed for the six millionth time.

But it’s all good!  Cause Ramse says his name, and the people who are gonna kill them are like “Wait? You’re Cole?  James Cole?” and he’s like “Yeah.” and they’re like “Oh my god can we have an autograph?”

Jk they don’t want an autograph.  But they do want to take them to their leader.

This chick!

Dr. Katarina Jones!  Head of Project Splinter!

Basically she has a time machine and wants to figure out how the plague started and stop it from happening.  Sounds difficult, right?

Wrong!  Because they have a clue!  It’s half of a really poor quality recording from the time of the plague saying “Please Jones!  I know who started the plague!  It was this random dude you can’t find anywhere in history!  Send me James Cole!”  I’m paraphrasing, but that’s the gist.

And who left that message?  None other than this badass hottie

Dr. Cassandra “Cassie” Railly, from 2016ish. (there is a shocking lack of good Cassie gifs.  Someone should really fix that)

So Cole gets sent back in time to find Cassie and get her to tell him how to stop the plague.  She also teaches him important things along the way, like how to dance without accidentally killing yourself or your partner, where to find the good burgers, and how kidnapping people is generally not accepted when you’re not living in the apocalypse.

So easy, right?  Go back in time.  Find Cassie.  Get her to tell you where to find the dude who started the plague.  Kill him.  Prevent the apocalypse.  Problem solved!

Jk.  Obviously it’s not that easy.

Also featured in this show:

The amazing Jennifer Goines!

Jk she’s usually an adult but baby Jennifer is the cutest so she gets two gifs

Jennifer is amazing and I love her and she’s kinda crazy but I promise she will quickly become your fav.

And don’t you forget about this asshole.

My main man Deacon.  Such an asshole.  You’ll love him almost as much as he loves The Breakfast Club.  Eventually.

There are so many other fantastic characters but I’m pretty sure all of them come with spoilers so we’re gonna leave it at that.

This show features time travel, action, romance, killing Hitler, musical numbers, found family feels, evil cults, and so many twists and conspiracies you’ll start to think that maybe you’re the Witness.

All 4 seasons are out, and the ending is hella satisfying.  It’s on Hulu and some Netflix, and probably other more piratey websites.

Where do the 12 Monkeys fit in, you ask?

I guess you’re just gonna have to watch and see!

(also if you needed any more reason to watch the ship name for Cassie and Cole is apparently Casserole which is adorable)

[isladrakewrites]

I'm madly in love with Dermot Kennedy's new album and I think everyone on the planet needs to get on board. I mean, these lyrics...how do you not get chills?

"Nights with nothing but dark in there

You could be my armor then

Island smiles and cardigans

The nights that we've been drinking in

We're here to help you kill all of this hurt that you've been harboring

Confessions should be better planned

Alone, that night, I'm surely damned

Run away, I'll understand

What's important is this evening I will not forget

Purple, blue, orange, red

These colors of feeling

Give me love, I'll put my heart in it

And I think about it all the time

Lights went out, you were fine

You kinda struggle not to shine

I still love you, though

I still love you, though

I still love you always"

[maggie-stiefvater-deactivated20]

WRITER PEOPLE

Want to play a writerly game with me this month? I’m leading a project on @hitrecord with @hitrecordjoe and it’s all about fearless storytelling, practicing unlocking ideas, and learning how story-writing can be a collaborative game.

The first step is incredibly easy. All you have to do to start is to head to the site and write about a memory of yours that you would hate to lose. A happy one, a sad one, a memory that made you who you are, a memory that keeps you from being someone you hate.

Why’d I pick that opening prompt? It’s not just busywork. Even though I write novels with a ton of fantasy elements, my novels still have to feel inherently true. If there’s not a solid heartbeat of emotional honesty beneath all the magic, readers won’t bother getting emotionally invested themselves. 

Every human is a product of their experience, either running from or running to the influences that shaped them, and therefore, so is every character. The more truthful and real-life you make that emotional experience, the more readers will believe it. The more human you make your characters, the more readers will be willing to follow them anywhere. 

So this prompt — what’s a memory you’d hate to lose? Well! What better way to ask writers to practice emotional honesty than by asking them to dig into their own past and ask the hard question: what has made me who I am? What would I hate to lose?

The group nature of this project is going to be a lot of fun later, but it’s going to be cool even in these opening stages, because we’re all going to have a front row seat to the kinds of memories that all sorts of people find important. One of the most crucial things we can do as both writers and humans is learn what about our own emotional experience is exclusive to us, and learn to put ourselves in other people’s shoes instead, and the more folks who participate in this prompt, the more pairs of shoes we’re gonna see filled.

It’s going to be fun. 

See you over there for this first step, right?

[maggie-stiefvater-deactivated20]

Hi guys! Day two of the project, and we’ve got a lot of wonderful contributions.

This past year I did a seminar series — ten seminars, twelve-hundred students - on writing. Four hours on how to make the abstract (your story) concrete (on paper). One of the reasons why it’s challenging to teach novel-writing is that that process is different for everyone.

Some people need a lot of pre-planning in the plot department, others in character, others in mood, word choice, structure, etc, etc, etc. For others, planning too much in any of these departments will ruin the “game” of it, ruining the fun of exploration.

It’s a process that is so individual that it’s not exactly teachable … but it is LEARNable. It’s a skill, getting ideas from head to paper, that you get better at the more you practice it.

So when HITRECORD asked me if I wanted to lead a writing project, I knew that was one of the things I wanted to work on. Leaning hard on the skill of what each writer needs individually to story-make. This first exercise — write a memory of yours that you’d hate to lose — is designed to test writers in all the ways they’ll need later. It looks simple! After all, we all have memories! Just pick one! Write exactly what happened! Etc.!

But when you’re choosing a memory that you wouldn’t want to lose because it made you who you are or because it’s better than any other memory you have, you’re practicing imposing story structure onto chaos. You’re prioritizing events and memories in your life, which is exactly what you have to do again and again when writing a novel. You’re doing the heavy lifting of beginning/middle/end.

You’re also doing the hard work of building character. We’ve built characters from origin stories for as long as we’ve been telling stories about humans, but real people are complicated and have many origin stories every year, month, day.

The reality is that any minute of any day could be the beginning of a story, but you’re practicing picking just one and living with it as your beginning. That’s story-telling gold, folks. That’s a huge hurdle. The more you practice that, the easier your story-writing will come.

[isladrakewrites]

Two Hours

I grew up a middle child in a working class family. I was the second daughter and I arrived barely a year after my sister, but more than three years before my brother. I was the quiet one, the bookish one, the least likely to make trouble or cause a scene. I was comfortable in that role and it's one I've fallen back on from time to time over the three and a half decades of my life. When confronted with a stronger personality than my own, I tend to move aside and make room. In my family, that seemed to include everyone but me. Still does, really.

I had parents who were trapped in an unhappy marriage that eventually ended when I was 16. By that point, my sister had already moved out of the house to live with a guy she thought was a better option than our less-than-happy home. A year later, I did the same. My guy turned out to be the home I was missing. Twenty years later he still is, but that's not the story I'm here to tell.

When I left home and ran off with my Navy guy at the ripe old age of 18, I was happy to be free of the chaos and bitterness that seemed to be woven into my childhood. Part of me considered the fact that I was leaving my 14 year old brother behind to wade through that chaos and bitterness alone, but I was just a kid myself. I couldn't have taken him with me. Besides, there's no way my dad would have let me.  So, I moved halfway across the country and didn't speak to my father for nearly a year. Trust me when I say there were Reasons. Again, that's another story.

I eventually made peace with my father, for a time. When I was 21 and had two kids of my own, I came home for a brief visit. I hadn't seen much of my brother in a few years, but the gangly kid I'd left behind had somehow grown into something man-sized and almost unrecognizable. He still had the crooked smile I remembered from when we were kids. He still made goofy jokes that weren't all that funny. But he'd become someone else in my absence. He'd grown into another version of himself and I'd missed it happening. It was as though the last invisible string tying me to my childhood had been cut. He and I had always been a team. Against our parents, against our sister, against assholes on the school bus who tried to bully him. But he'd changed so much and I felt like I didn't know him anymore. It's strange when you realize that while you were growing up, time didn't stand still for everyone else. They grow and change too. That was something I had to realize about my baby brother.

That night, we went fishing in the pond in my dad's backyard. I can't remember whose idea it was, but we were both on board. It was summertime and the air was hot and sticky. In the country, there were no streetlights to cut through the blackness of the night. You could see every star in the sky. Also, the bugs were eating us alive and we didn't catch a thing, but that didn't matter. We sipped cheap vodka and laughed and talked until the mosquitoes won their war and we were chased inside. And I got to know the man my brother was becoming. That visit and that night changed the way I saw him. He was no longer this little kid being bullied on the school bus or the little boy who refused to speak until he was 4. I could see this glimpse of the man he would become and I felt such pride in him. And selfishly, I think it helped ease some of my guilt. Leaving him behind hadn't damaged him beyond hope. He hadn't been broken by the things that had driven me from home. He still had that kindness and compassion inside him that had been part of him since birth.

Looking back, it was just 2 hours on the bank of a pond that doesn't exist anymore. It's hard to explain why, but it was somehow so much more than that. It's a feeling I get when I pull up the memory. It's a happy page from a chapter in my life that didn't always have the happiest pages. And it's 2 hours I wouldn't trade for anything. It's 2 hours I'll never have again. I'll never have another chance to drink and fish with my brother. When he was 23, he was killed by a drunk driver.

It's strange the things you miss about a person when they're gone. For a long time, I missed his laugh, his voice, that crooked smile. I still miss those things, but they've become faded in my mind, like an old photo. The older I get (and the younger he remains in my mind), the more I miss the possibility of him. Who would he be today? Would he have gotten married? Had kids? Grown a beard? Stopped listening to terrible rap music and driving his car too fast? I don't know and I never will. I think the worst thing about death is the sudden halt to every distant dream, hazy future and possible plan you imagined for that person. All the amazing and wonderful possibilities are just gone. Stopped. Silenced. So for me, I like to think back to the 2 hours I had with him on the bank of a pond. A time when the world was full of possibility and dreams didn't seem so far off. When I could see his future laid out before him and I felt like the proudest big sister ever.

[isladrakewrites]

"Sometimes the only way to know what's left in us is to see what's at the bottom."

Katarina Jones

[maggie-stiefvater-deactivated20]

It’s true that there are a lot of questions and answers about the negatives of being a published author, and I think I just realized how much I’m worried about that myself. So, what ARE some of the positives, if you don’t mind me asking? What were some of the positives that came when you were first published a decade ago? I’d love to start focusing more on those.

Dear oquinn53,

SO MANY POSITIVES.

(for starters, for the folks back home, this is a complementary post to this ask about some of the negatives of being published in the modern world).

I realize that the internet is full of hard-headed tweets and posts about what it’s Really Like in the Hardbitten Streets of Publishing or whatever, and those are important, but I also think they overshadow the pleasures of being an author. I’m not talking about the OMG I’m Touching My First Book or OMG My Name is On the Bestseller List or OMG Look At My Great Cover With Spangles. Because although these are all really great things, they are also things that happen once every year or 18 months if they happen at all. 

I mean the day-to-day positives that come from making your living (or partial living) as an author. 

Every day is different

This can also be a con, of course. But for me, a plant that would die if kept in a pot, it’s important that I can imagine that next week will be different than last week and so on and so forth. I love that I don’t know exactly what my career will be doing in a decade. I will never be bored of something I can’t truly predict.

Project-based income

I love having a job where I know that every minute I spend on it is important. Do I need to be working right now? Well, is there work to be done? There’s no playing of solitaire or whatever it is people do now (candy crush? right? that’s a thing?) to pass time until it’s five pm. I work best when I can throw myself into something all the way or totally slack off because it’s done.

My brain is always on fire

It takes a lot of work and invention to make an actual living off writing words — the market is always changing. Not just the trends of subject matter, because that doesn’t affect me as much, but the actual way words get sold. Hardcover! Paperback! E-book! Are people putting down real money for these things? Do you need to brainstorm merch to pay bills instead? Is short form selling? Long form? I love the puzzle of figuring out how to make stories pay my mortgage. 

Collaboration

Writers are odd people — they have nothing in common except for a need to see the world through the lens of stories. Other than that, they’re oddballs. It’s rewarding to find yourself that way — not finding other people like you, because you’ve gone through your life thinking no one’s like you, but rather finding  many, many people who also don’t have anyone else like them. And when you put those disparate heads together to create something bigger than yourself? That’s magic.

Hitting a Mark

There’s a lot of splash out there about big advances and fancy tours, but one of the world’s small pleasures is getting a royalty statement from your agent and seeing that one of your books has earned out (sold enough copies that you begin to get royalties). It doesn’t matter if the check is for $11. It’s a great feeling.

Getting An Unexpected Compliment

The best compliments are the ones you aren’t expecting. You find out that the lady who owns the barn you ride at loves your books. The guy who tuned your car’s wife wants you to know she likes your books. Some rando saw your byline in the latest issue of a car magazine and hey, lady, you sure can write. Finding your books in unexpected places is also fun, too. Best feeling? Catching someone in the airport reading your book in the waiting area.

Fan Art

Dude. I love fan art so much. I see my novels as images before I write them, and then I have to translate that into words. Fan art means people take my words and translate it back into art again. The best art isn’t even the most accomplished … it’s when I look at it and go, wow. That was exactly what I meant, and they saw it. 

Writers change people’s lives

They tell you. They tell you in person as they swipe tears, and they also tell you on the internet. It’s not always something major. In fact, usually it’s note. Sometimes it’s just you getting tagged on a road trip they took hitting up locations from one of your books. You changed that person’s day. They went to a mountain and that was your fault! Brilliant.

The End

There is nothing like getting to the end of a manuscript and thinking: I wrote the book I meant to. I’ve hit THE END well over a dozen times now and it never gets old. Pulling things out of head and translating them into a form other people get to see? It’s the best job.

urs,

Stiefvater

[isladrakewrites]

Earlier tonight, I read a news story about a fatal car crash in a neighboring city. Me being me, I immediately thought of every person I know who lives in that city and worried about each one. In a city of over 50,000 people, the odds are high that it wasn't someone I know. My husband even pointed out to me the few people we know who live there. Still, it was someone's friend. Someone's loved one. And once, not so long ago, it was mine.

You never imagine it could be you until it is. I know people say that all the time and we all know it's true, objectively. We hear the stories and we shake our heads and wrinkle our brows. Our hearts clench and we feel awful for those grieving people. But secretly, deep down, we think, “Thank God it wasn't someone I love.” It's nothing to be ashamed of. It's human nature. We empathize and then we move on, feeling relieved and blessed that our lives remain unaltered.

Nine years and 20 days ago, it was someone I loved. I got the phone call that no one ever expects and my entire world shifted irrevocably. My brother had been killed by a drunk driver. It was a Tuesday and I remember that morning like it was this morning. I remember the deep hole opening inside my chest. It's a hole that hasn't gone away in nearly a decade. Two years and 2 months later, I held my sister's hand as she took her last breath. Then I made the hardest phone call I've ever made to my mother.

Now, I could tell you to hug your loved ones and to make sure they know how much you care. I could tell you to make the most of every day and to live with no regrets. I could spout any number of cliches, and they'd all sound profound. And maybe it would have an impact. I don't know. I was 8 when my grandfather was murdered in the house next door. I was 27 when my brother was killed and 29 when my sister lost her fight with cancer. I'm 35 now and one thing I know for certain is that loss is something you never forget. It settles itself deep inside you and it can break you, if you let it. It's like a new part of yourself that you didn't ask for, but you can't get rid of. Like a scar whose origins you don't want to discuss.

I don't have any big secret for how to manage grief. Most days I'm just fumbling along, hoping for the best. (I've found that ‘fake it till you make it’ isnt the worst advice ever. Some days it works.) No matter how familiar I am with loss, I still take things for granted. I get irritated with my husband or my sons over little things that don't really matter in the grand scheme of things. I complain about traffic while somewhere, someone's child is dying. I bitch about my job while someone in the hospital where I work just lost their mother/father/sister/husband/wife.

Tragedy is all around us and the truth is that we're all just one phone call away from the worst pain imaginable. Still, we go on. We have to, right? What other choice do we have? We find a way to push past the pain and live our lives, because the alternative is so much worse. We can't spend every moment waiting for something horrible to happen. We live. We love. We get married and have babies as though human beings aren't the most fragile things ever. And as fragile as we are, we continue to do the most ridiculous, reckless things. Why? Because it makes us feel alive? Maybe. I don't pretend to know the answers. The one thing I do know is that nothing but death is final. Everything else is negotiable. So, go. Be the best version of you that you can. And try to find some happiness during whatever time is allotted to you, because life just isn't that long. Who wants to look back and realize they wasted it? Not me.

[isladrakewrites]

I chose the title for book three a few weeks ago. I knew what the word meant, of course. (I'm a big fan of words and their meanings.) But tonight is the first time I looked it up in an actual, physical dictionary, rather than the dot com version. I'm probably the only person in the world who has always been fascinated by the words that come before and after the word you're actually looking for. When my teachers used to tell me "look it up", I always smiled inside. He/she was just giving me license to get lost in a book in the middle of class. And dictionaries are some of the best books. In this case, I think all three of these words play a role in this book.

[books-n-quotes]

“Some people, as far as your senses are concerned, just feel like home.”

— Nick Hornby, High Fidelity (via books-n-quotes)

[isladrakewrites]

I spent the evening with people who love me unconditionally and that feels a lot like home. There's something magical about nights like this and it's made even more magical by its rarity. To my found and created family, I love you. Thank you for being what I didn't know I needed. ❤️

[books-n-quotes]

“Sometimes the worst thing that happens to you, the thing you think you can’t survive…it’s the thing that makes you better than you used to be.”

— Jennifer Weiner, Fly Away Home

[isladrakewrites]

❤️

[isladrakewrites]

Because it deserves to be said again. Someone needs to hear it tonight, I'm sure. ❤️

[isladrakewrites]

Shout out to all those kids who grew up with toxic parents and somehow managed to turn out okay. You did it. You already won that battle. And yes, it is a battle. You may have finally broken away. Months go by, maybe even years. Some random Tuesday you'll have a thought that "huh, maybe it's finally over and I can just go about my life without the drama and heartbreak." That's usually when you get that surprise visit or phone call that knocks you on your ass. The guilt starts to creep in and you start to second-guess your decision. You start to wonder if maybe they're right and you are the bad guy in the situation. Hey, everyone's a villain in someone else's story, right?

With the holidays here, if your family is anything like mine, you've probably already gotten your obligatory guilt trip phone call/text message/Facebook shout out, etc. If not, it's probably coming soon. I'm here to remind you that whatever you decide to do, you're still going to be okay. If you decide to answer that phone call, go for that visit, respond to that text or if you decide to ignore it all and stand by your original decision, it's going to be okay. You've already proven you're stong enough to handle it. Whatever you do, make it your own choice. Make it for yourself and don't be ashamed of it. You don't have to explain your choices to anyone but you.

[isladrakewrites]

The other night, I sat down to write. I'm doing NaNoWriMo and I'm behind on my goal (as I am every year). I'm about 3/4 finished with the third book in the Praetorian Saga and I'm determined to finish it in the next few weeks. As determined as I am, I'm also a procrastinator so I pulled up Facebook on my phone. Like I do.

As I was scrolling along, I came across a photo that made me smile. It was my three cousins in an adorable, happy selfie. I was instantly pulled back to my childhood. I spent a million hours with those three people--running, playing, laughing, singing, riding bikes, climbing trees and watching for when the street lights came on. So much of who I am now was learned while I was a kid, running amok with my brother and sister and our three cousins. We were wild and free in a way we'd never be again and it was perfect.

As a kid, I remember imagining what adulthood would look like and I always pictured the six of us with glamorous jobs and spouses we loved, adorable babies. We'd be happy and healthy and life would be a dream. I'm sure every kid has had that vision. Real adulthood isn't like that, though.

As I studied that picture of my happy, smiling cousins celebrating a birthday, I was hit with all these memories and realizations. Nothing ever turns out exactly the way you think it will. I suddenly realized that I would never have that happy 40th birthday selfie with my siblings. I'd never have a birthday dinner with all of our families laughing and hugging.

A drunk driver and cervical cancer took that away years ago. It's been long enough that the wave of emotion took me by complete surprise. I was so mad at every tear that fell while I looked at those three smiling faces. I love those three people and I love their happiness, but I hated the realization that I'd never have that. After 6 and 8 years respectively, I'd come to terms with the loss of my siblings. But I think there was a part of me that hadn't considered how hard a 40th birthday party would hit me.

I'm a little more than 4 years away from my own 40th birthday and I hope there will be a party or a celebration for me. If so, I know it'll be full of people who love me. I'm lucky because I have a lot of people who care about me. But I still feel a sharp, persistent pain that my brother and sister won't be there. I cried uncontrollably for long enough that the idea of writing seemed impossible.

Life isn't fair. It's beautiful and harsh and loud and magical and terrifying and heartbreaking. Life is all of those things and more. It tries to break us but it's our job to stand strong against the harsh winds of life that are designed to tear us down. Every day, I work to keep standing tall, no matter how much life throws at me.

[isladrakewrites]

Fictional characters

In season 2 of Fringe, Olivia is taken to an alternate universe and made to believe it's her own. She's given mind altering drugs and brainwashed into completely forgetting her other life. It's not as insane as it sounds. This other world has all the same people she knew in her original world, but they're all slightly different. Her own experiences and memories are erased and written over by the ones the Olivia from this other world lived.

As I said, all the people from her own universe are in this other one. Except for one. The one who mattered most to her. And that's the one she keeps seeing. Her mind, in an effort to make her fight back, keeps showing her this image of a man she doesn't even remember. She thinks she's going crazy. You would too, right? But this man, this imaginary man only she sees, keeps telling her that she has to remember. She has to fight. "Remember, Olivia." Eventually, she does. She holds on to this man who she believes is a fabrication of her own mind, slowly going insane. But something about this imaginary person drives her to find out more, to get to the truth and that's what saves her.

What does all this have to do with anything? Well, nothing I guess. And maybe everything. As a writer, I've created whole worlds inside my head. Fabricated from random thoughts or phrases that have popped into my brain in the minutes before I fall asleep at night. Over the years, I've learned to hold onto them. To remember them. To build on them and to show them to the world. I'm not saying my fictional characters will ever save someone's sanity or rescue them from an alternate universe, but I think fiction is powerful. And I know these worlds I've built have changed me. Just because someone is fictional doesn't mean they're not real.

[isladrakewrites]

The moon and trees reflected off the surface of my pool this morning #water #moon #reflections #morningsky

[isladrakewrites]

#life #goals #livebetter #livemore #writing