Ramblings of a Woman Who Can't Sleep. (Lucky you) It's a long one.

So, my blog tour started yesterday--or today--depending on where you live. 

I've got to say, it's going fairly well, all things considered. I mean, I'm a no one in this world. A newb, a novice, but yet, these people keep reading and reviewing UtR. No matter how many reviews I read, good or bad, I'm so insanely blown away by the love and support people offer me.

The "real world" isn't like this. And when I use the quotations, I mean the living, breathing humans of the world. The ones that you walk by in Target, seemingly ignoring because you have too much crap going on in your own life. Those ones aren't so easy to open up their hearts to something or someone new. 

Isn't that sad? 

I guess, I'm no different. I conform to some bullshit stereotypes, too. I'll admit it.

I'd always had a somewhat "meh" outlook on people. For all intents and purposes, everyone pretty much stayed somewhat into themselves, in my opinion. Unless you're a friend or relative, it's not easy simply being around other people. For as outgoing and loud as I am, it's always awkward being in social situations. I never know how to handle myself and I always assumed I was the "red-headed step-child." 

Yes, I've been called that many times. 

I was the black sheep.

Or red sheep...whatever. I embraced the fact that not all people were going to get me, or my sense of humor. 

I'm weird. 

I'd never really found my place before writing. I constantly teetered back and forth on what I wanted to do with my life. 

I was in a coffee shop not too long ago, finishing UtR, when a young woman, probably twenty-five, sat next to me. I was tap-tapping on my laptop, writing a maddening scene, one that took me forever to get past, when the woman got my attention in a very Umbridge-like manner. The clearing of her throat was sort of comical. 

I had to stop myself from laughing. 

...Yes, I'm aware I think about Harry Potter too much. 

I stopped my incessant banging of the keys and turned toward her, eyes wondering. 

"Are you an author?" she asked, seeming genuinely interested. 

No shit, I moved my body closer to her to see if she could see what I was writing. From the angle she was sitting at, my screen looked black. Blank. 

I was confused. How could she possibly have known that? 

My eyebrows creased and I adjusted my glasses, not knowing how to answer the question. I was a writer, sure. I wrote stories, I put letters together and made words, but was I an author? I didn't feel like one--still don't, for that matter. I wasn't published yet, no soul beyond myself had yet to read my book. 

"Umm, I guess?" I answered. "I'm writing my first novel right now." 

A smile spreads across her face and she clapped her hands, "That's so fun!" she bounced in her seat. "You look like an author. I'd love to read your book one day."

Again, I had no idea what that meant. How does one look like an author? Was it my dark rimmed glasses, or the fact that I looked like I was about to rip my hair out? Maybe it was the three empty cups of coffee sitting in front me?

And, how would she read my book? We never exchanged names, never made introductions, but she was willing to tell a complete stranger that she'd be happy to read their work. 

Whatever the reason, it made me think. Yes, on this occasion, this woman was correct, based on her either, insanely acute awareness of me, or her psychic abilities, she was able to see by simply looking at me that I wrote stories. I could have been a college student for all she knew, yet, by her deduction of reasoning, she pin-pointed my so-called "career-path" without batting an eyelash. 

How did she know? 

I still haven't figured it out. And, I gotta be honest...it bugs the shit out of me. LOL. But, in a round about way, that random, coffee-shop woman struck a chord in me. 

This seemingly off-the-wall and completely coincidental encounter brought me a bit of serenity. A calmness. 

Maybe I could do this. She somehow saw it in me. Maybe I should see it, too? 

I mean--I don't know if I'll ever actually see it. But, that's not the point. 

I've never told anyone this story, not even my husband. Frankly, I thought it was odd and slightly embarrassing. 

Even now, when people ask what I do, I still don't know what to tell them. "Uh, yeah, I write books." 

Lame. 

So, I say nothing. 

I'm a mom. I'm a wife. Somewhere in between those two things, I've found my passion. It's not easy to describe. Writing is life. Writing is another reason to love my, already incredible life. It's the cherry on top of the cake. It's what makes me happy. It's what makes me feel whole. It's what gives me purpose outside of taking care of my family. It gives me a creative outlet that I so desperately crave. 

And I'm so thankful. I use that word a lot, but it's the truth. It's what I am. Everyday.

Is This Real Life?!

So, Unable to Resist has been officially on sale for almost three weeks--whoa. It's been the most scary and eye-opening experience in my entire life. I mean--don't get me wrong, I've only just started, but my book, my baby, has been out in the world for weeks and it's held itself up pretty well. Now, that's not to say I don't have people who are going to hate it or hell--already do. And it pains me to know they feel that way, but it's the life I've decided to pursue. I'm willingly opening up myself for people to judge my work. I'm asking them to critique my every word. That's kind of insane. I must be some sort of masochist. 

There are days when I just want to curl up into a ball, take UtR off of amazon and say, "fuck it. It's not worth it. I don't have the backbone for this. It's time to close up shop and forget any of this ever happened." 

But, then, like a beacon of shinning hope,  I'll get a review. A complete stranger will tell me they love the book. That they connect with the characters and want me to write more. It's then that I have to step back and remember why I write, and why I love doing what I do. I remember why I put myself through so much stress and anxiety. 

I want to write stories that connect with people. It's okay not to connect with everyone, that's never going to happen, but connecting with SOMEONE--anyone--makes all of the bad seem not so harsh. The good is my buffer, it's my airbags, it's my saving grace. 

So, love it or hate it, that's okay--I'll take your criticism and promise to make it right in the next book.  I'm thankful for every person who reads the book. 

Bring it on, my lovelies. 

Till next time,

xoxo

-C