The past year has been quite a doozy. In August 2018, my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer and passed a month later. In February 2019, my babysitter fell through. In April I had to quit my job. And in May my 18-month-old had a febrile seizure.
Suffice to say, I needed a break. I cut contact from Facebook (and while I'm back, it's in much smaller doses) and quit writing for a couple weeks. But, of course, the itch never left, and I found myself revising older works and bringing them up to par.
So why did I still feel generally depressed and unsatisfied?
Writing has been my best therapy for as long as I can remember. (I actually have - had? - a therapist. He's wonderful. I'm fortunate that I've hardly needed to see him for the past five years. We had a sit-down after my mother's diagnosis, but generally we both feel my coping mechanisms are much better at 32 than when I first met him at 19.) When writing doesn't calm the tempest in my soul, something else is up. I'm craving change. Something big.
Sometimes that results in a piercing. I got an industrial just before I resigned from my last job. That one's still healing, so another piercing was out.
Other times it results in a tattoo. I certainly could have done that, but my half-sleeve-in-progress is meant for works I've published. I'm waiting for the next book before I add to that.
And occasionally it results in this:
I have to say, late spring/early summer is the best time to do a big chop. I'm ready for the heat and love trying new styles.
Incidentally, it's close to how I picture Braeden's hair in the Burning Britely duology. Though I also imagine his curls have more elegance.
My soul is calm. I've been cracking down on edits. Jumping back into the querying fray.
Here's hoping 2019 is my year!