Jennifer Shaw

A writer's musings in the mountains

Designed with WordPress

Category: Uncategorized

  • Thoughts of Gardens on a Winter Break

    by

    “Winter should be a period of rest,” says Aunt Louise (formerly Aunt Caille) in my latest short story, “So Many Fragile Things.”

    Witchy Aunt Louise

    I agree, Louise. What a coincidence.

    Remember what winter break meant when we were kids, though? For me, it meant the longest holiday on the school calendar, the one involving gifts and Houston Ballet’s The Nutcracker and eating Grandma’s press cookies and seeing cousins I adored who I otherwise never saw.

    Sara Webb & Emily Bowen in Houston Ballet’s The Nutcracker [Photo: Amitava Sarkar on allworlddance.com

    In college, with nearly a month off between semesters, it meant nights out midweek drinking and socializing. We’d get hammered on dollar margaritas at Jose’s on a Monday, then dance until midnight at The Jolly Fox on a Tuesday or Wednesday before heading way the hell out to Bell’s Camp because that place was open until 2 am. The occasional drunken holiday hookup naturally ensued, of course.

    from edibletimes.com

    Now, as a married, middle-aged homesteader in northern Vermont, winter break literally means a rest. A respite from most outdoor work, since there’s no growing anything in the garden, no weeding, no harvesting, and no building or repairing (unless something breaks inside the house). It just means shoveling some snow and keeping our hens alive and as comfy as possible. The girls stick closer to their coop, too, so we don’t worry as much about predators. This is all especially nice for my husband, who takes care of most outdoor chores in the warmer months.

    Our little girls are adjusting well to the winter weather

    This year, however, winter break has taken on an additional meaning for me as a writer.

    It’s now a signal for a creative rest.

    I’m toying with the idea of taking December off entirely, writing nothing after this post is live. Even though that would mean I don’t accomplish my biggest goal for this year–finishing a novel-length manuscript–it’s something I think I’m going to give myself permission to do.

    I’ve hit a wall. I feel dull, and I don’t have the desire to draft or revise every day the way I have all year. My well feels empty; I’m not itching to write much of anything.

    Photo by Jonas Jacobsson on Unsplash

    What I do feel compelled to do is consume–read more books and watch well done shows and movies. I need to go back into “study” mode, I think, in order to level-up my skills and refresh my inspiration. My reading has lagged these twelve months, and that’s no good since reading is the primary source of instruction for us writers.

    I have some great titles on my TBR, though, so this should be fantastic studying: The Last House on Needless Street by Catriona Ward, Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia, Stephen: A Horror Novel by Amy Cross, Queens of Moirai by Rhiannon Hargadon, Love and the Downfall of Society by Melinda Copp, These Dark Things: 12 New Gothic Tales from Briar Press NY (who, I will admit, I hope to publish with one day), Lady Macbeth by Ava Reid, and two books to read side-by-side with my hubby: This is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone and The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon by Stephen King.

    If you have any other strong recs in the horror, gothic, or historical fiction genres, please let me know in the comments.

    Photo from Unsplash

    I also need time to digest the particulars of those things I’ve struggled with–scope, genre, pacing, openings, and balancing explication with implication– so I can come back sharper, more aware, and better able to address these weaknesses in my new work.

    Finally, I’m suffering from what I described to my husband as a vulnerability hangover. I’ve had a handful of pieces published in pretty close succession this year. That’s new for me, and it still feels pretty raw.

    There are mixed emotions that come with publication, I’m realizing, especially as a newb. A healthy and warranted pride, of course, but also a strange emptiness in the wake of the relative anticlimax. There’s an inevitable self-consciousness and insecurity that creeps in with the silence, too–those “crickets” of which there are more than you’d like. Also, an urge to compare yourself to others even though you know, logically, it’s totally unfair to everyone involved.

    I imagine these are feelings most writers deal with.

    They are driving my desire to cocoon myself, though. I want to pull back and just read, watch, think, and enjoy my family.

    Daphne enjoying our living room Christmas tree

    Right now, that’s what feels right, and I’m prepared to listen to my intuition. My husband is taking it easy this month, too, so we want to use the school days while Daph’s out of the house to relax and enjoy each other’s company.

    I think I’ve earned it. I’ve had a good writing year.

    All the books except for DAS GIFT

    Writerly Magazine included my poem “New Year” in their March issue. I am no poet, though I dabble sometimes as a way to practice effective diction and economy. This poem, weak as it was, ended up being my attempt at conveying those fears of inadequacy/failure we all have when taking a major chance or starting something new. It felt good to articulate that anxiety–“I am daunted by this vast paper sea of nothingness, the lack.”

    My poem

    Daunted I was, but I did persist.

    In August, Paper Cranes Literary published “In Dreams and After,” a fictionalized mother-daughter story inspired by a lovely bit of my own family’s lore. It felt good to put this beautiful, optimistic little tale into words, as it captures my hope about the nature of death.

    “In Dreams and After”

    In September, Amaranth Publications included “Hello, Dear” in their fall anthology, The Veneficium Feminae. This piece is probably my best constructed story, and it captures some of the things I love most about Vermont, my new home and the tale’s implied setting–the hilltop views and atmospheric old houses.

    “Hello, Dear”

    In November, The Red Herrings Society printed “We Were the House of Usher” in their 2024 anthology, All The Promises We Cannot Keep. Two readers shared with me what they liked about this piece–the use of first person POV, said someone who doesn’t typically like it, plus the way the other reader was “taken back in time with it,” which I found validating. I am proud of Madeline’s voice; I think it’s the best part of that story. I’m so pleased I got a chance at this particular retelling, too.

    “We Were the House of Usher”

    Finally, Amaranth just published “So Many Fragile Things” in their December holiday horror anthology Das Gift (yes, it was accepted! I realize I haven’t included that update here).

    Gorgeous cover

    This piece was problematic from the start, and I’m still not sure it’s landing. But, at its heart, it’s a story about the emotional complexities of caregiving, and it’s one I found cathartic. Given all our daughter’s challenging behaviors, it was something I needed to write.

    Artwork for “So Many Fragile Things” by Kharesse Orr and Hallie Guidry

    “I am afraid that if I put my pen down on all this perfect white, it will only scratch and bleed,” I admitted in my poem “New Year.” Thankfully, I haven’t been wounded; none of this has been terribly painful. It’s felt quite good, actually.

    True, I didn’t place in the two contests I entered this year–Craft Literary’s Novelette competition back in March, and Writer’s Digest’s 93rd Annual Writing Competition, in which I entered “In Dreams and After” in both their literary and spirituality categories (I was an Honorable Mention in their genre category last year). And that’s ok; neither of these results surprised or crushed me.

    Entering the new year, I want to work on refining my mindset, however.

    I want to “stay in my own lane,” as Megan Fairchild describes. She’s a principal dancer with the New York City Ballet who once suffered from crippling anxiety in her high-pressure, ultra-competitive field. Embracing this attitude of non-comparison (along with regular meditation) allowed her to overcome much of her inferiority complex, and now she enjoys her position in the company and is able to handle casting disappointments and the occasional less-than-stellar review. I want to work on the same thing, and I will put on metaphorical blinders if I need to (which might mean more time off social media).

    I want to remember, my path is my own. Comparisons do no good. They’re often unreliable, and they’re always relative anyway. Someone will always be a better writer, and someone will always be worse. What others do/don’t do should have little bearing on my own sense of validation. Easier said than done, but it’s important to strive for this healthier attitude.

    Photo of Megan Fairchild by Paul Kolnik, Courtesy NYCB and published in Pointe Magazine

    I also want to “keep the channel open,” as the legendary modern dancer and choreographer Martha Graham once described.

    Photo from Goodreads

    I want to refrain from too much self-judgement once a piece is published in the world. One can obsess over how effective or ineffective a story is, forever, and it’s a waste of energy. That shouldn’t be the end goal. The end goal is actually to move on–learn from what maybe didn’t work (or what did) but then, just keep going. Try something else, try it a different way, keep it in mind, but keep creating. Move on to the next project, then the next, and the next. That’s how, eventually, you facilitate the extraordinary.

    Finally, I want to embrace an analogy poet Jaclyn Desforges shared recently on her Instagram. She states that publishing is “cross-pollination,” explaining that “publishing isn’t really about acceptance/rejection or winning/losing. It’s an act of creative ecosystem-building. Every time you submit your work, you’re participating in a vast web of literary cross-pollination.” She adds, “Think of your submissions as seeds scattered with intention. Some will take root here, others there, each finding its perfect soil in its perfect season. Your only task is to tend your garden and share its abundance.”

    Isn’t that brilliantly beautiful and reassuring?

    It also makes more sense the longer I think about it. I find most gardens lovely, whether they’re vast, intricate, perfectly manicured plots (no pun intended!) by professional landscapers, or they’re smaller beds with a few thriving, colorful, lovely things, even if the spacing is off or there are more weeds than there ought to be or perhaps the floral combinations don’t quite follow accepted aesthetics. They’re still lovely, and I appreciate them too.

    Photo from Burlington Free Press

    I even adore a raggedy, wild field of flowering weeds! The goldenrod, dandelion, milkweed, and white campion that pocket the early summer countryside fill me with a sense of hope and vibrancy. They’re not gardens, but they’re the result of pollination, of growth, and that is beautiful too. And sometimes, a field of goldenrod is more striking or stirring than the perfect garden that might feel inauthentic or unapproachable in its flawlessness. How dare you trod there, after all, lest you trample something?

    A bit of soil is always the lovelier for growing a flower, no matter what kind it is.

    That’s a rather odd reflection I know, given that we’re now settled firmly into winter.

    On our farm this morning
    This morning

    But that’s alright because “the spring will come,” as Julia (formerly Cora) says in “So Many Fragile Things.”

    (My editor made me change two of the C names because the three together confused her).

    Yes, it will. And in the meantime, I will enjoy the gorgeous white silence of winter.

    View of Burke Mountain from our farm

    When the snow melts, I will stay in my lane–or in my plot, perhaps I should say– keeping the channel open as I tend my little literary garden and scatter the seeds it yields.

    Alright, enough mixing metaphors. To sum up, I’m winding things down for a while, and it sounds so very good.

    Two tree view in our little farmhouse

    I hope you and yours have a wonderful holiday season! Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, Merry Winter Solstice, and Happy New Year!

    Sugar Plum Fairy on my dining room Christmas Tree

    Whatever you do or don’t celebrate, I hope your year ends pleasantly and you get to enjoy any respite you might need.

    I will see you back on this blog in January.

    And thank you for taking the time to read even one of my posts. It means so much.

    Love to you all!

    XOXO,

    Jenn

  • Thankfulness and Christmas Prep

    by

    Hi, friends. I hope you’re having a nice November.

    For many of us, this month has been difficult, given the rapidly-changing political landscape. I have long been a believer in the power of mindset, however, so I’m pausing now to reflect a little more on the good things. Specifically, those things my writer self is grateful for.

    I am grateful for The Writer’s Sanctuary and the endless support, encouragement, opportunity, and instruction I’ve found through their “secret” publishing community, The Red Herrings Society. I learn just as much from my fellow members as I do from editors/book coaches CJ Redwine and Mary Weber, and I’ve made some wonderful connections and virtual friendships in RHS this year.

    Print copy

    Most recently, I’ve enjoyed the sense of accomplishment and camaraderie I think we’ve all felt in RHS’s 2024 anthology, All The Promises We Cannot Keep, which released this past Monday. The collaborative marketing has been fun, and our book continues to do well, ranking #1 in Fantasy Anthologies & Short Stories and #1 in Fiction Anthologies in general, as of early this morning. The average customer rating? 4.9/5 stars.

    Latest rankings

    I’ve truly enjoyed sharing this project with my fellow writers, and I feel closer to them than ever before. I think it’s really united us, in many ways.

    The House of Usher, the setting in my ATPWCK story

    Because this anthology is so special, I’d like to review 3-5 stories here each month, as a way to continue spreading the word about how awesome it is. I’d love to review all 50 tales, and chunking it this way makes it manageable. Be on the lookout, then, for more ATPWCK reviews in the coming year!

    Beyond my writing group, I also appreciate all the small indie presses that have been cropping up lately. Many of their visionary editors want to make publishing more accessible, so they often welcome young and emerging writers, and they are usually willing to provide editorial support even after accepting submissions. This gives newer, rawer writers like me the chance to develop certain skills while also gaining entry-level publication credits. For me, these experiences have been educational, encouraging, and validating– invaluable, really.

    I had a great experience working with Amaranth

    My craft and understanding of the publishing process have certainly improved thanks to the opportunities and edits from the staffs at Writerly Magazine, Paper Cranes Literary, Ditch Life Magazine, and Amaranth Publications. They believed in my potential enough to accept my developing pieces, and then their wonderful edits made those pieces so much better. I have a much stronger understanding now of the collaborative and iterative nature of publishing, and honestly I like it. I see how imperative it is, and it feels like I have colleagues again, even if my time working with these colleagues is short-lived. The shared endeavor is still special, satisfying, and sometimes even inspiring.

    Hubby and I

    On a more personal note, I am ever so grateful to my husband, Jeremiah. When we uprooted our lives to start over here in Vermont, we made specific choices that allowed me to be a stay-at-home mom. Jer then said, do exactly what you want with the time you have to yourself. Pursue any endeavor you’d like, and I will support you.

    Not wanting to waste this dream opportunity, I started writing, which at the time seemed like a good way to combat my initial loneliness and boredom. It’s since turned into a passion, and for over two years now, Jer has been my steadfast supporter. He has truly given me a wonderful, rare gift–the chance to be a creative adult in ease and comfort, without worrying about how we’ll pay the bills. He is such a wonderful, selfless, nurturing partner, and I cannot imagine doing this–or life–without him.

    Hubby and Susie, one of our pullets

    Thank you, babe.

    Finally, I have a renewed appreciation for my parents, who’ve always been my biggest cheerleaders. My mom, in particular, is amazingly supportive of my writing. She will read any weird, bad thing I send her and then give me her honest feedback, and I’ve found it incredibly helpful.

    When she was here in April, in fact, I’d just finished an early draft of my Usher retelling for ATPWCK. I needed to know how a general reader would respond to this piece, especially someone who wasn’t familiar with the original story because I wanted my retelling to be clear and engaging even for people who weren’t familiar with Poe’s “The Fall of the House of Usher.”

    She was eager to read it, so I gave her a printed copy and a pencil, and then I sat in another room while she marked it up. My stomach was in knots.

    Madeline wandering the halls

    When she was done, she poked her head in the living room, her brows knit. Then, she crooked her finger at me and said in her best teacher’s voice, “Jenny, come here.”

    We sat together at the dining room table while she went over her comments. She’d written marginal notes documenting her inner voice–a reading comprehension technique she taught her elementary students for many years– and it was fascinating to see her inferences, questions, connections, predictions, and personal responses.

    She pointed out places where she was utterly confused, places where I’d been metaphorical but she thought were literal, something about Madeline turning to stone, for example, which Mom thought was actually happening, given Madeline’s illness and the supernatural element. These moments were illuminating to me but also hilarious, and we both just guffawed.

    The best was her comment about Roderick’s unnamed friend, who comes to visit in both Poe’s story and in mine. In Poe’s masterpiece, this friend is the storyteller, the unnamed “objective” narrator describing Roderick’s descent into madness (a descent that drags him down too).

    I felt I had to include him in my version–how could I not, given his role in the original? But I’d done a poor job of relaying who he was and why he was there. Mom was like, “Who is this guy, Jen? Who is this ‘friend,’ and why doesn’t he just get the hell out of this house?” She looked at me like I was crazy, and I about peed my pants laughing.

    The friend

    I realized, in short, I’d given him too much page time, and eventually, by the final draft, I only included him in one scene, at the end when Madeline emerges from her premature burial to terrify him and literally scare her poor, crazed brother to death. It worked much better, and, thanks to Mom’s help, I had a much cleaner, clearer story to send Mary, who was my developmental editor for this submission.

    Mom helped me get here

    Mom and I had such a fantastic time that day! It really underscored how much we’ve re-bonded, this time over my writing, and I love how I can include her in these pursuits. Truthfully, I need her. She’s now my go-to alpha reader, and because she’s always teasing me about her “friend” from the Usher story, I had to get her a Friend mug as a joke for Mother’s Day.

    Her “friend” followed her home

    I think she really likes the mug, though.

    The horror!

    I have so much to be thankful for. It’s been a good year, despite the inevitable lows.

    Because Thanksgiving is so late this November, we’re planning to start decorating for Christmas this weekend, though usually I view putting up a Christmas tree before Turkey Day as holiday heresy. If we don’t, though, we won’t have enough time to enjoy our Xmas decor. And I must say, Yuletide here in Vermont on a Christmas tree farm is definitely special.

    Speaking of Christmas prep, in the last week or so, the Xmas tree farmer who leases our land has been harvesting several of the Balsams and Frasiers. His crew cuts the tagged trees, sends them through a machine that wraps them in twine, then packs them into trailers. We’ve listened to the buzz of saws everyday, and sometimes they’ve been out there at work as early as 6:30 am. I can hear the chainsaws right now, as I type this.

    Harvesting trees

    It’s a little bittersweet for us. We’ve watched these trees grow up–they came to about my waist when we moved in–and to see so many of them go is a little heartbreaking. But, they’re going to good homes for Christmas, and the farmer has planted saplings in their places, so we’ll have a whole new round of trees to watch grow up.

    Wrap it up!

    It’s quite festive, really, and the trees smell so good–it’s hard to rival that sharply-sweet scent of Christmas, and right now it’s all around us, whenever we step outside.

    Soon, we’ll have the scent inside our farmhouse, too.

    If you celebrate the holiday, I hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving with family and friends!

    Happy Thanksgiving

    If you don’t, I hope you get to enjoy a little time off before we’re all back at it again, prior to our various Xmas/winter breaks.

    Feel free to share any fun thing you plan to do next week. Or, feel free to share something you’re thankful for. I hope you have so many things, it’s difficult to pick.

    Happy Thanksgiving!

    XOXO,

    Jenn

  • I Promise, ALL THE PROMISES is a Fantastic Book

    by

    For many of us in The Red Herrings Society (a publishing community within The Writer’s Sanctuary), November 18th will mark the culmination of months of work. That’s the day RHS’s 2024 anthology, All The Promises We Cannot Keep, will be released into the world for readers of many ages and tastes to enjoy.

    Genres/tropes in ALL THE PROMISES; thank you Robyn for creating this for us!

    Yes, the e-book is a free funnel for 51 contributing authors, and you might wonder, how can all of that content be great?

    I assure you, it absolutely is.

    I’m familiar with many of these contributors’ works, and all of these authors possess an impressive aptitude for language and storytelling. Adding to that, Mary Weber and CJ Redwine, the facilitators and visionaries behind TWS/RHS, are fabulous teachers and book coaches, and their commitment to nurturing their members is evident in the impressive quality of these stories.

    First RHS anthology, published Dec 2023

    Meet Me at Midnight, last year’s anthology (and RHS’s very first one) was an early bestseller and went on to win Best Anthology of the Year at 2024’s Utopia Con.

    It was a winner

    This is just evidence of how talented our group is, and how carefully Mary, CJ, and their team curate these collections.

    I am so very honored to have my gothic piece, “We Were the House of Usher,” included in this magnificent collection. As I type this now (on Nov 14th), Promises already sits at #1 on the Amazon Best Sellers list in Short Story Anthologies & Collections, and I have high hopes for accolades beyond the book’s strong sales.

    Just… wow

    So, in the spirit of sharing our excitement and pride in this beautiful book, soon to be released, I’d like to mention a little more about my story before gushing about three selections from my fellow contributors, who are all brilliant, talented, and beautiful women, inside and out.

    “We Were the House of Usher”

    My Roderick and Madeline

    I’ve been practicing blurbs, so here’s the one for this piece:

    Madeline Usher was once optimistic. The mines on her estate were profitable, and she was engaged to a handsome man from a Lancashire coal-baron family. She understood that planning for the future was key to strengthening her ancient, feeble line.

    If only her twin brother had felt the same way.

    Melancholic Roderick believed the Ushers were cursed, doomed to agitation and suffering, and he couldn’t help but disapprove of his sister’s betrothal.

    Now, a freak tragedy has sparked a series of events that calls into question everything Madeline has done. As she struggles to regain control, she discovers just how complex her relationship with her dear brother–and their estate–truly is.

    The House of Usher

    I had a ton of fun writing “Usher,” though it wasn’t without its difficulties. I struggled to get a certain transitional scene correct. It was in a place just after the second pinch-point but before the big Dark-Night-of-the-Soul, and for some reason, I couldn’t get Madeline’s words to her brother right. It remained this awkward bump in the narrative road all the way through edits. Thankfully, I finally latched onto the most natural thing for Madeline to say (I think), given their circumstances and her epiphany. I made the change as I was finalizing my line edits, there at the very end of the editorial phase. I think it works better than anything I’d had in its place.

    I admit, I’m battling some early post-publication perfectionism, a tendency of mine I’ve described here before. This piece is far from perfect–it needs more space than our word limit would allow, I think, and the beginning is stronger than the ending, which is never great.

    But there are things I love about it, too. I love how I got to write in that slightly elevated, archaic style that the gothic genre and the story’s setting/voice call for. It’s actually a style that feels lovely and natural to me, probably because I’ve read a ton of 19th century literature, most of which I adore.

    I also love how this anthology’s theme prompted me to finally attempt this retelling, an itch I’ve been wanting to scratch for a long time. I was first inspired with the idea way back in high school, when I initially studied Poe’s masterpiece “The Fall of the House of Usher” and found the subtext intriguing and the entire tale ripe for a backstory. These curiosities only increased each time I revisited the classic, either for coursework or as pleasure reading. It was wonderful fun, then, to finally commit to paper my vision of everything through Madeline’s eyes, taking some artistic license, of course.

    Mock book cover made kindly for me by an author friend

    I hope a few readers out there will enjoy my story.

    Now, about my fellow authors’ amazing selections…

    “A Touch of Ink” by Robyn Baker

    At the center of this contemporary fantasy is a young woman who’s chosen to live her life as a recluse on an out-of-the-way lake in Wisconsin, where she works remotely and avoids other people as much as she can.

    Her firm promise to herself–never intentionally touch another human being.

    Why would anyone choose to live this way?

    Because, as this woman reveals, she has a secret, both a blessing and a curse. If she touches another person skin-to-skin, she takes on their exact likeness. She can even access their minds and recollections “like a download of all [their] most important memories,” as the protagonist herself puts it.

    The consequence–it terrifies other people.

    Starting with the protagonist’s very own mother, her first “victim” at the age of ten. Frightened, her mother abandons the young main character, essentially orphaning her for a second time.

    Hence the main character’s vow.

    One night, however, this gifted-yet-cursed woman faces a sudden moral dilemma. When someone’s life is on the line, and time is of the essence, she must decide, are all promises truly meant to be kept?

    Robyn’s emotional story features impressive, precise imagery and a great action sequence–one of her many strengths as a writer–yet it is also a lovely, reflective, touching piece that invites the deeper question, to what extent do people (and even creatures like guardian angels) need other people? Should one make, and keep, so strict a vow? Is that good for anyone’s soul?

    Beautiful mock cover created by Robyn herself

    Robyn kindly shared with me her inspiration for this story: a dream she had “about a woman who became the person she touched and flew away when the people chased her out of a store. She had an instant tattoo on her arm that she now shared with the other person.” Robyn wisely chose to insert these details into her story, which gives it that dreamy lyricism. She also shared how this short piece is “a sort of introduction” to a novel she’s working on titled Where the Ink Bleeds.

    Robyn loves “the depth of the world [she’s] building” for the novel to come. It’s something she’s been “thinking about” and “developing for a long time,” and, personally-speaking, I’m excited to see where she takes this! This protagonist’s ability has amazing implications for understanding others, for making this character a supremely-empathetic (dare I say angelic?) being, which is a fantastic premise for a novel, especially if this character encounters “wicked” people who might simply be misunderstood.

    Robyn hopes to publish new stories and books in the coming year.

    I want to add, too, that I’m a fan of her novel A Discovery of Legions. If you like contemporary romantasy, I highly recommend you check it out.

    Awesome job, Robyn!

    “For Better” by Gloria Herdt

    Oh goodness, this one. Adelina and Nicco have been married 44 years, enjoying the luxuries Nicco’s successful career on Wall Street afforded them. But now, when they should be reveling in his retirement, they find themselves in a hospital room, the beep of Nicco’s heart monitor their constant reminder that his health is failing and they might never leave that hospital room together.

    Photo from Unsplash

    Much lies between them–episodes of grief and disappointment, numerous examples of wedding vows broken. But there are also delightful, beautiful, transcendent memories of all the love and passion that originally united them and helped them raise a wonderful family.

    As Nicco, repentant at the end of his life, muses on the many ways he failed his wife, Adelina–a strong, admirable Italian woman not beyond a certain degree of heartbreak–works to reassure him that all the glorious times are what matter more, for she has chosen, wisely, to focus on everything “for [the] better” instead of the worse.

    Photo from Unsplash

    Despite the heaviness of this piece, I was impressed at the way it continually developed moment after moment of fresh hope, culminating in an emotional conclusion that leaves the reader feeling s/he has been treated to a deeply wise, satisfying lesson in perspective and grace.

    Herdt, who is also a poet, is a master of specific, emotionally-incisive, immersive details—in the couple’s reminiscences, their fantasy of Paris, and in the honesty and intimacy of their conversations, which feel so deeply personal and moving and real. I love the contrasts in this story, too–the adoration and heartbreak, the hope and desolation, the mundane and beautiful.

    Photo from Unsplash

    When I asked Gloria about her inspiration, she shared, “Most of my writing comes out of a question I’m asking of myself or the world. [This story] was inspired by the question, what makes people stay in a marriage even when vows are broken and… the relationship feels beyond repair?” She also shared that Adelina’s marriage, though not exactly like her own, was born out of her own experiences “letting go of anger,” which I find so positive and uplifting.

    Gloria’s favorite thing about this piece is its source– her own Italian grandparents “who had a kind of forbidden romance given that their families were Neopolitan and Sicilian and there was a lot of feuding between those cultures at the time.” She also loves her character “Adelina’s passionate spirit and the way her loyalty sometimes drives her crazy.”

    When I asked about her work in general, she revealed, “I love honing in on a moment and giving the reader an in-depth feel of the character’s nuanced emotions. If I can make you laugh, cry, or scream, then… I’ve done my job.”

    This story– a truly impressive piece of realistic, contemporary fiction–had my eyes welling by the end. You certainly did your job with this one, my friend. Brava!

    “What Goes Unkept” by Colleen Brown

    This rich, dark fantasy features Diana Prescott, a renowned medium battling a murderous demon terrorizing Ashdown Manor and cursing the family within it. She’s become so embroiled in this conflict, in fact, that the demon, a terrible, grasping wraith of a creature, follows her home and lays claim to Almira, Diana’s sleeping elder daughter, a girl blessed with gifts similar to her mother’s.

    Determined to keep her daughter safe, Diana travels back to the great gothic Ashdown house and confronts this terrible thing in the catacombs of the family’s estate. There, she is drawn more deeply behind the veil of the spiritual world than ever before… can she withstand the extremity of its malevolent force? What, if anything, can aid her? Does she have the ability to empower her own child before it’s too late? Will she make the ultimate sacrifice, even if it means leaving certain promises unkept?

    Colleen’s gorgeous story collage

    I loved this story’s chilling, powerful opening scene, and I marveled yet again at Colleen’s ability to effectively convey how things in her story world look, feel, sound, and smell (this group has mastered imagery!). Diana is also an inspiring heroine without being so powerful and perfect than she seems unreal. And while readers only get glimpses of Almira, Colleen does a beautiful job suggesting the deep connection she has with her mother and the power of her own great abilities. It’s hard to describe this wickedly gorgeous, atmospheric story without giving too much away! I also really connected with Raymond Ashdown–bright, modest, noble, he’s my kind of guy. I have my fingers crossed he will be adult Almira’s love interest in the grand scheme of Colleen’s narrative.

    I adored, too, Colleen’s nod in this tale to Poe’s “The Cask of Amontillado”–she and I definitely have similar bookish taste!

    “What Goes Unkept” is a prequel to Colleen’s horror duology What Goes Unseen, to be published soon, and she shared that Diana’s story intrigued her so much as she wrote the first book (in which Diana is more of a secondary character) that she wanted to convey, with this story, why Diana might seem so “stern and hardened,” given everything she’s faced in the Ashdown house. She hopes this prequel–a wonderful teaser, I might add–“makes [Diana’s] character more demure and understandable.”

    Colleen’s favorite aspect of “What Goes Unkept” is the “dark, creepy gothic vibes” and nod to Poe, whose story “The Cask of Amontillado” plays “a central theme throughout the short story and into the duology.” Yes, ma’am, Colleen–I love it too!

    “What Goes Unkept” is a great November spooky treat, perfect for the autumn season, and any time really. Fantastic job!

    Currently, Colleen is finishing her YA dark fantasy, The Feast of Souls, as well as her contemporary romance novel, Bring It On Home (which I had a small, very early sneak peek of this summer and absolutely loved! I told her, I can see this on the bestseller shelf at Barnes and Noble one day).

    Photo courtesy of The Red Herrings Society

    So there you go! I’ve only just begun to discuss all the treats in All The Promises We Cannot Keep, out November 18th. I hope I’ve convinced you to check out this gorgeous anthology, a true literary box of chocolates. There’s a little something delightful for everyone!

    How is your November going? Are you reading anything you’d like to recommend? I’d love to hear about it!

    XOXO,

    Jenn

  • A Musing Inspired by the Day of the Dead

    by

    Hi! If you celebrate Spooky Season, I hope you had a good one.

    Cheers to you, Boo

    One awesome, festive thing we did prior to Halloween Night was take Daphne to the nearby town of St. Johnsbury, our county seat, to Arnold Park located along one of their main streets, which was beautifully decorated for the holiday.

    St. Johnsbury

    St. Johnsbury was a prosperous 19th century railroad town also famous for its development of platform scales and maple sugar uses, and Arnold Park is still surrounded by the giant Victorian houses from centuries ago, in which resided the pillars of the local community. (One house still has the circular drive and covered entrance where you can tell carriages pulled up.)

    St. Johnsbury
    Spooky tree in St. J

    The gorgeous old houses, along with all the lovely, bucolic fall decor, was deliciously atmospheric. It felt like a setting in a Hallmark Halloween movie. All I was missing was a pumpkin-spiced latte or a cup of warm apple cider. Not sure why I didn’t insist we stop for one beforehand…

    More St. J
    More…
    Arnold Park in St. J
    Double, double, toil, and trouble
    Fire burn and…
    Fountain bubble

    Our family didn’t do a whole lot for the Big Spooky Day.

    Wicked sweet

    My parents were in town from Houston, and at 5:30 we all took Daphne down the road to Kingdom Campground for the town’s unofficial Trunk-Or-Treat, and she did a great job walking from vehicle to vehicle, selecting one piece of candy per trunk and saying “Trick or treat” on her talker (her AAC device).

    Trick or treat!

    She was adorable in her red sequined squid costume.

    Beautiful squid

    Just like last year, she was able to tell us this year via her communication device what she wanted to be, and this year it was indeed this very specific water animal (last year she told us “elephant”). I think her inspiration came from Mrs. Squid in the Pout-Pout Fish books, her favorite series.

    Crafting with AAC

    God bless augmentative and alternative communication (AAC). Without it, Daphne would be so much more limited in her expression, but TouchChat (just one of many AAC programs available to non or limited-speaking individuals) allows her to more fully participate in fun things like Halloween right alongside her speaking peers.

    She loves this word

    And speaking of these peers, several kiddos and adults stopped to say hello to Daphne throughout the evening. She is popular in town, so warmly embraced by this close-knit community, which was our hope when we relocated from a ginormous suburb in the fourth largest city to this vastly smaller, rural village.

    It was great having my parents with us, too.

    Out to lunch with Mom and Dad in Littleton, NH

    They love spending time with Daph, and she adores them. They had a blast watching her collect candy.

    Now, I’m going to wax philosophical for a moment. Bear with me, please.

    My father is 70 and my mother is 69; my husband is 49 and I’m 42. As we all get older, we find ourselves talking more and more about the past whenever we get together, growing nostalgic for days that were, empirically-speaking, a long time ago though they don’t always feel that way. Or, sometimes they do, and it’s shocking to think how much time has passed, and how quickly.

    In the catalogue of past things we chatted about on this visit, one I brought up was my high school acquaintance, Kristina.

    In the spring of 1999, just after the time change, when we were juniors in high school, Kristina pulled out in front of an eighteen-wheeler on her way home from an extracurricular activity on campus. I think the sun, suddenly in a different position, must have blinded her.

    She was life-flighted down to the Medical Center in Houston, and though she survived the collision, she was profoundly injured and on life support. Her family, ultimately, chose to take her off that life support, and our entire high school class, along with several staff members, was shocked and utterly devastated.

    I knew her well. We’d taken a lot of the same classes over the years, beginning in our 8th grade Newspaper elective, and we were pretty good friends at one point, though our interests eventually took us in different directions (I was on the dance team, she was in theater).

    We liked a lot of the same things, particularly reading, English class, and creative writing. I believe Kristina wanted to be a writer, among other things. She was a sweet, incredibly intelligent, driven young woman, and she was taken from this life so violently and unexpectedly.

    It was probably my first lesson in the tenuousness of things.

    She’s been gone now twenty-five years. A quarter of a century. How is that possible?

    But it is.

    I think about her regularly. This year, on November 1st, after I’d brought her up again to my parents, I tried to explain why she’s always somewhere in my mind, haunting my thoughts in the quietest, most profound, and ultimately positive way.

    Basically, I’ve thought about her at every major milestone in my life. When I graduated from high school, then college. When I started teaching and I began having students who reminded me of her in their sweetness, intelligence, and drive. When I fell in love, got engaged, and then got married. When I had a baby. Now, when I get my little pieces published. I think she would have liked to have had a story or poem of hers in print.

    Musings

    I think about all the things I’ve had a chance to do, or try, or even fail at, that she didn’t get to do. How she was prevented from having these similar experiences, for some reason or another (or perhaps for no reason at all; I don’t know how the universe works, ultimately).

    And it reminds me, better than anything else, to be grateful for all of my experiences. The good and the easy and the hard and even the bad, in their richness and depth and in the wisdom they cultivate (though, trauma aside, is anything really ever bad, if we learn and grow from it?)

    Reflecting on the prematurity of Kristina’s death enables me to appreciate what I’ve been given, even on the mundane or difficult days, and I’m thankful for it all.

    These sentiments seem appropriate, given the new season we’re heading into, and given this time to reflect on both the living and the dead.

    A reminder

    I understand that in Mexican tradition, Dia de los Muertos is a day, basically, to welcome back the dead and recognize that death is an essential part of life, of being fully human.

    Photo from Day of the Dead Resources web page, National Museum of the American Latino, the Smithsonian

    Without the knowledge that we will die, perhaps tomorrow, can we fully live? Is that the ultimate factor that allows us not to take our lives for granted…? As long as we can pause long enough to really think about that, to be truly present in that uncomfortable fact. Away from our screens, our phones, our social media, our petty grievances, away from our everyday but very limited, curated, and ultimately artificial perceptions of reality?

    I consider my thoughts about Kristina a special sort of visitation. If she is somewhere higher and infinitely better than here on our plane of existence, I hope (among many other things) she knows she inspires my gratitude for all the experiences life has allowed me.

    Alright, enough of that.

    Back to the holidays.

    On Thanksgiving, we will see more family–my husband’s mother and step-father down in Newport, RI. And on Christmas, we plan to host Uncle JT and his dog, Toby, who Daphne loves.

    It’s awesome we still get to be with loved ones on the holidays, despite living so far away from everyone.

    What are your holiday plans? What do you celebrate, and what do you have on your festive agenda? I’d love to hear it.

    Thanks for reading this kinda heavy post, and see you next week!

    XOXO,

    Jenn

  • Hardest Phase of the Writing Process?

    by

    Remember my Christmas horror project? That was the story I originally wrote in August to submit to West Avenue Publishing for their Secrets of the Snow Globe anthology. It had to be a fantasy or horror 4-10k story set at Christmas and featuring a snow globe.

    Spooky Christmas

    My rough draft, if you recall, exceeded the word count by about 5k, and I didn’t have enough time to trim it down effectively before the 8/31 deadline. So, I shelved the project, hoping another publishing opportunity might come along for it eventually.

    Well, it looks like there are two opportunities for it now, so I’ve spent the last three weeks revisiting and revising that piece (despite my assertion a while ago that I wouldn’t submit anything else this year and would, instead, focus on finishing my novel).

    Not a totally precise rendition of a scene, but close enough in essence

    I enlisted the amazingly-generous help of a talented author friend who knows the horror genre well, and she gave me excellent, thorough feedback, kindly tempering her constructive criticism with praise for what was working. After processing all of her feedback, I had a super-clear idea of what I needed to do, and yesterday morning I finished my revisions. I’m proud of my latest version, though I recognize how imperfect it still is. Soon, I’ll be ready to take the plunge and submit the piece… I think.

    My poor FMC

    This work did prompt me, however, to reflect on a question I’ve often seen posed online and in authors’ groups.

    What is the toughest part of the writing process?

    When I began writing in earnest two years ago, the toughest part for me was the initial drafting. Getting words down was rigorous mental labor, sometimes an ordeal, in the same way a distasteful academic assignment felt when I was in school. Racking my brain for the right words to choose, typing them into a document, getting tired after about thirty minutes, my fingers aching, then rereading the passage only to discover it didn’t communicate the ideas in my brain or the feelings/scenes in my imagination, and getting frustrated. I did a lot of stopping and starting, and I suffered a lot of doubt about whether this was a worthwhile use of my time.

    Looking back, I realize I just didn’t have the stamina, fluency, or confidence that comes with writing regularly–when you do it long and often enough to develop a solid, effective habit, enabling you to finish a couple of projects and get your writer’s feet beneath you.

    This is actually hard

    But, writing was a stimulating and comforting escape, so I kept at it. I’m glad I did.

    Now that a few years have passed, I’ve finished everything from flash pieces to novellas. I’ll have five publications by the end of this year, four out and one forthcoming, and I have a novel underway.

    I have the stamina and fluency now for relatively-easy drafting. That has become the fun part, and I’ve settled into my method as a plantser. I’ll sketch out a big idea, usually using the Pixar story formula (so I have the essence and end in mind), along with brief character and setting descriptions and maybe an idea for a motif or extended metaphor (which is the seed for a theme). Then I’ll start writing. About midway through, I often pause to outline the remainder of my story so I can successfully navigate from a murky midpoint to the conclusion (or maybe to the new ending inspiration has just sprung on me). Then I’ll be done.

    I try to let a story sit for a few weeks, at least, before I revisit it. And now, if I consider submitting the piece anywhere, I always ask for others to provide feedback on it first. My mom is a fantastic alpha reader, and I have wonderful author acquaintances in my writing group who make insightful, precise, and empathetic comments and suggestions.

    Adding to these experiences and habits, I’ve also read dozens of writing-related articles and taken several online webinars in craft and mindset, from various sources. As my knowledge has increased, so, too, has my awareness of the strengths and weaknesses in my own work, and I have a much more sophisticated understanding of what makes certain kinds of writing effective or ineffective.

    In contrast, when I was a raw beginner, I thought it was enough to have a protagonist with a couple realistic traits struggle with a related internal and external conflict over a series of events. If those events built to a turning point and the conflicts were resolved, and if the story read smoothly and clearly to me, I thought that meant it was probably good.

    Ha!

    You know that phrase, the more you know, the more you realize you DON’T know?

    This paradox is true. Only the clueless believe they’re masters at something.

    For me, this wisdom now means that deep structure revision (not drafting) is the hardest part of my writing process. It requires the most careful, considered, and objective reflections about the nuances, unity, and impacts of my work, especially in terms of how others receive it. It also requires the most honesty with myself.

    Ugh

    When I sit down to complete a developmental edit, I often face the hard truth that I tried to do too much in my first draft, or I didn’t meet genre expectations fully. Or, the piece didn’t know what it wanted to be–too many POV shifts (including head-hopping), a dabbling in multiple genres rather than a solid, clear commitment to one. Or, I wasn’t clear enough in a character’s backstory or motivation. Or, the thematic threads or perspectives (author’s, character’s, & reader’s) are tangled… etc.

    Or, toughest of all, that all the story elements aren’t quite coalescing. Those big picture, synthesis issues are what often get me. I’m good with language on the sentence and paragraph level. I’m pretty good with narrative even on the elemental/scene level–composing a character, a conflict, or an immersive setting where a brief goal, struggle, choice, and consequence occur. But it’s easy for me to get caught up in finetuning the individual pieces (or, you if will, the individual links), and I fail to zoom out to consider how they all fit (or link) together and how the picture looks (or the chain connects) overall.

    I lose the forest for the trees, as that old cliche goes.

    And sometimes, even when I’m really trying to get the proper big-picture perspective, I just can’t see this global vision/impression at all, and that’s where I definitely need my alpha readers, critique partners, and editors.

    Just can’t see it

    But facing these deep-structure, fundamental revisions, which often don’t have simple, quick fixes–where you often make high-stakes changes or total overhauls–is daunting.

    There’s often the feeling of, oh God, I’ve spent so much time on this already. Do I have the bandwidth, the energy, for another long, deep bout?

    Or

    What if I just don’t have the skill to redo it this way?

    Or

    What if I lose all objectivity completely? What if I find myself revising in metaphorical darkness and… I make my story worse?!

    Or, when a submission deadline looms:

    Can I do this well enough in the time I have left?

    Or, ultimately,

    Is this good enough NOW? Am I rushing it, being too eager? Or, am I making the mistake of lingering over it too long? Are these ruminations becoming counterproductive?

    I think I’ve struck the balance with this latest piece. I employed most all of my friend’s suggestions. The only one I couldn’t achieve was cutting the story down to just being, essentially, Part II, with effective flashbacks interwoven. That would have taken the piece from being a novelette/novella (depending on how you define those terms) to a true horror short.

    I just didn’t have the skill for that, I think.

    Or the will.

    Maybe, I was just being lazy.

    Oh well… it is what it is

    Luckily, one of the opportunities for this piece is a call for fantasy/horror novellas (from an Australian press!). The other press seeking holiday horror has a strange definition of short story–being up to 20K words. (It’s odd, but I’ve triple-checked their guidelines, I promise, just to make sure I’m not imagining it).

    I’ll keep you posted on the fate of this 16K Christmas horror story, which now has an official title–So Many Fragile Things.

    I’d love to hear from you. If you’re a writer, what’s the hardest part of the writing process for you? Why that part?

    See you next week!

    XOXO,

    Jenn

  • My Glamorous Life as a Hobby Farmer

    by

    Hey there!

    It’s hard to believe it, but our chicks are already six weeks old. They’ve grown rapidly from tiny, peeping little fuzzlings…

    Just a baby

    …into surly, restless pullets–that’s poultry-speak for chicken teenagers.

    What are you looking at, butt-head?
    Human perch

    And they’re way too big for their brooder.

    Get us out of here!

    Our plan is to move them into the official, outdoor grown hen coop–a.k.a, the Granny Coop–in a few days. They’re old enough and they have all their mature feathers, so their little bodies should be able to acclimate to the chillier weather.

    Jer and I are a little nervous, though. We’ve never integrated a younger group into an older flock before, and though we’ve read about it and plan to follow the recommendations to the best of our ability, we’re afraid there might be some “chicken-on-chicken violence,” as Hubby likes to say.

    What are the recommendations for successful flock assimilation? Basically, put the new chickens in the main coop at night with the older ones, and when they all come out in the morning, they will recognize one another as a new, larger flock. Then, they’ll naturally go about adjusting their flock dynamic.

    Hmm…ok, internet. If you say so.

    Coop catastrophe?!

    I’m a bit worried about the younger girls because they’re, well, comparatively little. Especially Daisy, our meek little runt of a pullet, although she’s good about staying out of the way, poor baby.

    Jer’s more worried about the older hens because he says the younger ones are “b%*#@&s,” which isn’t entirely inaccurate; they can be little spitfires and nasty with each other. And, they outnumber the big girls.

    Back off, B!

    We’ll see.

    Prep for this move also meant I had to get on with the autumn coop deep cleaning ASAP, which I would need to do anyway, but now it felt especially urgent given that the older hens appeared to have a moderate case of mites, and I still hadn’t treated them or the coop itself.

    I do not want the little ones beginning their outdoor lives by contracting mites.

    So, that meant I had to hop to it this week, when really all I wanted to do was curl up with a book or leisurely revise my latest work-in-progress (more about that in a later post).

    The weather had been cold and rainy, with temps dipping below freezing at night, frosting the ground in the morning. But the weather cleared yesterday, so I put on my chicken-chore Carhartt and got to it, starting with older girls’ booty baths and mite treatments. Hubby was kind enough to help me with that part.

    This entailed washing the girls’ vent areas (their single external openings, from which they both lay eggs and excrete bodily waste) with water and Dawn to clean off old poop and mite eggs, then spraying their vent areas and skin with a solution made from 9 ounces of Elector PSP mixed into a gallon of water–a powerful one-time treatment, thank goodness.

    I was afraid our three big girls would freak out and make the entire endeavor difficult, but they were actually quite tolerant as you’ll see in the videos, bless them.

    I’m glad they trust us.

    After that, I mucked out the coop itself. This always sounds like a huge, awful job, but once it’s underway, I remember it’s really not bad.

    I swept out and vacuumed up all the old shavings, then sanded the roost bar to get off as much old poop as possible.

    Out with the old shavings…

    Then, I washed the floors of the roost area and nesting boxes with water and more dish soap. Next, I sprayed all the surfaces with more of the Elector PSP solution, paying special attention to nooks and crannies, where mites like to hide during the day.

    So fresh and so clean, clean!

    Finally, I let the entire coop air-dry for 45 minutes before piling in lots of fresh wood shavings.

    “What’s this?” Doris asks.

    I also sprayed down the poop boards, coop plank, and fake eggs we still keep in the nest boxes to encourage laying. (Each time I’ve tried to take away the fake eggs, our hens get upset and act like they don’t know where to lay. It’s ridiculous.)

    In our coop, we use the deep litter method, which means we don’t change out the mass of shavings each day. Instead, I clean most of the droppings out on a daily basis by scraping the crap on the poop board (a removeable piece of wood located under the roosting bar) into the compost pile each morning, then stirring the old shavings inside the coop and placing the cleaner board back in. The poop that remains in the coop breaks down into a nice compost, which generates heat that keeps the hens warm at night. This warmth is especially important here in the colder months.

    When it comes to coop litter, some chicken keepers believe sand is a better, cleaner alternative, but I just don’t think it would keep our hens warm enough. So, wood shavings using the deep litter method it is!

    But using deep litter does necessitate a total clean-out twice a year, once in the early spring and once in the autumn. If that doesn’t happen, the coop can become unhygienic.

    “Looks good. I’m ready to lay an egg.”

    I’m glad those chores are done. And, though I’m a little sore today, it felt good to do some physical labor in the cool, bright sunshine. My head felt clear and my body energized.

    The work is dirty, however, and not at all glamorous.

    My life now is not glamorous in the least, really.

    Sometimes I miss having reasons to fix up on a regular basis. When I was working, I wore makeup and my Tiffany pearl earrings everyday. I got my nails done, colored my hair, and worked out on a regular basis. I looked pretty damn good, most of the time.

    Now, it’s comfy clothes and makeup only if there’s a truly pressing reason, and it feels like a good day if I’ve showered. I haven’t worked out much this year, though that’s really my fault–I just haven’t allocated the time for it. I need to change that, for health reasons if nothing else.

    This is about right, except I’m not that skinny

    My habits now probably sound slovenly, but when I’m mostly home on our little farm here in the countryside, there’s no reason to dress up. Daphne and the hens don’t care. The neighbors don’t care, and my husband doesn’t seem to mind, either. He tells me I’m beautiful, no matter what.

    Although, when I do put on makeup, he’ll do a double take and say, “You look pretty.” Ha.

    It’s all fine, though. I’m the most content I’ve ever been in my adult life, and it’s been good for me to let go of the more superficial stuff.

    I just hope someone will tell me if I start to look too unkempt.

    What have you been up to?

    See you next week!

    XOXO,

    Jenn

  • The Truly Important Stuff

    by

    On Monday, Jer’s dad texted us this wonderful photo:

    George and Team 2024

    That’s George, Jer’s dad, in the middle, wearing the white polo with the multi-colored puzzle pieces and text that says, Just because you can’t speak, doesn’t mean you have nothing to say. Pictured with him are his dear friends and former partners/co-workers (from right to left): JD, Gordy, and Roy. Together, they made up one of several teams participating in the Hope for Three Annual Golf Tournament, held at Sweetwater Country Club in Sugar Land, Texas on October 7th.

    And you probably recognize the little girl in the picture on their windshield–Daphne, of course. George’s team participates to help all Ft. Bend Co. kiddos with autism, but it’s sweet Miss Daph who inspires them.

    George and his teammates’ participation in this major fundraiser for a nonprofit autism advocacy organization serving Fort Bend County means more to me that I can express. For five years now, George has organized and played on a team for this major event, and his efforts, as well as those of the other 240 participants this year, earned Hope for Three approximately $134K total. Most of that money, as I understand it, will go toward funding various therapies, equipment, and other support services for Fort Bend autism families.

    My parents, Tim and Sally, volunteering last year. Photo from Hope for Three’s Facebook Page

    My parents, Tim and Sally, also volunteer each year in the H43 golf tournament. They sell tickets for the raffle, and this year they also set up the wine pull.

    Julie, on the far left, with several members of the Hope for Three staff, photo courtesy of H43’s Facebook page

    My mother-in-law, Julie, does not live in Fort Bend like our other parents do. But, when she was still in Texas, she worked for a year at Hope for Three as their Development Director, and for years, she sat on their board.

    Hope For Three is an incredible organization. Jer and I know first hand how expensive it can be to get the resources your autistic child needs. ABA, speech, and occupational therapy aren’t free, nor are the devices like iPads for things like augmentative and alternative communication. Even with Medicaid, a family’s expenses can run high, and even for a family with only one child on the spectrum, let alone multiple children. So, the funding that organizations like Hope for Three provide to autism families (regardless of their incomes) is imperative, in my opinion, for those families to support their children to the fullest extent possible.

    Public schools are wonderful in many ways, and they do their best, but what they can give is often just not enough.

    When we still lived in Fulshear, Texas, H43 aided our family by providing grant money for Daphne’s Survival Swim lessons at Texas Swim Academy. Not only did these lessons give her a life-saving skill, they sparked in her a passion for the water.

    Three-year-old Daph, eager for her lesson

    And, had we continued to live in Texas, we would have applied regularly for funding to continue Daph’s speech and occupational therapy at Growing Speech, which we had to seek privately since the public school only provided some speech services and zero OT. We would have needed H43 to fully support our daughter.

    Aside from raising and distributing funds, Hope For Three does other wonderful things, too. They provide fun activities and other emotional support for the siblings of children with autism, often called glass children because they can feel overlooked and thus invisible. H43 works to make these kiddos feel seen and appreciated.

    Recent caregiver events, photo from H43’s Facebook page

    In addition, H43 organizes informal support groups for mothers, fathers, and other caregivers of ASD children, which often meet for happy hours and dinners out. The parents and caregivers are allowed to make these gatherings as serious or light-hearted as they like.

    Training for law enforcement, photo from H43’s Facebook page

    Hope for Three also trains local law enforcement on how to identify, approach, and aid an ASD person in need–so important because sometimes an ASD adult, particularly a man, might appear violent and in need of force or restraint when that is not the case.

    Joining forces with other advocacy groups/foundations, photo from H43’s Facebook page

    They do other amazing things, too. Too many for me to adequately describe here. I highly encourage you to check out their website for more information.

    I write all of this, though, in a feeble attempt to communicate my profound gratitude and love for our parents.

    I imagine it’s not easy for them to witness our life as an autistic family. I imagine they have always wished they could do more for Daphne, or wave a magic wand to ease things. But assisting Hope for Three is a powerful way they do support us, and so many others. I am so very, very grateful for their unfailing love and unabashed support through all these years.

    We feel it even way up here, in the NEK of Vermont.

    George, Cary, Julie, Scott, Tim, and Sally–thank you. We love you very much.

    I’ve had a few reminders lately about the tenuousness of things, and they underscore how family (however one defines that term, for family isn’t always blood) and solid, loving relationships, are really the stuff of a good life. They’ve made me hold my husband and child a little tighter. They’ve helped me remain patient, too.

    Northern lights over Shaw’s Hill

    Reinforcing these reflections about the big things, we were able to see the northern lights this past week. Being the more adventurous night-owl, Jer went out late to look up over our hill at the sky. Had he been able to walk higher, or get in the car and drive a little farther up, he’d have had an even better view, but this was enough for now. It’s not a great idea to drive at night here, given how pitch-black the countryside is, and some of the roads around us are still washed out from the summer floods.

    Foliage on our property

    We’ve also enjoyed the peak in foliage. Again, a reminder that very little is permanent, and to appreciate all the good, beautiful things when we have them.

    Foliage walking up Little Egypt Road
    More foliage on our road heading up to the top of Pudding Hill

    On a quick side note, I’ve started some research into the history of autism/developmental disorders in the United States, out of interest and a desire to write about autistic families in the past. Let me say, I am so very grateful that we live in the time we do, with the family and social support we’re now able to get. Just thirty years ago, autistic children were much more likely to be written off, seen as less than and given fewer opportunities for inclusion and way fewer support systems. Few organizations like Hope for Three existed.

    Sadly, neurodiversity is a new term.

    One hundred years ago, autistic people, among others, were often institutionalized, thanks to attitudes of inequality and a widespread belief in Eugenics. They and their families, especially their mothers, faced terrible stigmas. For a time mid-20th century, it was even believed a mother’s coldness and lack of affection made her child autistic. I cannot imagine how that must have felt. To already struggle and feel helpless, with zero understanding or support, and then be blamed for it, stigmatized. If mothers of autistics back then were perceived as cold and unfeeling, I image that was both a necessary stoicism on their part and a response to the coldness they received from society. A vicious cycle.

    Again, I am grateful for our place in the here and now, and for a family that has only ever wanted to help, not blame.

    If you’re on the eastern side of the United States, I hope you were able to see a bit of the northern lights, too. And what, right now, are you grateful for?

    Talk to you next week. 🙂

    XOXO,

    Jenn

  • Welcome, Spooky Season

    by

    Spooky season is officially underway! I’ve been enjoying all the fun, vibey posts on Insta and Bookstagram, all the festive podcast episodes coming out, and all the decorations popping up everywhere. Hubby hauled out our own Halloween decor from the attic over the weekend, and yesterday I put everything in its place.

    Witchy living room

    No judgment against anyone who enjoys decorating early for Halloween, but I’ve always liked to wait until the first of the month to keep it special, and to avoid getting sick of everything before the Spooky Big Day.

    In the spirit of the season, then, I thought I’d share some easy, fun stuff–all about my writing space, now decorated for Halloween, and all the things I love about the fiercely gorgeous fall anthology my work’s published in, The Veneficium Feminae, from Amaranth Publications.

    First, my writing space.

    My desk

    If Zoom webinars and social media are anything to go by, most writers have their own beautiful offices in which to work. I see large desks, sometimes with dual monitors, set before bookshelves aesthetically filled with their favorite hardcover books–many of them their own, if these writers are published. I love seeing these spaces. They look so cozy, private, and inspiring–beautifully conducive to word flow.

    But since we, the Shaws, live in a 1900 sq ft, two-hundred-year-old farmhouse, I have no such office. Instead, I write in our dining room, right at the table, and I am perfectly content with this.

    My dining room is actually my favorite room in this old house, and I think of it as very much my own. I selected and arranged everything in it, and many of the items are antique family pieces.

    Grandma’s tea cups
    Mimi’s crystal
    More pretty things
    Grandma’s silver tea service, which desperately needs a polish

    The story this room tells is of old, pretty things, and my vision of bucolic, historical New England, where I am now lucky enough to live.

    Reprint of a painting by C. Robert Perrin (this was a housewarming gift from Jer’s Aunt Kim)
    Audubon reprint; my first impression of VT wildlife was amazement at all the turkeys
    I purchased this sketch in Salem, MA, on my honeymoon

    It might not seem private or quiet, but the space works well for me. I have a beautiful view of our acreage, looking out at the Frasier Firs growing all the way back to the tree line of a dense forest. On days when the weather’s nice, I open the window to let in the breeze, and I can hear the birds chirp.

    This spot also allows me to keep an eye on our free-ranging chickens, and I can tend to any deliveries or repair/maintenance people who show up during the day.

    Mildred just this morning, looking for treats like always

    I am also right by the bathroom and kitchen, so it’s quick and easy to take care of my needs, which helps sustain my concentration.

    Today’s lunch: chicken corn chowder w/ crackers from Price Chopper

    It’s easy to chat, too, with my husband as he passes in and out of the kitchen between his work meetings. In this way, we keep each other company without intruding on the other’s work.

    And I can gaze up at the beautiful, old wooden beams running the length of the ceiling any time I need to channel the past.

    Old beams and a new chandelier meant to look old

    It’s a gorgeous, bright space, in short, and I’ve never found anything about it distracting, despite Joyce Carol Oates’s argument that one needs a room with no good view to keep one’s attention on their work.

    And when Daph’s at school, the house is plenty quiet.

    The only drawback I can think of is that I have to get out my things–laptop, pencil pouch, and paper files–any time I go to work, and then I usually have to put them all away again. It’s no major inconvenience, though, and it allowed me to rationalize buying a new pencil pouch from Amaranth’s online boutique, The Stack, so I won’t keep misplacing my pens and pencils.

    I am extraordinarily lucky to call this space my own.

    Now, allow me to gush a bit about the cozy-creepy stories that fill the pages of The Veneficium Feminae.

    “Candlelight” by LeeAnn Weaver

    Art by Sybil Wainwright

    “Old Lady Cornish at her sewing machine/Needs a huge needle to stitch every seam./It’s a cold, cold night and her cover’s too thin,/So she makes another blanket with your SKIN, SKIN, SKIN!”

    It’s a playful spooky legend, but is any of it true?
    On a chilly night out, four carefree friends are curious to find out. Do any of them have what it takes to confront whatever’s in that old cabin?

    Chilling imagery and a tragic backstory pull readers into this brief but haunting, melancholic tale, the piece that perfectly opens Veneficium.

    And that rhyme burrowed right into my brain!

    “Into the Mist” by June Baker

    Art by Sybil Wainwright

    A story about wicked Mother Nature.

    Kat is optimistic on her first kayaking trip in Alligator Creek Swamp State Park. She’s just moved in with her boyfriend and feels like her adult life has begun. But tucked into the natural beauty of the lake are subtle signs that all might not be well… that dark things slither just beneath the surface, threatening to upend all her hopes and plans.

    Can Kat stay the course?

    The specific details of the setting and the loneliness and fear that Baker skillfully develops in both Kat’s internal and external worlds make this story a truly immersive, slow-burn horror. Toward the end my stomach was sick with tension!

    “The Cult of Bram Stoker” by Emily Holman

    More of Sybil’s work

    Mina and Lucy are best friends… or is that all? Can they be more? It seems circumstances and timing only work against these two, culminating in a tragedy that nearly destroys poor Mina. Believing she will never see her friend again, she is visited late one night by a surprise visitor.

    And even though something’s not quite right, might she and Lucy have a second chance–this time for all eternity?

    I love this eerie and bittersweet retelling of Dracula, with Mina and Lucy as the main characters.

    “Unremembered” by Abel Ruiz

    And more

    Claret has lost her husband of many years, that loving and pragmatic man who brought order to the creative chaos of her life, and her grief manifests in unsettling ways. It seems that her house and garden will not cooperate with her determined efforts to move on–why do the weeds keep growing through the cracks in the flagstones? Why is that spiderweb still there, after she brushed it away? Why does she keep making her dead husband a sandwich for lunch? And why is he there, leaning against the doorframe?

    The lyrical details in this piece do a fabulous job suggesting how poor Claret’s mind unravels. Or does it? Is something else at work?

    I found this a poignant story of loss and psychological unease.

    “One Last Tap” by Nicci Schwartz

    Artist: Nicci Schwartz

    I love this artwork, too. It suits the themes of the stories well. To me, it suggests the dead trying to pull just a little more from the living.

    “The Hunt” by Tera Schreiber

    And more

    Becca is a young college student haunted by loss yet trying her best to move on with her life. All she wants to do is earn enough money tending bar to pay her rent, bills, and tuition while she studies to be an ER nurse. But one night, one of her professors, a beloved member of the faculty, enters her workplace and begins to chat with her–flirt, even, in ways Becca’s not entirely comfortable with. Slowly, she senses what a predator he truly is, and he has chosen her as his next prey.

    Can she get away in time from this big bad wolf? Or will she freeze in the face of tragedy once more?

    I adore this eerie, suspenseful retelling of Little Red Riding Hood, with its strong narrative voice. And while the ending does not disappoint, I found this story tragic for several reasons, making it linger in my mind long after the last page. Amazing work!

    “Bone White, Blood Red” by Sybil Wainwright

    And more, all gorgeous

    This is the perfect piece to end Veneficium. It’s a short horror-fantasy with an epic feel. Princess Artemine is the heiress to her father’s kingdom, but her wicked step-mother wants the reign for herself and plots to have her step-daughter murdered. Thus, Artemine flees just weeks before her 21st birthday into a haunted forest, willing to die from exposure in the elements, her body undiscovered, as a way to compromise her step-mother’s legitimacy on the throne, rather than allow herself to be murdered by the Queen Consort’s henchmen.

    A strange, bone-white knight discovers her hiding, however, and takes her to an arboreal palace deep in the forest, hidden from the sun. There, Artemine is made an offer, and she faces a difficult choice. What kind of life is she now willing to live? What will each option bring her, and what will it cost?

    This tale is a rich re-imagining of Snow White. I enjoyed the romantic element and found it morbidly uplifting. The author has created an amazing world in which I’d love to see her continue Artemine’s story.

    I hope I’ve tempted you to check out this amazing anthology, a perfect read just in time for Halloween. The digital version is available from The Stack, and print versions can now be found on Amazon.

    Happy reading, and happy haunting!

    If you’re a fan of spooky season, what’s your favorite thing about it?

    Talk to you next week!

    XOXO,

    Jenn

  • Happy Fall, Y’all

    by

    Sunday was the autumnal equinox and of course, my Instagram feed was filled with images and quotes about the meaning and beauty of fall. That prompted me to share my own photographs of what the changing season looks like here in the NEK of Vermont.

    The leaves are just beginning to turn

    Growing up, I loved the fall season because it felt like the gateway into the best time of the year, that period filled with all my favorite holidays: Halloween (that blast of spooky-fun make-believe), Thanksgiving (the Yuletide teaser with its feast and family gatherings), and that greatest of all holidays, the toy fest that was Christmas.

    Fall meant all of that was on its way.

    The apples are ripe for the picking

    Now that I’m older, I can appreciate autumn’s symbolism. It’s the beginning of a period of rest, a time to enjoy the harvest of our labor while also considering what old things to shed and what still remains to be done– all in preparation for an eventual renewal.

    The sunflowers are thriving
    Some of the trees are even beginning to shed their leaves

    Such ideas appeal to my writer’s sensibility, and this official change in season inspired me to revisit my writing goals for 2024.

    I drafted six goals in January:

    1. Finish the zero draft of my first novel, A Home on Yarrow Hill
    2. Revise the horror novella I wrote last October, Saltbox (a title ruined by the release of that ridiculous movie Saltburn)
    3. Continue writing short stories and submit a minimum of three for publication
    4. Slowly develop my current Instagram account to include writing content
    5. Get better at making reels for IG
    6. Launch my author blog

    With just over three months left in the year, I’m pleased with my progress. It’s really rather good.

    I’ve killed #3. In fact, I’ve submitted eight (not three) short pieces altogether, with five accepted and either already published or forthcoming. Check.

    #6 is done; I’m typing my latest post for it right now. Check.

    #4 is underway, with more writing-related content posted more frequently in the last couple months. I’m happy to report, too, that no weird, awful backlash has occurred because of it (which I’d irrationally feared), so I’m pushing past the discomfort this initially caused. I’m proud of that.

    Taking baby steps on social media to promote my work

    #5 I haven’t given much effort to, but that doesn’t concern me. It feels like the least important one anyway. Plus, I don’t really have anything to market via reels just yet.

    That leaves #s 1 and 2. Which weren’t up there at the top for nothing. But, they’re proving the toughest.

    They’re also the most important, particularly right now.

    Setting for my novel, A HOME ON YARROW HILL

    Writing the short stuff has been good for multiple reasons. It’s allowed me to improve my craft while finishing projects with relative ease. The completion is what’s so important to the learning, as Neil Gaiman says. The short pieces have also given me a few publication credits and a certain entry-level legitimacy and validation. It’s also given me invaluable experience working with, and learning from, six different editors, all while getting a look inside the professional publication process.

    An acceptance email. I’m lucky to have found publishers willing to take revisions

    But if I’m honest with myself, I must recognize now that the next phase of learning needs to happen in the context of my longer work. If my ultimate goal is to one day publish a well-crafted, engaging, and hopefully well-received book, then I need to focus on the longer pieces.

    In particular, I need to finish the zero draft of my novel.

    Ugh.

    I say that not because I don’t like it. I do. At least, I like parts of it. I still think about it on a regular basis.

    Not because I haven’t made progress. I have. I’m about 100k into the draft.

    Not because I want to give up. I don’t.

    It’s just… hard.

    I am just past the novel’s “murky middle,” I think. And I realized, long ago, that in my voraciousness I bit off way more than I, a newbie writer, can adequately chew.

    My novel is a found-family work of historical romantic fiction. It features FOUR characters, with FOUR alternating points of view. One character is a Great War veteran suffering from alcoholism and PTSD. Another character is a victim of sexual assault who is trying to make a new life for herself. Another is seeking justice for her father’s murder in the context of his newly-discovered bootlegging. And another, the most principal character, is severely dyslexic and a witness to years of her dead mother’s physical abuse at the hands of her drunken father. She will be the key to everyone’s resolutions, ultimately.

    Principal character, Amelia

    All four characters live under the same roof, helping to care for a nonspeaking, disabled relative (who we would recognize today as an autistic adult).

    If it sounds like a lot, that’s because it is. If it sounds melodramatic and potentially cringy, that’s because it probably is.

    Holy hell, what an ocean of narrative to wade into (and I won’t even go into all the research these topics require).

    I’m in well over my head now, and the floor is thousands of feet beneath me. I am staying afloat, but barely; the effort is exhausting. And that exhaustion, plus the knowledge that the draft is so stinking awful in so many ways, has kept me from working steadily on it.

    (I’ve preferred the faster, easier routes to growth and satisfaction provided by the completion of the short pieces.)

    Thankfully, I can sum up the premise of my novel rather easily: Four damaged young people, living together in rural 1920s Vermont, learn to love, protect, and heal one another.

    Ben, home from the Great War, helping Amelia improve her reading

    According to the experts, your ability to sum up your long work in a single sentence is a good sign.

    Ben’s sister Belinda, who teaches in the hilltop schoolhouse

    I can also describe the kind of story it is: a found family story of love, validation, and redemption. And I have character arc notes for each main character, so there is a clear, unifying thread (I’m not so hopelessly clueless that I’m utterly drowning).

    Character and story type notes. There are two additional pages

    I also have a completed, albeit rough, outline, so I know what will happen and how it will end (though I’m always open to new developments).

    Outline for remainder of draft, sloppy in multiple ways

    It is Just. So. Much.

    Way, way more than I can do well at this point in my experience. And way, way more than is probably marketable. From what I’ve heard, multiple POVs are tough to do well and can frustrate readers. Also, publishers (and probably readers) aren’t attracted to long works by new authors. I also suspect my piece doesn’t quite tick all the boxes of my genre; I need to improve my understanding and application of the conventions of my preferred genres, based on feedback from two reliable sources who are both authors and editors.

    Suzannah (Ben and Belinda’s cousin) with Dr. Campbell. Here is the romance subplot at work: that cycle of attraction and resistance

    So, I’ve been avoiding my novel.

    But that’s not how I’m going to learn from it.

    I feel like it’s best if I push through and finish a god-awful rough draft by the end of December. After that, I might never go back to it. But, I’ll have a much better idea of the scope for an effective novel (something much more focused and specific than what I’ve tried to do with this one). I feel like that understanding, that better orientation, will prove invaluable. That will be the payoff, the true learning. That will lead to a second, better manuscript.

    Author Jodi Meadows (from her own IG, @unicornwarlord), who has been vocal in talks and on social media about the value of practice. Her first published novel was her 17th manuscript! She encourages new writers to learn rather than rush to publication.

    When I started this novel, the longest piece I’d written was 30k (Saltbox). I just didn’t know what the scope of a true novel looked like in the planning, and I started this work for NaNoWriMo last year with the sole intention of getting to or exceeding 50k. I did that but, oh God, the end was nowhere in sight. (I think I underestimated my ability to develop a single MC’s story in 50k words, and that’s why I chose the multiple POVs, which was way too much.)

    I did want to keep going, so I did.

    Now, I just need to NOT give up. I want to see this behemoth through.

    Wish me luck!

    Do you have any advice? I’m trying to remind myself that it’s ok for this zero draft to be awful. It’s supposed to be; it’s the completion that counts, right now. In fact, as Savannah Gilbo, a popular book coach, suggests, I shouldn’t do any revising at all while trying to produce an initial draft. Pausing to revise only slows one down, and effective revision can only happen once the piece is done and the writer can see the big picture clearly.

    Is there anything else I should remember that might keep me going? Don’t hesitate to let me know!

    XOXO,

    Jenn

  • Managing Those Big Emotions

    by

    Hi. Let me start by assuring all friends and family, we’re fine. Our situation is not dire, and our family unit remains strong.

    However, in the spirit of honesty and transparency, I do want to share a little more about our recent struggles with our autistic daughter’s behavior. I believe such honesty is important because it sheds light on what some of us are challenged with, and that increases autism understanding and acceptance. It might also help another family feel less alone, or it might be an opportunity for a reader on their own autism journey to share some wisdom with me. I always welcome that.

    Miss Daphne

    So, here we go. Again, I don’t mean to alarm anyone. I just want to be truthful and authentic.

    When Daphne was little, she was compliant and almost always happy and sweet. She was rarely disobedient and never aggressive. We didn’t really have to discipline her. If she did something she shouldn’t, we simply redirected her and she obeyed. That was it. I got used to that and was grateful for it. It felt like a small piece of luck, or perhaps a small favor, on an otherwise unforeseen and sometimes-frightening journey into the world of disability.

    I remember thinking, we can work on everything else–the delays, the challenges, the fight for services if it comes to that– and it will all work out in its time. If it doesn’t, we can adapt. As long as Daphne’s happy, that’s all I care about.

    Happy kiddo circa 2018

    It made the shock of her diagnosis bearable, and we had eight years of relative peace.

    It wasn’t until the summer of 2023 that she got moodier. She was grouchier and cried a lot more often, sometimes without any apparent reason. Her dad and I struggled initially with a lot of impatience and aggravation until I talked to her pediatrician. As it turned out, Daphne was on the cusp of puberty, and her poor little body was flooded with hormones. Thus, the mood swings. It made sense, and I accepted our daughter’s more-erratic emotions as our new normal. At least she didn’t self-harm or hurt anyone else, I told myself. I worked on being more patient with her and giving her more structure as needed.

    A little moodier

    Over the past few months, though, she’s become aggressive. She’s bitten and thrown both her AAC and play iPads, destroying three of them (she is now allowed only an AAC iPad). She’s begun to slap her own head occasionally, too. And, she’s begun to lash out at her caregivers, particularly me and her one-to-one aid at school (I’ll call her Miss G, for the sake of her privacy).

    This is the hardest part of Daphne’s change in temperament. Her pinching, kicking, scratching, and occasional biting not only cause me anxiety and physical discomfort, they’re emotionally painful. She tends to get hostile when I’m helping her with her personal hygiene, like brushing her teeth or hair or helping her shower. Sometimes it happens when I’m helping her get dressed. It’s made me start to dread these parts of our day.

    Bite she gave me yesterday

    Worse, I suffer massive guilt when she scratches, hits, or bites her aid. Miss G is a paraprofessional, so she’s paid utter peanuts for work that is physically and emotionally taxing. She does NOT deserve such treatment, no matter what my daughter’s challenges are. Thankfully, that hasn’t really happened yet this new school year–Daph’s had a good start this fall, thankfully–but I’m sure we’ll have incidents.

    Daphne gets rough with Miss G when she doesn’t get her way immediately or when she doesn’t understand something. For example, there was an incident last year when the students had to go back inside from recess because the ground was too icy. Daphne didn’t understand why they had turned around and gone right back in. Out of frustration, she bit Miss G as her aid was guiding her back through the doorway. Miss G showed me the mark when I picked Daphne up from school.

    My worst fear is that Daphne will hit or bite another child. A classmate, or someone outside with her at recess. Even though an adult is always beside her, her mood can change fast, and she can turn on you with little warning, which also makes all of this so troubling. It’s sometimes hard to anticipate when she will get rough.

    If she hurts another student, I don’t think we’ll be able to keep her on her general ed campus. We’ll have to consider alternative schools.

    I believe this aggression is a result of a combo of things: the hormones of puberty, a greater understanding of her differences, the development of her own will and desire for autonomy, and her limited communication. I don’t believe there is any medical issue behind this, though of course I don’t know that for sure. I try to keep my eyes open for any physical/health-related concerns. We see none, however, and her doctor verified that her physical growth this year has been “excellent.”

    So, if it’s just growing up that’s causing this, then that’s good news. I want my daughter to have a will of her own. I want her to desire autonomy and independence. All of those things are healthy and give me hope. I want her to be her own independent, capable person.

    If she could, I think she would tell me, “Back off, Mom!”

    I’m trying to encourage that, too. I’ve begun to ask her if it’s ok for me to brush her hair, or help her wipe, etc. She seems to like that, and if she signs “Yes,” I’m less wary of touching her. I’ve also been encouraging her to wash herself more in the shower. I’ve told her, once she can get herself clean, she won’t have to tolerate me crowding her. She has signed “Yes” to that, so I think she understands it.

    Yes, Mom. I don’t want you all up in my business.

    We just need to help her learn how to manage her anger. And we, her parents, need a clearer idea of how best to discipline her.

    These are my challenges right now. All people feel anger and frustration; they’re natural human emotions. And all kids (and some adults) need to learn how to regulate these big feelings.

    It’s a lot

    With Daph, though, it can be hard to tell what’s wrong and to gauge just how much she understands, given that she can’t tell us precisely how she’s feeling or what exactly made her angry. She does sometimes say “Frustrated” on her talker, which is great. We’ve worked hard to model these emotion words so she can identify and communicate them when she’s feeling a certain way. And that’s a good step, but it still doesn’t give her a specific, safe way to redirect all that frustrated energy. This is what we’re specifically lacking right now. We need the right anger management strategy.

    Last year, her OT suggested she use a squeeze ball when mad. Jer order a few this summer, but when they came we realized they were the kind filled with a jelly substance, and Daph’s jaws are so strong, she bit right through a couple of them, coating herself with the substance and even ingesting some of it. That was a failure, obviously, and then we went through that two week period of incontinence, so in the midst of all that, I didn’t replace those balls with anything better. I’m still open to using this coping strategy, but we need to find the right ball. A super-strong, most-durable-on-earth kind… not sure if any of those even exist.

    Yep, this one. We need this one

    My first monthly meeting with her school team is this Wednesday, so that is a question I will ask them. Can they recommend a specific, hands-on anger management tool or technique? And, how do we best discipline her, so we’re not inadvertently punishing her for something she can’t help, like a lack of understanding or an inability to specifically express herself?

    Our current discipline method is giving her a time-out. If she gets so angry that she’s stomping, kicking, scratching, pinching, or biting, her dad sends her upstairs to her room, and we temporarily take away her iPad if she has bitten or thrown it.

    That way, her consequence is removal: of the thing she threw or the person she hurt (me), plus alone time, which she doesn’t like. It also gives Jer and me the opportunity to cool down so we’re not tempted to scream at her or spank her.

    I am a vessel of infinite peace and love

    It’s tough for me to remain calm when she tantrums; it still amps me way up (though I’m working hard to self-regulate) and then I want to respond with harshness too, which is terrible modeling. Plus, I feel like reciprocal aggression erodes our healthy bond as a family, and that is the last thing I want to do. We need to remain tight and trusting of one another in order to navigate all the rough patches in our lives.

    I will update you on her team’s advice.

    It is hard to believe she can be so unhappy when she smiles like this

    We had a nice day this past Sunday, but it was also a day typical of our lives now.

    We went for an easy hike out in the forest around Island Pond, down to the Moose Bog Boardwalk.

    Nice, easy trail. That’s about all I can handle

    Daph seemed fine during the first half.

    Naming things on her talker

    But as we approached the swamp, she got agitated.

    This is starting to suck, Mom.

    I think she was expecting a lake she could swim in. She halted, wouldn’t go any farther, and started to stomp and whine.

    Pretty but not a swim spot

    Another family was already there, sitting quietly waiting for the birds to land on the dock and eat the peanuts they’d put out for them. Realizing we were intruding on their nature watch, we immediately turned around, ushering an increasingly-angry Daphne away. I felt guilty for the intrusion and disappointed we couldn’t stay for a longer look. We had to coax Daph back along the trail, and my stomach clenched with fear that she would start to scream and bite. She complied, ultimately, but it put a damper on things. I felt that live wire of guilt and anxiety running all the way through my body.

    That’s basically our new normal.

    Just a nice picture

    Like I said, we’re ok. We’re just in a rougher phase, but we’ll get through it. It will take a little more consideration and work than her dad and I have ever had to do, but our daughter’s welfare is our first priority. I just have to tell myself that it’s ultimately not my fault. That I’m not a rotten parent and I can figure out how to help her. My inferiority complex wants to rear its ugly head in this context, too.

    One day at a time.

    I hope all is well with you. Again, feel free to share anything you’d like.

    See you next week.

    XOXO,

    Jenn