Throughout my years as a social worker, I met many young people who said they hated to read. Every time I heard that sentiment, it broke my heart, although I understood the reasons behind it. Most of them didn’t have early exposure to literacy. They weren’t read to when they were little. They were moved around a great deal, which meant both home and educational instability. At school, they were identified as poor readers. When they had to read aloud, they were mocked by their peers. Through those experiences, they were taught that reading was too hard – that it was something reserved for kids who were different from them – and they learned to resent the written word.

The tragedy of this recurring ordeal is that the people who learn to hate reading are the very same ones who need and deserve the advantages reading can offer. Reading awakens creativity, boosting one’s ability to tackle problems with innovative solutions. Reading broadens a person’s vocabulary and knowledge base, thereby increasing access to social, academic, and professional circles that might otherwise be out of reach. And reading offers a critical escape route – it is a perfect (and oftentimes free) coping mechanism, allowing people to take a break from reality and relax someplace else for a bit.

Reading alters perspectives. It can make the ordinary seem magical.

When I decided to write books, I had two objectives. One was to share compelling stories that would entertain readers, and the other was to make those stories accessible enough for even the most vehement non-readers to enjoy. Because I’ve witnessed the beauty of those conversions – when stories are written in a way that takes people from “I hate reading!” to “I need to tell you about this book!” When those same folks can’t put a book down, because they’re so intrigued. When they anxiously anticipate the next volume in a series, or go to see a movie and report, “It was good, but not as good as the book.”

Because when that happens, people learn that books are meant for them, not just for the jerks who teased them in class. They realize that there are millions of other pieces of writing out there, and they decide to check some out. They start talking to other people about what they’ve read. Worlds open up. Perspectives change. Harmful cycles are disrupted. Some even start to write. They tell their own stories. They discover they’re capable of more than anyone, even they themselves, ever dreamed.

New & different heights = New & different views

That’s who I write for. Of course I want to appeal to a broad audience, but my hope is to reach those who believe they don’t like to read. I want them to realize that books are for them. I want them to embrace new identities as lovers of reading, because they deserve that luxury and all of its benefits. I want them to see that the world has a great deal to offer, and nothing should limit their potential.

And I know this is possible, because I’ve seen it happen, and it sure would be an honor to be part of that process.

Devon Sorvari is in the process of recording the audiobook for Aret (perhaps even as I type), and her last email to me began with these words:

“Okay, this is so exciting.”

And yes. She’s right. This is so exciting. Aret will be released next month with the audiobook soon to follow (provided I get my butt in gear and nail down an editor), and then I can focus on book #2. And #3. And another book I wrote that has nothing to do with dragons. Woo hoo! So much writing to do! So many stories to tell! SO EXCITING!!

Even more exciting than hurling water into your own face

…or swinging from exposed beams

…or getting stapled to the lawn.

When I sent Aret’s first draft (which was very drafty, indeed) to my husband in the fall of 2012, I had no idea if the story would make sense to anyone but me. After all, I’d written it while living alone in a tiny house on an island, and while I’d enjoyed the prolonged isolation, even I had to admit I’d gone ’round the bend a bit. Thankfully, he assured me it did make sense, which was far better than the response I’d feared, yet expected (“Come home immediately so I can check you into a hospital”).

And now, after 3+ years and I-don’t-even-want-to-think-about-how-many revisions, the time has come. It’s ready. I can hardly believe it.

I still have dozens of little things to figure out over the next few weeks, and my strategy for doing so continues to be: Go Paddle Boarding – but I have faith that everything’s going to come together and be fine, just fine. (Plus I have a nice tan, and my deltoids have gotten wicked strong.)

I may have utilized my go-to strategy today, in fact.

I once knew a guy whose girlfriend was fiercely anti-romance. Whenever he said something mushy to her, she’d call him the President of the Velveeta Cheese Factory. At the risk of assuming that position myself, I need to offer up some big thanks to the folks who’ve helped me get this far, because I’m so full of gratitude right now, I feel like I might explode.

To Frank, JR, Kay, Celeste, Sean, Kate, Sheri, and Andrea, who slogged through those terrible first drafts, offered ideas, and encouraged me to keep going. To Vicki Lane and the UNCA novel-writing class for flooding me with feedback from people I don’t know (which, as it turns out, is a good thing). To Betsy for the meticulous, word-by-word final edit. To Stacey, Susan, and Rita – the wonderful women in my writing group – who consistently urge me to slow down and show more.

To the members of my pre-release book club – thank you for the ideas and the laughter, and for introducing me to the concept of dragons farting rainbows.

To all the people who send me dragon stuff, from toys to books to costumery to memes to art pieces to Julie’s “fire-breathing sky dragon” that she pulled off the road to capture for me one day.

Y’all have no idea how much it means to receive all those dragons, or how cool it is to know that people encounter dragons in their worlds and think of me.

To Marcos and Devon, who enthusiastically agreed to take on huge projects, just because they’re so very awesome.

And to all the other members of my Aretian band (you will receive proper acknowledgements in the book itself) ~ I wouldn’t be this close without your guidance, support, and encouragement. Big heart love to you all.

This is so exciting. 🙂

I blame litterers for my first fall from a stand-up paddle board. During a journey down the French Broad River, I was complaining to a friend about litter and got so pissed off that I forgot what I was doing. When I felt a strange, cool sensation, I looked down to see my right foot and half of my shin submerged in the river, as the board sat at about a 45 degree angle under the water. I barely had time to think, That’s not good, before KABLOOSH! Aquatic face plant, complete with a full-on nasal enema. Blech.

I totally meant to do that

Standing at nearly six feet tall, I have a fierce aversion to falling. It’s a long way to the ground, which is often hard, if not also sharp, jagged, or otherwise injurious. This feeling was cemented during my college years, as my school was located in the middle of a horrible frozen tundra (of doom!) where I witnessed fellow students slipping on ice and crashing into dirty piles of slush on a regular basis. Plunging into frozen wetness when it’s negative a million degrees outside is miserable on a whole variety of levels, so during those four horrendous winters, I learned to fear falling and avoid it at all costs.

When I’m on a stand-up paddle board, I continually have to remind myself that the ground is made of water, so there’s little need for concern. It’s hard to shake off a well-established fear, however, and I often catch myself being overly cautious due to concerns about falling.

Can’t move. Might fall. Lemme know when we’re heading in.

The other day, some friends and I traveled to a big, beautiful lake with our SUPs. By the time we arrived, the wind was so strong that the lake looked like an ocean. While I pumped up my board, I heard a yelp, then turned to see a woman who’d just launched her kayak get tossed back onto the shore by a wave. Shaking my head, I thought, This is gonna be a sit-down paddle board kinda day.

But about fifteen minutes into my cross-legged SUP experience, I reconsidered. This is stupid, I thought. I should stand up and try to ride these waves. If it works, it could be cool. If it doesn’t, I know how to swim.

So I stood up, and the moment I got my feet under me, a wave must’ve hit the front of my board, because the next thing I knew, I was running backwards (all the while thinking, Why in the world am I running backwards?!). Of course, one can’t run for long on a paddle board. I took maybe 5 steps, then KABLOOSH! Into the water I went.

Here’s what it looks like when I’m not running backwards off my board.

Two tragedies resulted from this event. One: my friends weren’t watching, so they didn’t get to witness something that I’m sure looked very funny. Two: I lost my sunglasses. But that’s exactly why I buy those cheap. I tend to lose them in large and/or rapidly moving bodies of water.

And here’s the kicker: about half an hour later, while I was still laughing about the first incident, the exact same thing happened again. Yup. KABLOOSH! Right off the back of the board. And no one saw me! AGAIN! (No one in my party, anyway. I know a couple of fisherman did, as the suppressed laughter radiating from their boat was practically palpable as they cruised on by.)

My favorite thing about this whole ordeal was that I really thought I was going to learn something uplifting and inspiring when I made the decision to face my fears and stand up in the rough water, but instead I learned this:

If you don’t make the choice to push fear aside and take a risk, then you will never know how hilarious it is to run straight off the back of your paddle board. Twice.

I guess that’s as good a lesson as any.

My kitchen ordinarily serves as a beloved sanctuary of cooking and eating (two of my favorite activities), but it is now in a state of chaos. All of the cabinet doors have been removed, the drawers are empty, and everything’s covered in plastic. This is because my husband is a teacher and currently in summer-break-home-improvement mode. His first task? Beautify the kitchen.

A year ago, such extreme disorder would’ve made my home feel like this:

But back then, life was different. During my lengthy social work career, I found that maintaining a strictly ordered household prevented the despair and volatility so prevalent in my work from contaminating my consciousness. Therefore, I diligently alphabetized the spice cabinet, ensured that all wall hangings were perfectly level, and engaged in a whole host of other uber-anal behaviors, striving to convince myself that there is some predictability in the world.

Since moving away from full-time social work to focus more on writing, I no longer need this stranglehold on order, so I’ve let it go. The results have been entertaining. I regularly leave the house without remembering to put on shoes. I invite people to come visit, then forget all about it until they appear at the door. I arrive at meetings I’m supposed to facilitate only to discover I’ve left all of my materials at home. I drive around with the gas gauge on E and just hope for the best. I show up super late for appointments without offering any apology or explanation (I call this the “I meant to do that” strategy).

And here’s how I feel about all of it:

Really. I’ve found a whole new level of chill in the face of self-imposed disorder. To achieve this happy state, I have had to embrace my inner flake, who never got much air time before now. This has proven to be an adventure, particularly since I’m juggling three part-time jobs these days, and my sole organizational strategy is to write helpful reminders on my hand (then inadvertently wash them off within the hour).

As unbelievable as this would’ve seemed to year-ago me, I’m happy to let my flake flag fly. Current me says boo to rigidity. I strive to be just like this:

(Full disclosure, however: I still alphabetize the spices. It’s just really convenient.)

 

My mother has a benevolent mantra that helps her maintain her composure when interacting with people whose opinions vary greatly from her own. During encounters with such people, instead of following her instinctual desire to attack, she forces herself to think, Isn’t that interesting? She repeats those words over and over in her head, and while they may begin as an internal scream (“ISN’T THAT INTERESTING?!”), at some point the voice relaxes, and she’s able to think, Yes, actually, that is interesting. It’s interesting that someone thinks that way. I wonder how that came to be.

By the time she’s ready to respond to the stupid person’s asinine opinion (I’m not as well-balanced as my mom, if you hadn’t noticed), she’s able to do so with a calm, diplomatic mind, recognizing the dumbass (sorry…I’ll try harder) as a human being with a set of life experiences unique from her own. This strategy works quite well for her, and for anyone with the good fortune to come in contact with her.

I have my own version of “Isn’t that interesting,” which is: “It takes all kinds to make the world.” I’ve employed that one a lot lately; it skips through my head on a regular loop. What helps make the statement work is that it’s true; it does take all kinds to make the world. Diversity is a keystone to survival, and while living with so much variety can be exhausting, without it, our world would be a sterile, stagnant place.

Central to the story of Aret is a merciless, twenty-year war between humans and dragons. As I’ve witnessed the level of discontent between Earthen humans over the past several months, I’ve thought a great deal about the Aretian human/dragon conflict. There are many crossovers: refusal to understand the other’s perspective, all participants’ certainty that they are right, and the consistent, stubborn insistence that gaps between the sides are unbridgeable.

If the internet existed on Aret, it might look something like this:

IH8DRAGONS911:  My youngest son has disappeared. 😥

FIREBREATHER69:  Good! All of my sons were killed by HUMANS. Payback’s a bitch! 😀

DOWNWITHDRAGONS:  ^ hater

HUMANPOWER88:  We’re coming for you, Firebreather69! You and what’s left of your family!

IEATHUMANSFORBREAKFAST:  Humanpower88, I cannot wait to sink my fangs into your meaty guts.

FIREBREATHER69:  LMAO, Ieathumansforbreakfast! Save the kids for dessert!

But even with all of our anger and self-righteousness, the fact is no gap is unbridgeable, because there are a couple of crucial things we have in common (even with dragons):

#1 – We want to be happy and free from suffering.

#2 – We don’t know the answers to life’s questions. We are all guessing.

Within those commonalities, we can find points of intersection and agreement if we so choose. I’d like to say: “If Aretian humans and dragons can do it, so can we!” but I haven’t decided the outcome of the story. The world of Aret could get sucked into a black hole. Or one of the characters might wake up and realize the whole trilogy was a dream. (Just kidding.)

I don’t know if humans or dragons will evolve to a point where they focus on intersections instead of differences, but in the meantime, I suggest you find your own benevolent mantra, even if the best you can manage is: Someday I’ll be dead and will no longer be exposed to other people’s opinions. Sometimes that’s all I can muster, and strangely enough, even that one is comforting.

My original post for this week was a furious rant about how I created a race of man-eating dragons as an outlet for my ongoing rage against humans. What can I say? I live in North Carolina, and (perhaps you’ve heard) we’re up to our eyeballs in bullshit these days. But after I read the finished post, I deleted it. Considering how nauseated I am by the amount of hatred being thrown around on the internet, I figured I could suck it up and keep some to myself.

Instead I’m going to tell you my answer to the common icebreaker “What would you do if you won the lottery?”  The last time I was presented with that question was during a staff meeting, and since I was in a room full of social workers, answers centered around making large donations, volunteering more, and opening new shelters, community centers, etc.

This was my answer: “I want to live at one of those wildlife sanctuary places when you get to bottle-feed snow leopard kittens and hug rescued lions. How the hell do people get to do those things? Anyway, I know it’s possible because I’ve seen videos of people doing them. So that’s what I would do: go somewhere where I can snuggle giant cats.”

And that’s the truth. I want to hug a lion. I don’t even care if it eats me afterwards because really, what a way to go.

But if I never find myself in a wildlife sanctuary paradise, I’ll be satisfied with the occasional smooch from a baby goat.

Or some more run-of-the-mill, yet still lovely, dog and cat snuggles.

Ahh. Envisioning my future as a lion-hugger was much better for my heart and mind than the curse-laden missive against Pat McCrory (although I still believe he’d make a better pile of dragon dung than a governor). Sometimes it’s hard to stay in the light, isn’t it? But I do know that’s the path to positive change, so I will do my best to keep on it, as hard as that may be. And I wish you all a perfectly wonderful, leopard-kitten-feeding, baby-goat-kissing kind of day.

I sent this photo to my parents during a recent trip to the coast, because “Kelly loves to learn” is a long-standing joke in my family. I’ve been learning-avoidant for as long as I can remember. Even way back in first grade, I asked my mom how many more years I would have to attend school, and her answer made me burst into tears.

But the fact is I need to learn, as much as I rebel against it. This became clear to me after I wrote a couple of novels (without any real knowledge of how to write novels), then read them over and thought, The stories are good. But these do not sound like books. Crap. I have to go learn something. 

So I signed up for a novel-writing class, and I learned. A lot. It was most unpleasant. When loved ones read your writing, they say, “This is wonderful!” but when strangers read it, you get feedback more along these lines:

“You have about a thousand adverbs in the first ten pages. That’s lazy writing.”

“I’m drowning in your gerund phrases.”

“I think this character makes better sense in your head than he does on the page.”

Ouch.

Thankfully, I’m a Leo, and we take criticism really well. Yes, sir. With grace and ease.

HA!!!

AH HA HA HA HA HA!

<choke, snort>

HA HA HA HA HA HA!

<wipes tears>

HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!

In other words – no, Leos do not take criticism well. We lash out, claws and fangs bared, then crawl into a private corner to sulk and lick our wounds. When we’re ready, we creep back into the world, glaring at everyone. I call that process “learning,” which may be why I have such a fiercely negative, visceral reaction to the word.

“Learning, eh? Is that the thing where I prove my inadequacy and someone points it out? Because I don’t like that.”

I need a new way to describe the process of stuffing information into my brain. A few years ago, my husband started to call parties “human gathering events,” because he’d noticed that whenever he said the word “party,” I said the word “no.” So I suppose I could rebrand learning in a similar fashion. Perhaps I’ll call it “knowledge acquisition.” That sounds much better. Sophisticated, yet non-confrontational.

With the dastardly word thus rebranded, I will try my damnedest to commit to a lifetime of knowledge acquisition, because something I’ve learned (blech) through the novel-writing process is that the acquisition of knowledge takes our passions from this:

…to this:

While the first one’s pretty cool, the second one’s got a whole lot more going on. It’s billowy, pointy, and fuzzy all at once. Lovely. Plus it can feed bees, and without bees, we are all screwed.