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Welcome back to A Writer in the Woods . I’m back and damn how I missed you! This month I’ll be ranting about coping while crazy. I know, you can’t use that word, but I did, and honestly, I am feeling it. But as usual before we get started, here are some updates. She Who Brings Gifts has been shelved. After three years of querying and pitching I took another run at it, and although I feel the newest manuscript is better, I have decided to hold it until I write another book, and a third outline to try and pitch a series. We’ll see how that goes in the future. Spooky Action at a Distance is starting to see some movement. Although, it’s all behind the scenes and I don’t really know what’s going on right now. I do, however, believe that you may be seeing it in print in the coming years. I’m excited for you all to meet Bodie and her sisters as they investigate the paranormal and free trapped ghosts. The Sleeper is still in the query trenches, and I fear that my pitch game is still shit, but I’ll keep working on it. Silent Voices is in developmental editing. Yup, I'm writing another book. This one is about a cold case missing person agent trying to find the truth of her missing brother and finding much more than she imagined. Stay tuned. I have accepted a freelance gig with Onyxpath’s Curseborne series. I have no clue when it will come out, but it was a fun gig. This blog will be posted on my website from now on so that I don’t have to worry about what I say, hence all the cussing. It will always be free, and I will try to get a newsletter service going, but until then I will advertise on the socials so that you can find the blog post every month. If your following me here from Substack, Thank you! If you’re new. Thank you! If you came here to troll, or say some shit to make our days worse, know that I have full control of my comment section and I won’t allow it. This blog is for those that need a space to feel as they feel without judgment. Including me. AI will never be used on this blog. These are my word, my thoughts and will remain that way!   All right, let’s get to it. Lately I’ve had this weight on my shoulders. It’s not my life, honestly, my life is boring which is beautiful. No. The weight is external. As if all the pain around the world has found me and wants to let me know that it’s there. I know. I think we all know, but there isn’t a damn thing we can do about it. Sure, we can protest, we can post on our socials about the injustice, but in the end, the machine is much too big. Now let’s add a little neurodivergence and mental illness to that equation. How in the hell are we supposed to cope with this shit? I mean really. Every day there are millions of us out there just trying to get out of bed, quiet the demon in our heads and get on with our day. Now add a growing sense of external fear to the mix. It’s insane.   Look, I’m not here to talk politics. I don’t want to hear another version of the water downed truths being stuffed down my throat. I am here to rant, to bitch, to cope. Life is fucking tough. Even when it’s simple, it’s hard. Being human is like playing a first-person shooter where all you can see is what’s in front of you and you are completely unaware of the dude standing behind you with a bazooka. (Okay, I don’t play a lot of first-person shooters, so I hope the reference works.) If you are not feeling this way, then I envy you, but for those of us that are. I am with you. Yes, I’m going to be fifty this year, and yes, I have seen a lot of hateful shit in my life, but damn, this is wild. I try to tell myself that it is access to social media. That the world has always been this bad, but I never had it put in front of my face before now. If that’s true, then, well, it makes it hard to figure out what we are all doing here. Not just here on earth, but like, alive. Okay, nope. I can’t let myself go down that rabbit hole. Can’t let the state of the world convince me that my existence is worthless, but damn, it’s hard. Isn’t it? I have no solutions for us gang. This is a rant, not an education piece. I just wanted you all to know that I am still here and still fighting the beast inside my head, and I hope that you are too. Everything changes. That’s what I’m holding on to, that and moments. Seeing a friend in person and remembering good times. Hearing that my kids are reaching goals in this fucked up world I brought them into. Listening to the sounds of revolution in music. (I picked up an old Bob Dylan and David Bowie album recently. The music helps.) This is what we have. Moments. I know, it’s shitty and it’s hard, but right now it’s the moments we have to hang onto and sharing a few with you is making my day a little better. Anyway, thanks for hanging for the rant. I really did miss you dear reader and look forward to getting through this slog of insanity together this year. When it feels like there’s nothing left and there is nowhere else to go, please remember the moments of joy, of love and peace. I dear reader promise to do the same. Until next time, Millie This month's Moment of Peace

Good afternoon and welcome to the rant. Today I’m ranting about Knowing Yourself. It’s a hard lesson to learn, especially at my age, but every once in awhile life has a way of slamming my head into the brick wall I built and force me to look at who I am, not who the world wants me to be. Today was one of those days’ dear reader, and I have to tell you…MY FUCKING HEAD HURTS! But…I remembered who I was, what I wanted, and how I wanted to achieve it. Here’s the thing. I got caught up in the whirlwind again, bowed down to empty promises, believed things I knew couldn’t possibly be true. It happens and boy do I beat myself up when it does. Then comes the simple truth. The same thing I’ve been writing to myself for years now: I have to be true to myself. What does that look like? Well, first off, I had to remember that it was never my dream to be Stephen King. I mean I love him, but dude had someone break into his house for a manuscript. That’s shit is crazy. Then I had to remember that my partner and I worked very hard for a very long time so that when it was my turn to pursue my dream it wouldn’t be for money. I could write, and write, and write, knowing that whatever may come won’t affect our financial standing now, or in the future. Finally, I had to remember what I actually want. To write. To say all those things that I’ve been holding back my entire life because I didn’t want to cause trouble, or be disliked, or ridiculed, or told that I was naïve, or stupid, or worse, that I had to censor my writing in order for people to read it. I want to write for the broken, those of us that where ripped apart at a young age and then told that we were monsters or would become monsters because of it. I want to write for the intellectuals out there fighting through hypocrisy and told that their ideas, there innovations, have no place in our world. I want to write for all those people that know that this society isn’t the end all be all of human existence, that there is in fact, not only more in the universes, but there may be more right here on earth. I want to write for the people that were told that their stories weren’t important, that it made no impact, and most of all I want to write dark and super creepy shit that takes a look at my world through the eyes of darkness. I want to tear apart what I see, rip it to shreds, examine the sinew and the viscera, feel it against my skin and then devour it, spit it out and show it to whoever wants to see it. I want to write. Fame and fortune are cool, I’m not saying that I wouldn’t Scrooge McDuck it if I had billions, all I’m saying is that I don’t, and I’m fine with it. Nor am I bashing those that want to become famous, and I’m especially not passing judgment on those that do what needs to be done to make a living. In all honesty, I respect the fuck out of those writers because the fortitude and inner strength it takes is phenomenal. No joke. I couldn’t do it, that’s why I don’t. All I’m trying to say is that we all write for different reasons, but we all create for the same reason. To bring about something that can brighten up someone’s world. Even if only for a second. That’s what I want to do. That’s who I am and damn it, I LIKE ME. Christopher Golden once did a panel where he quoted Ghostbusters: “If someone asks if you’re a god, you say yes!” Well, no one asked, but the answer is still yes. Yes, I am and will be a god, to me and for me. To anyone else that comes my way, fuck, I really hope that I can be some kind of friend. Because we all need one, and today dear reader, that is you. Anyway, thanks for hanging for the rant. I still have a bunch of emotions that I have to churn through, some old ones that are triggering disappointment for feeling them again, but they shall pass. I hope that you love yourself, and if not, that you are doing what needs to be done to make that happen. We all deserve that. I will work on the same. Until tomorrow. Millie

Good morning and welcome back to A Writer in the Woods. Today I’ll be yammering about Stimming and Coping and how it’s leading me to self-awareness. But first the updates. First off, I would really like to thank all of you who read and absorbed last month’s newsletter. I have spent most of my life hiding the truth of my mental illness and felt an overwhelming sense of relief when I received kind words both here on Substack and on my other social platforms. You all are the best. 🤎🤎🤎 She Who Brings Gifts  has run into a wall, and the general consensus is that the story is good, but needs editing. In these uncertain times of publishing, I’m assuming the investment in the book wouldn’t be worth the return. I, of course, don’t agree with that, but I understand business is business. I plan to continue submitting the book until the end of the year, and if there is no interest, I will shelve it until I can find and afford the right editors and artists to put it out myself. We must be our biggest advocate. It won’t be the first time I have self-published, but I’ve learned a lot from the convention circuits, so I’m hoping for better results this time around. Spooky Action at a Distance  has been requested by a small publisher but is getting no love on the agent circuit, although the rejections have been very kind. I’ll be submitting to more agents until the end of the year and then will be pursuing more small publishers in hopes of finding the book a home early next year. If not, well, I should have some experience with self-publishing by then. The Sleeper  has begun its trek in the query trenches. No requests yet, but the rejections are coming in much faster, some as soon as 24 hours. I’m hoping this means that my name is getting around the circuit and I’m starting to build a reputation. That’s something, right? Now, let’s get to it. Stimming, for those that don’t know, is short for Self-Stimulation. Not that kind you dirty birds, (or maybe it is for some people, I don’t judge or shame). It’s a way to soothe the mind when outside sources become overwhelming and the anxiety reaches an all-time high. For me, that means counting. This could mean counting the steps that I’m taking, the vertical lines in a pattern on the floor, the number of chairs around me. It also means that I’m fairly good at card games and putting together puzzles. I have encountered more than one pit boss after playing a few rounds of blackjack at Casinos. I’m not a savant like Rain Man, but in all honesty, I don’t really try to count, I just do. It started when I was young. I didn’t notice it, but my Abuela did. That’s when she introduced me to crafting. It wasn’t easy to learn or to teach. I am left-handed, so everything she did I had to do backwards. We went through many types of crafts; embroidery, and knitting, sewing and that thing where they make those lace-like doilies. None of those stuck, but there were two crafts that did: Crocheting and Cross-stitching. Both skills had one thing in common; counting. When crocheting, I have to count the number of stitches per row to get that perfect flat edge, and in cross-stitching it’s all about making sure you have the right number of colored exes in a grid. The crafting keeps my mind calm so that I can process the thousands of thoughts running through it and I’ve been doing it for decades now. I also bounce my knee, sing, or move my body to remind my brain that it’s there, but most of the time I count. I’ve gotten pretty good at hiding it too, but I’ll let you in on a secret: When you see me alone smoking a cigarette with my eyes narrowed and fixed on some point in the distance, I’m counting. Most stories that I’ve read, or shows and movies that I watch depict this habit as something that can’t be controlled. For some that may be true, like everything else in this world mental illness and autistic habits exist on a spectrum. I, however, haven’t found many people that aren’t aware of their proclivities like the movies depict. Usually, when I meet someone like me, they are cognizant of what they do and how to do it in a way that doesn’t affect those around them. I have no desire to change this about myself because I won’t fix what’s not broken. It's true, however, that most of my days are spent coping, and self-stimulating. Some days, it’s all that I can do. Because of this, I tend to miss out on simple lessons, or nuances that other people catch without trying. An example of this is my inability to quickly detect sarcasm. Now, if I have known someone for a minute, and I have processed that there general tone is sarcasm, then it’s not so hard. (Although, when these people try to be serious I tend to think they are joking.) Another example would be how hard it is for me to bring my focus away from the big picture. This trait makes me really good at putting together puzzles, discerning patterns, and even anticipating people’s needs, but it’s basically worthless when I am trying to build something, or accomplish a dream like publishing. When you can only see the big picture, every small step seems like failure. It sucks, and my self-esteem takes a daily hit. Recently, however, my coping mechanism has gone beyond self-stimulation. I’ve had an epiphany of sorts thanks to my current cross-stitching project. Here's the revelation: One colored X contributes to the larger picture. Without that one X the picture would be incomplete. I know, I know, simple, but as I’ve stated before, sometimes simple is the hardest thing for me to grasp. What this means to me is that in writing, (and the rest of my life), the important part isn’t the finished product. It’s the steps I took to get there. Sure, I mean, having a book in my hands would be wonderful, but the book represents the moments I took to create it. When I read, I take a journey and let a picture form page by page until there is an entire world in my head. That’s what I love about reading. The same can be said for pretty much anything, right? It’s not the feel of the perfectly cooked steak in your belly that brings joy, it’s the texture on the tongue and the way the spices bring the tastebuds to life. Each bite, each moment, each tiny X that makes up the big picture. It's a revelation in progress, but so far it’s really helped with my patience in publishing, and with my own writing. Each book is an X, each time I meet and talk with another writer is an X, every trip that I take, every book I read, every new idea or fact that I learn, is another X that will fill the grids until a beautiful picture called my life forms. The last X will be placed upon my death. The picture will then be complete. (Come on now, you knew you weren’t going to get through this without a little darkness.) Anyway, thanks for hanging for the rant. I hope that if you’re dealing with some of this, you too can see the beauty of it, how it makes the bigger picture much more detailed, nuanced, much more you. I dear reader, will be doing the same. Until next time Millie

Hello and welcome back to A Writer in the Woods. This month I’m yammering about Suicidal Ideation. Yeah. It’s capitalized because for those of us that live with this shit, it’s a BIG DEAL! However, before we begin any of it let me take a moment to be responsible and accountable for all that I’m about to say. Disclaimer: I am not, nor have I ever been a medical professional in any field. I have no background in Psychiatry, Psychology, or Neurobiology and all that I express is as a patient and a lifetime sufferer of suicidal ideation. If you are suffering as well, I strongly suggest seeking a medical professional to talk to and decide the best course for you. And when the help can’t come fast enough please call the SUICIDE HOTLINE at 1-800-273-8255 or simply text or call 988. Yes, I have called this hotline before and YES it did keep me alive. Now, back to our regularly scheduled program, but first some updates. Updates: Just kidding, there are none. I’m still in query trenches and seeking small presses. The road is long, disappointing, and frustrating, but I’m on it, so I’m going to see where it all goes. As always, I’d like to take a moment to appreciate you dear reader. As my subscription number grows I know that I have you to thank for it. I couldn’t and wouldn’t do this without you. For those not subscribed yet, you can do it here. It is free and always will be. All right, let’s get to it… My first attempt was at thirteen years old. I won’t talk about where and how, because that’s not important here. What I will say is that the shit came out of nowhere. It started with flashes of traumatic memories, moments of time where I felt betrayed by someone close, or rejected by people around me. The memories morphed into a blinding blizzard that convinced my conscious brain that it had always been bad and will always be bad. Then the voice started. It sounded like me, but had a darker more ominous tone. It said shit like, “what’s the point?” or “I told you nothing changes” or the worse one, “If you do it, it’ll be done.” That last line always gets me because it’s the only one that is true. If I take my life, my life will be done, the pain will be done, the confusion, the heartache, the frustration all done. Of course there is the opposite of all that. The love will be done, the creativity, the moments of joy and peace, the sound of a great song, the taste of a perfectly cooked steak, or a chilled Martini. The feel of a friend’s arms around me, or the touch of my partner in the middle of the night. All that would be done as well, but when I’m in the throws of darkness, the darkness is all I can see. At thirteen years old you’d think I would want to tell someone, share this with a friend or a family member, but it was the last thing I wanted to do. You see, there is a history of mental illness in my family and the stigma was like a boulder on my chest. I couldn’t tell anyone that I was the one that got it, that I was the one that would carry the genetic torch of what most people perceived as insanity. (I’m not insane, psychotic, or sociopathic. I know because I’ve been tested.) So, I kept it to myself. Lived with it, until the SI returned years later. At this point I had begun to romanticize taking my own life. I would make plans, write notes and then tear them up again. I wasn’t self-medicating yet because I was in college, trying to find a way out of the small town that I had called home. Unfortunately, the stress of classes plus keeping a job and being a single mother wasn’t the best combination. I guess, in hindsight, I was using progress and education to self-medicate instead of drugs. I tried to keep myself busy so that I didn’t have to think about the dark thoughts rolling around my head, beckoning me toward an ultimate end. Spoiler. It didn’t work. I went too far, and my secret was revealed. It was for the best. I was forced to get help, to talk to a professional and seek pathways toward life instead of death. I started to understand that none of this was my fault. I had a genetic condition that would never be cured or healed, but I could find ways to live with it. I just turned 49 this year, so I think I can safely say that what I learned has been working. (Reality break. I am really freaking out about telling you this dear reader. There are tears in my eyes because this level of vulnerability is scaring the shit out of me. But I know I’m not alone in this, and I refuse to let my fear stop me from helping someone who may be going through this same type of shit.) Okay. Breathe. Every day of my life is spent with this reality. Most days I don’t have to think about it. My life is simple. Then there are the days, and sometimes whole weeks where it’s not. I wake up with that voice nagging me, with those memories swirling into a tornado of pain. Medications help, so does meditation, exercise and reading, but I still have to navigate it. Remember, as I stated, there is no known cure for Suicidal Ideation, though as I understand, there are people working to find the root of it. Because of this, I have to be honest with myself in these moments. I have to sit with the memories, sit with the dark emotions that pull me into an abyss that could take me days or weeks to climb out of. I’m not talking depression here, this is something different, a whole new monster with fangs and teeth so sharp that they can tear through my damn soul. But still I endure. I have lived with that monster for 36 years now. I know the contours of its faceless form, the timbre of its ominous whisper, the painful touch of its sharp claws. We are not friends, but in a strange and unexplainable way, we are family. And that’s okay. You see dear reader, sometimes in this world, especially right now, there are moments where people will forget about those of us that live with silent killers; whether it be PTSD, Chronic Depression, or the many other little devils that threaten our happiness. But that doesn’t mean we can’t talk about it. It doesn’t mean that it should be considered a triggering subject because in the end it’s not the awareness that triggers anything, it’s the thing itself and damn it, it should be okay to say: I AM NOT OKAY! It’s a long grueling road, and to be honest, I don’t know if I will win. I know I will fight every time, that I will not give in willingly, that I am worth it. And if you haven’t heard this before or lately, YOU ARE WORTH THE FIGHT. No matter what society is spatting at you in its ignorance, no matter what your brain is trying to convince you of, they are all wrong. You are the prize, that smile you see in the mirror, that hug that you gave to a friend. This is why we fight. It’s not the end game that keeps us motivated, it’s the little moments. This is what keeps us strong, what keeps us here and our existence is important! I know in the deepest parts of my soul, the parts that the monster can’t reach, that this is true. Anyway, thanks for hanging for the rant. I’m sorry I don’t have any answers for those of you going through this like me. I swear, if I find them I will share. For now, I can only beg you to fight, reach out, believe in yourself, and then fight again and I promise I will continue to do the same. Until next time, Millie

Hello and Welcome back to A Writer in the Woods. This month I’ll be ranting about how I cope with anxiety that is justified and probably being a bit too honest about who I really am. And debuting a new short story. But first, some updates. Updates: I’ve pulled both my short stories from submissions. They need, nay, want more. More words, more thought, more depth. So, I have outlined a novella for “Harold aka Fed by Pain”, and will be doing the same for “Izzy’s Entry”. She Who Brings Gifts  is in the hands of Small Press. I haven’t heard back either way and hope that it will be good news, but we all know how these things go. As soon as I hear, you will be the first to know. Spooky Action at a Distance  has received a full request from a different small publisher. I just sent that in, so the waiting game has begun on this book as well. The Sleeper , the new book that I have completed, is slowly making its way to the query and submission trenches. No word on it from anywhere yet. As always, I’d like to take a moment to appreciate you dear reader. As my subscription number grows I know that I have you to thank for it. I couldn’t and wouldn’t do this without you. For those not subscribed yet, you can do it here. It is free and always will be. All right, let’s get to it… Anxiety is a bitch. An angry female dog always snarling in the corner of my mind. Brain chemicals that have run amok in the reality that they are no longer needed. Yet it persists. Somedays it feels like there’s a metal plate in my chest that gets zapped by an invisible hand from time to time, sending me into a frenzy. It sucks and dealing with it daily sucks even more. That’s why I committed to facing the fear of my anxiety in 2024 by embarking on many trips to conventions. The anxiety didn’t get better, but my coping mechanism did. I was able to meet people whose writing I adored, make contacts for a dream I never thought I’d achieve, and make…wait for it…actual, living friends. I was proud of myself and even found a way to accept the crying bouts I had on every trip. I felt stronger than I had in decades, and more independent. Hell, I was ready for the world to throw whatever it had at me. I could take it. Then it did. I’m not going to sit here and recount the horrors and ignorance that has plagued not only our country, but massive parts of the world. I’m sure you know all about it. It’s scary, it’s frustrating and in some cases down right infuriating. Sometimes I feel as if society works overtime to prove that they will never progress beyond what we already know and have achieved. But I digress. Feeling small in this world, galaxy, universe is nothing new, but lately this feeling has been growing, and my anxiety is chewing it up like a perfectly rare cooked steak. When it was based on wonky chemicals, (not a medical term), or my own past traumas, I could look at it and say, “I accept you, but I am much more than my fears.” But what happens when that anxiety is justified? When there’s a possibility that you can go for a walk around your block, or to the grocery store and have to deal with someone who believes that the current climate gives them a free pass to be, well, their true selves? Now, I have never walked through life without dealing with a certain amount of ignorance. Whether it be because of my skin color, my mixed-race, my deep voice and preference of pants and blazers, there has always been something to ignore, to let slide. I’ve gotten used to that. However, lately, people have been getting bolder. Fun fact. When I travel, me or my bags get searched over 70% of the time. Yeah, I calculated that shit. I blame it on my racial ambiguity. I mean, I have a face that any racist could hate. Usually, I deal, because, well, life, right? Put on a smile, ignore the stupidity flowing from someone’s mouth and move on. But I’m tired of that. I’m tired of not being able to tell someone to stop being stupid. That the words coming from their mouth only proves their lack of education. I'm tired of being the bigger person. You see, with this justified anxiety comes something that I have been working on for most of my adult life. Taming my anger. It’s been with me since I could remember. In my twenties and early thirties, it always landed me in situations that made my life harder. I’m not talking about violence here; I’m talking about my mouth. I didn’t realize until I was well into my thirties that I, as a Blaxican woman didn’t have the same rights as other people. I wasn’t supposed to tell people they were being ignorant, or point out to a cop that their attitude was unprofessional. To be honest. I still don’t understand it and never will. This coupled with the electrical volts of anxiety running through my body has made everything super stressful. Add to that my imposing figure, (don’t laugh, I am intimidating), my deep voice, and my hyper-observations, and what you have is a recipe for disaster. This all led to a decision I didn’t want to make. Stay home. Not because I’m afraid, but because I don’t have the energy to be the light right now and I don’t want to spread more anger and fear. This world has enough shit heads running around sowing unhappiness, I refuse to be one of them. Even if someone, really, really, deserves it. It’s not who I want to be. So….. I have isolated myself and decided to create. That’s how I am coping with everything. Art. Pure and simple. Inside my stories I’m aloud to be angry, and to say all those things that I bury to get along. Inside my stories, I am not an oppressed woman, I am free. Every word, every thought, every line, every subtext, is all mine. I get to create ignorant characters and then help them see a better side of themselves. I get to take a traumatized character and help her find the path back to confidence and self-love. This month, I took it a bit further and delved into music and videos. Why? Because I can. And it makes me feel balanced. And I love it. This, my dear reader, is how I choose to cope. And now, I would like to share a little of this with you. I’ve spent the month putting together video pitches, reading samples, and a short story I wrote to release the overwhelming sense of despair that I have been feeling lately. Next, I’ll be taking notes from a book I bought about Social Pain and delving into the Harold  story again. Expressing ourselves is far better than oppressing ourselves. Anyway, thanks for hanging for the rant. I hope you can find ways to deal with our mad world that doesn’t dim your shine, feed your anxiety, or bolster your self-doubt. I dear reader, will continue to try and do the same. Until next time. Millie