The Scrap Book

Part of writing has always been organizing the writing. But there is a big difference between storing and sorting a book, and storing random “snippets” as they come to you. It seems silly to save an entire MS Word .DOC to my computer all for, literally, a five word sentence. So this is my Scrapbook: that little corner of my site dedicated to storing my most recent ideas.

They are raw, they are uncensored, and I write them as they come to me. They may be used in my next book, they may be edited and arranged for later, you may never see these in print. They simply are snippets of words that have come together in my head. Enjoy a little piece of me.


Phew! I thought I lost this! This is my writing Process! I had to go hunt this down to refresh my memory and review with Fire and Lies!

The moment a reader becomes a writer, they find themselves with a list of instructions.A Scribophile member had asked in the forums what writing system everyone used for their book.  Although this process is very subjective, I posted my response below.  It was received so well, that I decided to post it here.After conceiving an idea…

  1. Compose a character list and develop their background, psychology, and relationships with each other.  Assign Inner Motives and psychology issues.
  2. Develop a location, setting, time period, research the hell out of that era and geography.  Assign a date, a moon cycle, and a season.  Determine holidays and cultures.
  3. Develop and outline the history of the world that leads up to the period where my characters exist.
  4. Draw up an outline and series of events that tie in the characters to each other and the setting.
  5. Add current events that fill out and shape the world, time period, and news of the day that will be affecting my characters.
  6. Break down the events into scenes and divide those scenes into chapters anywhere from 1 to 3 scenes per chapter
  7. Write!
  8. Edit for characterization
  9. Edit for historical consistency
  10.  Edit for grammar, spelling, punctuation,
  11.  Edit for foreign word spelling and definition consistency
  12. Begin outlining next book
  13. Edit current project for foreshadowing in following books.
  14. Edit for clarity, edit for flow, edit for prose
  15. Insert more scenes were needed to fill out or flesh out characters and setting
  16. Edit for Pacing, adding and deleting scenes where needed
  17. Edit for pacing, prolonging and shortening scenes where needed.
  18. Hand to beta readers and review critiques
  19. Read through and correct then rinse and repeat step 19 until no more errors are located.
  20. Send to my editor for review

7 June 2017

The voices in my head are screaming.

I can’t ignore them are walk away.

Their voices are piercing.

Their words, define me.

The voices in my head just scream.

5 August 2016
This ignited a new idea… New characters… COMPLETELY different back stories and personalities… This will take some work to make it my own…

I’m dying to write a romance in my style! 🙂

8 January 2016


And within a click my life returns to me.  I inhale deeply and smell the sweet air that is… *exhales* my website. 26 December 2015, my site underwent some severe maintenance that required a new server and host, leaving my powers rendered useless. Is this an unhealthy …


8 January 2016

If there are three words I hate, it’s “buy my book.” Ugh. As a reader I hate these words, but as I writer, I detest them.

I was a reader long before I was a writer. We’re quiet people. It’s the quiet life of the book we adore. It’s why most readers/writers prefer the quiet elegance of a cat, or the quiet sanctuary of a library.

Not a day goes by that I don’t remember Bert sitting indoors singing to a loud Ernie: “On a sunny day, I could go outside and play, but there’s a lion in my book, a tiger in my book. A hungry alligator I can spy on in my book. All I ever need is a book to read…”

I have always been attracted to the quiet books that no one shoves on me. I look to the Great Books. The ones not promoted by anyone.

In fact, I—like many of you—are deaf to the millions of “Buy my book” that are out there now. Yet, authors still shout, and aggressively command. When I became an author, the “Buy my book” approached was one I had to evaluate. If I say “buy my book” I doubt anyone will. Those are the first authors readers tend to tune out.

I considered a politer approach, “Please buy my book.” But that just sounds pathetic and resembles desperate begging. Also, I really don’t want readers who won’t enjoy my book reading my book. So I am selective on who I say “buy my book” to.

My memoir was much easier. I tell everyone, Don’t read my book. Please. Don’t. I worry for the readers and follow up with them whenever I can, “How are you? Are you okay?” Truly, I  don’t want people to read this book. It isn’t a pleasant read. You won’t enjoy it. You really won’t.

“So why publish it?” you may ask. It’s all a mental game really. One, I hope will work. And so far, I have seen the outcome I am looking for. The end of Broken summarizes this up nicely for me.


To the lonely, abused, and unheard…

A very special note to you, who read this book because you saw similarities in your own life and could relate. I know you’ll read this book. I know because I too read books like this to see if others are ever like me and to feel not so alone. Memoirs of trauma survivors are becoming one of my favorite things to read. It is as if we are speaking to each through our books and saying, I know and I understand. You are not alone. Through these pages I speak to you and say, I know, I understand, and you are not alone. There are many of us, just like you trapped in our own hell. We’re looking for each other. I’m on the other side and I’m telling you, it gets better. Hang in there. You are enough. Be strong. You are enough. Your time will come. Trust that there are others out there willing to hear you. They will listen. They will help. Don’t give up. You are enough.


And that… that is why I published Broken. But please, don’t read it. If you don’t have to. Don’t.




8 January 2016

To your love and mine.


He had a way of looking right through me. I didn’t know him. That didn’t seem to matter. People have a feel to them. You can feel when someone is up to no good. You can feel when they are sick. When they are mental, dangerous, or just off. I think it’s something in us that our survival has honed for ages. I think something about that feeling is where love starts.

It’s where mine started for him. The moment he drew near, I was at ease. And then he looked at me. I felt naked right then. Naked without judgement. When there is no judgement, pleasing him doesn’t matter. The urge to impress, it goes away. It doesn’t exist. The point is, he looked me at me and he saw me. The best parts I am always careful to hide away from everyone else under the darker parts. He saw right past those dark parts, and saw me.

At once, I would do anything for him. I would obey. Something about him… it made me obey. This was a man I couldn’t say no to and that made him powerful. Dangerous. A smile stretched my lips. Dangerous if ever he decided ever to abuse that power. But already I knew him. One thing I was certain, he would never hurt me. All this came from that look and the feeling he gave to me. Years later, even now, I am certain, there is no doubt in my mind. He loved me and I him. We always would.


This story starts… Oh who cares where it starts. I’ll tell you where we were. We were in a small place called Here. Perhaps there was too much gossip, too much debt, too much nagging, too much responsibility, too much stress, too much life… Just… too much. Here was a place we didn’t want to be. That’s all that really mattered. Pick a place. It will be different for each. It was different for he and I. Aren’t we all usually somewhere we don’t want to be? Well, we were. We were stuck in some Here, and we both shared a dream: we wanted to be somewhere else. In the moment that we saw each other, we wanted that Somewhere Else. And we wanted it together.

This is how our adventure began. Oh, yes, it was very much an adventure. This is how we came to be Somewhere Else.

He looked at me, and he saw past the abuse, the beatings, the insanity that had broken and bent my mind and malformed my body. He looked through all that and saw me as I was. As I once was.

We exchanged words. Which words? They aren’t important. Their meaning was. With his first breath he said only one thing: “I love you. Run away with me.”

With all the right sighs in all the right places and all the right smiles added to his, I replied the only way I knew how, “Command me.” And so he did. And oh, what adventures we had.


His name? His name was the single most beautiful sound in all the world. No other name sounds as sweet as his. Like a spell, it captured me. His eyes had the power to bring me to my knees and his voice was like glass that slid right through me. I can’t begin to tell you what his kiss would do. What his hands would do. But I will get to that as the story takes me there.

His was a mischievous kind of fellow. The kind that would decide, on a whim, to do something wild, and then he would do it. And his only concern was taking you with him. And he was very persuasive… perhaps because I was willing and ready to follow.

“Do you believe in magic?” he asked me that day right after I looked at him and fell.

I grinned. I wanted to say yes and delighted in playing with him. And so I answered instead, “should I?”

“Believe,” he whispered in such a way that made my knees weak.

“Have you seen it?” I asked, adoring our game.

“I have. Seen it and wallowed.”

My grand smile became a laugh. He had such a way of making me feel like a queen. And he, my king.

“Show me,” I said back. He didn’t need asking twice.

His hand took mine and then we were off. And here, here is where he took me Somewhere Else.

For you it might be a plane’s flight away, or a drive, or a walk? There’s no telling where it may be, but for us, it wasn’t here. And we were off. We said nothing as we went. His hand only held mine and he led me, running full speed, toward this magic of his.

Giggling I followed. We had a way of making the other seem young again. Like children taking up our sticks and rocks, we barreled ahead into this adventure.

“Onward,” he shouted. “Into the land of magic!” If adults could dream the dreams of children… oh, what wonders we’d see. That day, he showed me his.

The air left me. The ground fell out from under me. And all at once, this world ceased to be. My head spun from the euphoric thrill of his games and fantasies. We were grown-ups who had learned to be children again. And all at once, quite suddenly—too suddenly—the ground rose up to meet us, and all the world went dark.

* * *


I felt cold earth beneath my hand. There was no pain, no nothing, as if a spell enraptured me and filtered out all that wasn’t pleasure and joy. A kind of peace had settled over me, but I was still soaring. Pure contentment: this was what I felt.


“Are you alright?” I heard him ask. He was close and all at once, I had an urge to reach out and find him there in the dark. My body ached for his and I breathed deep, allowing the thoughts to cloud my judgement.

“I am,” I said. “Where are we?”

There was no reply. Not at first. I shuffled myself to my knees.

“Here,” he said and I felt his hand take my mine. At once, a heavy cloud enveloped my mind. “Follow me,” he said. Too quickly I answered, “Always.”

We shuffled ourselves for a bit, until a piece of light broke the dark and led us to open air. We were in a kind of cave, not quite. A tunnel, but different. An earthen, underground hallway. He pulled me toward the light that expanded then opened to us like a door, and I gasped.


Green like I had never seen before spanned as far as I could see. Rich green that you could see the deep blues in the grass and the leaves on the trees. The water of a vast lake was bluer than the sky above. Without the help of the sun or the moon, parts of it glistened with gold. A part of me longed to dive to the bottom and see what gave it the golden hues on the surface.


The breeze was perfumed with the cherry blossoms that peppered the wind with pink. Our adventure had only begun.

“Come,” he bade still holding my hand. He pulled me down to the water. If ever I believed I could fly, it was right then. He pulled on my arm, twisting me around and I fell right into him and his mouth. He drank me hard and deep. He drank the very breath from me, taking the last of my sanity with it. The moment we touched, there was no will, no strength, no judgement. Right there he lowered me to the ground and crushed his mouth on mine.

I drank him, aching for more as his hands dug into my hair. I felt his fingers rake my head as his body pushed into me, and I pushed back. And insanity consumed us both, and there was no thought to our actions.


We stripped our clothes with a carnal hunger. We gasped often for air we sucked from the other. His arms pulled me closer, inviting me in, and I sank onto him with a need like I had never known. And still, it was not enough. I needed him. And he needed me.


His body spread mine then impaled me, but the hunger had barely begun to sate our need.

We found our rhythm at once and drank from the other with such need… this is where I belonged. This is where I was born to be. Right here with him, moving in me, with no thought but he and me.


And when we finished, when I was certain I would cry out, he swallowed my scream with his kiss, and devoured more from me. The urge had subsided, but neither of us had had our fill. So we stayed, kissing and devouring the other. Our arms still wrapped around the other until all our euphoria subsided. Until we had exhausted ourselves and we both fell to the ground spent, my head resting upon his shoulder. I fell asleep listening to the steady strong beat of his heart.



* * *


I spoke his name. His breathing was steady. Wherever his dreams had taken him, he was stuck there for a while longer. Taking up my clothes, I pulled my shirt back over my head and stopped, stunned at the moon’s light that struck the lake like silver.


The beauty of this place was greater than I could ever imagine. The sky at night was as black as the blues of midnight, clear and pale and perfect.

He whispered my name, and I inhaled back my surprise then turned to find his mouth on mine. The cloud returned just as he pulled away.

“Where are we?” I managed to say and he smiled.

“We, my love, are home.”

“Home,” I muttered.

“That is what I have taken to calling it, anyway.”

“How did you find it?” I asked.

“Ah,” he grinned and I had an urge to lay him down all over again. “Now that, my love, is the story now is it? Come,” he said taking my hand. “I have one place to show you, and there, I will tell you how I found this place. There…” he kissed my brow. “…is where I will share all my secrets with you.”



8 January 2016

“I don’t care that you are sorry. I just want my luggage!” Mara Lane leaned over the counter at the airline attendant who clicked away at the blond behind the keyboard.

“I’m sorry, Miss Lane,” she said with a thick accent Mara was certain was laid on heavier than necessary.

“It looks like your luggage was placed on another plane.”

“How does that even happen?” Mara said, doing her best to sound polite and failing.

“We are tracking it down now.” More clicks of a keyboard while the attendant pretend to be interested in the monitor.

“How long will that take?”

“We won’t know until the plane has landed and it’s been checked in as unclaimed in whatever airport it ends up in.

Whatever airport it ends up in. Mara repeated the words in her head.

“We can call you as soon as it comes in.”

Mara sighed and ran a manicured hand through her freshly dyed shoulder length hair. At once, she hated the color and was eager to wash the black off her head. The eight hour flight had taken its toll on her and all she wanted now was a hot shower, half a bottle of shampoo, and the pajamas tucked neatly away in her black luggage that may be in China for all she knew.

“And when will that be?” Mara asked.

“Within 48 to 72 hours? We’ll call you as soon as we find it.”

Mara dropped her head to the counter and tried to imagine what she would do without clothes, toiletries, and pajamas for the next two days. She had almost no money aside from what she had reserved for a cheap hotel room—and she meant cheap. Like fifty dollars or less—and a cab ride to said cheap room. She certainly had no money to buy a whole new wardrobe. With all of her clothes gone, she would have to pinch every cent.

“Fine,” Mara said. The attendant rushed through the exchange of required information and confirmed Mara’s cell number one more time.

“Where can I rent a car?” Mara asked, taking her papers from the counter.

“They’re out of cars,” answered a gentle voice behind Mara, who jumped with a start. Too quickly, she turned to the man standing in line behind her and snapped the four inch heel off in the process. As her shoe gave way, Mara fell straight into the stranger’s arm.

“Careful, lass,” he said, holding Mara upright and giving her a chance to find her balance. Instead, she blinked stupidly at the six foot man who smelled strongly of muted spice that caused Mara to breathe deep. She gazed, for a moment, at his strong chin that squared off a masculine face peppered with unshaven bristles. He attempted a kind, though sad, smile, one that hid his teeth before Mara thought to remove her shoes, correct her balance, and pull herself to standing again.

“Pardon the interruption, lass,” he said. “I didna’ mean to scare ya. I just came from the car rental place and they’re out of cars.” Mara forced her breath steady and cursed the heat that flooded her cheeks. She was certain he could see the red in her face and she blushed more.

“You might be better off just getting a room here at the airport for the night,” he suggested.

Mara nodded and muttered a “thank you,” before whisking herself out of the small airline office that smelled too much like body odor, feet, and luggage.

Barefoot, Mara adjusted her carry-on and made her way to the car rental.

“Excuse me,” she called out too abruptly to the man-child behind the counter. He couldn’t be more than twenty. “Excu—”

“Yes?” asked the attendant working the counter.

“I’d like a car please,” Mara said. Too soon he was shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, Miss. We’re all out of cars.”

Mara sighed. She had been hoping the man in the office was wrong.

“Can you tell me when next the hotel shuttle arrives?”

“The last one just left for the night.”

“Last one—”

Calm, Mara reminded herself and dug at her eyes, forcing the most polite tone she could muster for the evening.

“Could you tell me where the nearest hotel is? Please.”

Five minutes later, Mara was approaching the desk of the airport’s five-star hotel, the Charidon.

More clickety-clack of the keyboard as the gentleman behind the counter stared at his monitor. After a moment, he shook his head, and a sick dropped into Mara’s stomach.

“I’m sorry, Miss Lane. All the smaller rooms are booked.”

“How is that possible?” she asked, dropping her hand on the counter harder than she expected.

“There’s a wedding here this weekend.”

Mara sighed into the counter. “Of course there is,” she said. “Do you have any rooms left?”

More clicking.

“We have a few suites on the twentieth floor. King bed. Kitchen. Full bathroom sui—”

“How much?” Mara said into her arm, knowing already the price was much more than she could ever afford.

“Nine hundred eighty-five.”

Mara sighed into her arm and counted the seconds. She was standing in a five-star hotel, with only one shoe. She was exhausted, had no luggage, almost no money, and no transportation to get her to a cheaper hotel for the evening.

Mara looked up from her arm.

“Where is the nearest bar?”


* * *


Mara threw back her head and chugged the Guinness. The small bar of the Charidon was almost empty leaving her alone with the jazz. That morning, she was certain a trip to Europe was exactly what she needed. Sure it was last minute and sporadic, but that was how she did things. That is how she liked things even though she almost always lived to regret it. But not this time. Despite being two hundred dollars away being from impoverished and homeless, despite being without clothes, room, or car for the next few nights, she was still content with her choice. Even now, this was better than where she had been in the States not twenty-four hours ago.

“Good riddance,” she said to herself and tipped back her beer in salute. One thing she was certain of: running never failed her.

“Good evening,” came an all-too familiar gentle voice.

Mara looked over her beer and, gasped mid-gulp. A pair of deep eyes brimming with secrets and curiosity stared down at her.

Mara placed the Guinness to her table, too hard so as to disturb the other, though few patrons.

“I’m sorry,” the gentleman said. “May I join you?”

Mara nodded, unable to speak as he pulled out a chair across from her.

“How did the room search go?” He asked, but Mara didn’t answer. She was waiting for her guard to go up. It always did. People seemed to have that effect on her. Someone looks at her and she jumps, ready to leap into battle. She wasn’t looking for a fight. She was simply too used to getting hurt. Pushing people away is what she did best and she had finally come to terms with that. So why wasn’t her guard going up now?

By now, she would have dropped a cold word to discourage any comments. By now, she would have reached for her pepper spray providing the airport personal hadn’t confiscated it. Instead, she invited his inquiry. Something made her crave his company.

“It went well,” she lied. He smiled that same sad smile.

“How did it really go?”

How did he know I was lying?

“About as well as I had expected,” she amended, this time, omitting the lie.

“Will you be staying here at the Charidon long?”

What could he possibly want with me? She usually asked. She usually cared. Not this night. Perhaps she had too much Guinness in her to care.

“As long as needed.” She was beginning to hate her short answers, but hated her own lack of questions even more.




1 December 2015

Your words. They are what make me fall in love with you over and over. No matter what you say, all I have to do is read your words, hear your voice. I can’t escape them. I can’t resist them. I don’t even want to try. They imprison me and intoxicate me and all at once, you have enslaved me all over again. This is the power of words.


1 December 2015 – Random… Then again, isn’t all of this random?

I want a book to grip me by the throat and grab me. I want it to match my imagination. The problem is I am a professional dreamer with dissociative disorder. That is what authors are up against. It’s my imagination vs. theirs. And if they can’t out-imagine me, they can’t possible get me to leave the worlds in my head for the ones they present in their books. The problem is I’ve been using fantasy for thirty years to escape trauma. And I needed those worlds to be vivid enough in detail to escape.

30 November 2015 -Withering thought

Animals dream. And aren’t dreams simply the wishes we make in secret to ourselves. I wonder what animals wish for.


30 November 2015 – Poem excerpt…

Deep within my weathered breast, where you once

There it is my hallowed heart, leaving me to ponder.


17 August 2015 – Romantic Short I’m working on

Pain? No. I am no stranger to pain. I feel it every time I read your name. Every time I see your face…Your eyes are like nails you’ve plunged into my heart. And I can’t look at you, but I can’t live without you. All I can do is endure it. And my god…How much I miss you…

16 August 2015 – Unbreaking Me – WARNING! DISTURBING IMAGERY!


I speak often in Broken of this “Umbridge Woman”

Umbridge. I knew an Umbridge. She was just as plump, just as horrific…just as horrible a woman as Rowling’s Umbridge. With a sweet faux smile, my Umbridge sat a group of eight year old down to watch Christian horror films (Yes. The genre exists). To this day, I get violently ill when I think of those films.

One story she told us sticks vivid in my mind. She was trying to condition us to believe that rock music was Satan music.

She spoke of this one musician who refused to sing. He brought out a basket of puppies and told the audience, “I won’t sing unless…”

What she told me next made me sick. I ran to the bathroom and threw up. I was ten. I am now thirty five…and now I know why I responded so violently to her story.

It’s because of everyone there, I was the only one who had seen it. Animals ripped apart and thrown at me. I remember.

She had talked about how they had ripped the limbs off these puppies and thrown them back to the musician on stage. I had seen frogs and snakes ripped apart and their remains thrown at me. I was eight years old.

Until recently…I thought this was normal. Just one more piece to the puzzle. Just one more extension of me. Now…at last…I understand.


16 August 2015 – A romance I’m working on…

Once before the world knew love there was a man and woman who loved. Now the woman, she always spoke her heart with a freedom and carefree honesty that astounded many. Soon, it drew the man and he listened with an interest than soon became love.

“I am here”

Save him please.

Take my voice, so long as you save him.

Very well.

Henry VIII marries the siren

If you speak to him again, I will kill him.

7 July 2015 – Unbreaking Me

We were arguing over whether or not I interfered. He said I interfered right away. I said I interfered only after I saw him get frustrated at Anne for not cleaning the chair properly.

He stormed off.

I confronted him and the argument escalated. He insisted he didn’t have time to correct and teach Anne properly, I said he did and was only getting frustrated. Anne was starting to cower. I interfered.

The argument escalated and I went to my room. He grabbed his shoes and keys and said he was leaving.

Anne confronted me and I cringed. I told her I’m fine. He triggered me and now I want to fight and kill.

She said, “You’re here. You’re safe.” I told her I will be okay and sent her to go play.

I’m here. I’m safe.

But I’m not safe. He’ll hit me. I’m only safe when he isn’t around me.

I feel the fear. I can feel it now. It’s intense. I want to hide. I’m scared he’s left me. I’m scared he’s still here. I’m scared he’ll come back and hit me. I’m scared he’s left me. I’m scared he never left.

I’m trying to apply the process I learned. Justify it. Reasonable arguments. I see no premise.

He will hit me. It’s only a matter of time. All men hit.

Do all men hit?

That’s what my mother taught me.

Do all men hit?

No. That would be illogical. All. Never. Always. These are three words that should not exist in any language. In most cases, they are wrong. Not all men hit. Only some.

How do you tell the ones that do from the ones that don’t? I don’t know. Angry males are unpredictable males. Anger is unpredictable. Where there is anger there is a lack of logic. Where anger begins, logic ends. What is logically holding back an angry male from hitting?

Their instinct to protect the female. Protect.

That word churns my stomach. No male has ever loved me enough to protect me. Why couldn’t my father love me enough to protect me?

He’s coming back. It’s so weird feeling relief and fear at the same time for the same thing.

7 July 2015 – Another attempt at the blurb for Broken


“Who are you?”

For the first time in twenty years, I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know. When in doubt, go back to the past, and that is what I did. Broken is the 96,000 words I wrote in two weeks to answer the question, “Who am I?”

Fashioned in the likeness of a psychological thriller, I used two characters to engage in psychological debate during an interview while I sorted through my past filled with neglect, rape, abuse, torture, and pedophilia. I explore the psychology of a human being who has lived her entire life without love, comfort, family, physical contact, affection, therapy, or medication. As I try to understand my decision to embrace an isolated life, my mental condition sends me spiraling into the multiple worlds of my psyche while toggling the lines of insanity.

From 7 March 2015 to 20 March 2015, I relived thirty years of trauma in two weeks and Broken records it all: the triggers, the hyperarousal, the breakdowns, the panic, the rationale behind the behavior. The thoughts I used to justify my behavior. The other worlds in my head where I lived for more than twenty years with four fictional characters who I developed full rounded relationships with in place of the humans who rejected me. I show the conversations I have with my fictional friends and lovers as the conversations took place.

I spiraled down a rabbit hole dressed as Don Quixote and battled through Wonderland where I conversed with my own ID. That is PTSD.

Broken shows you what PTSD is like for the survivor and what it looks and feels like to emerge from the mental cocoon I lived in for thirty years. It shows the road I took to awareness and the start to my recovery all while I traveled that road.

If you are a survivor of sexual abuse, do not read this until a therapist says you are ready.



7 July 2015 – More stuff on Unbreaking Me

(Mental note…At the word lies, I just felt my survival kick in. My body reacted at once. My eyes widened, my breathing slowed as if I was purposely breathing quietly, and I entered “prey” mode. The hyperarousal now follows. Apparently, lies and incorrect information from a reliable source is also a trigger of mine. That explains SO MUCH. More to review.)

I view lies as tools that are used to hide murders, rapists, and pedophiles. Lies assist with denial, which nurtures abuse, alcoholism, and mental illnesses. Lies feed victims to the predator that seeks to destroy you and disables the weak the vulnerable. Lies keep my mother trapped in her world of denial and delusions. Lies are a weapon too many of us ignore.

Denial…another form of lying and delusions. While we’re at it so is prejudice, biased views, and bigotry. Narrow mindedness…These are all things that kept me in my hell and maintained it…for thirty years.

PTSD is the illusion that you are still being subjected to trauma long after the threat has ended. It requires a distorted perspective to maintain. The hardest part about PTSD is realizing that the perspective you have is distorted. Realizing that you are Don Quixote dressed as a knight and you’re standing in Alice’s Wonderland…and it’s all in your mind and you don’t even know it…because your perspective is askew.

Like a kaleidoscope, change the perspective and you’ll see what you really are. Only then, can you end the threat that haunts you. Only then can you face it and heal.

7 July 2015 – Dolor and Shadow blurb

Love this blurb! Keep it, Ange.

Two elven clans of Alfheim are at war while 10th century kings of Scandinavia war for Midgard. As the Norse gods watch in silence, the Celtic Fae gods hunt the elven witch, Queen Kallan. But Kallan has vowed to avenge her father and kill her nemesis, King Rune—who has been charged with Kallan’s protection. They fight their way across Midgard while the Dvergar, Fae gods, and Norse kings hunt them.

7 July 2015 –  Broken’s genres on Amazon

PSYCHOLOGY > Psychopathology > Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

7 July 2015 – Unbreaking Me

Work load –

I’m not good enough.

Not approval, pride

“You are valuable”

I can’t do that.

“I’m not. I’m worth a bag of chips. Monetary value.”


“If I am worth something then why didn’t he stop it? Why didn’t he do something?”

Give yourself reasons…

“But he did give me reasons for being selfish. I was a taker. I isolated myself.”

“Self preservation was not selfish.”

“He saw me closing myself away, but not the beatings my half-brother doled out. I was too smart to be a girl. I should have been a boy.”

Shaun heard this, viewed himself as incompetent and lashed out at me, “Take an IQ test.”

“I won’t.”

The food. The textured food started the selfish talks. We snubbed the bad food. We were fed liver with creamed mushrooms. Sometimes it was creamed lima beans. When we refused to eat it, he started telling us how selfish we were selfish. That was the first time. It never stopped. There were days when they plugged our noses and forced the food down our throats. I saw him do this to Marie a lot. I associate the food with the beginning. This is when he started hating me. But I had forgotten.

4 July 2015

Angela. Note to self. Smoke burns the eyes first. Mental note for book #2.

28 June 2015 –

This is a list of words I still need to add to the Dolor and Shadow glossary online with hyperlinks.

  • Plassje
  • Naejttie (Na-tee) Southern Sami: nåejttie, More reading…
  • Sarakkha (Sar-a-ka) Sami name
  • Bern
  • Odinnssalr – Odinn’s Cellar
  • Valkyrjur (plural) Old Norse
  • Selabu (Lake) Norwegian Lake written in the Old Norse
  • Heidmork – County Hedemark in Norway. This is the Old Norse
  • Raumariki –
  • Fylke – Norwegian City State. The term is still in use today
  • Sklavinian (Slavic) Old Slavic word for “Slavic” (You should love this word, Stani!)
  • Troendelag …Trondelag County in Norway
  • Throendir …a person from Trondelag…1,000 years ago
  • Oppland – County in Norway
  • Englia (Anglo/Angles) This would become England
  • Lade – Village in Norway
  • Northumbria – Still Northumbria in England today
  • Gasdalr –
  • Lisvann Old Norse for “waterfall”
  • King Sigtrygg (Dubh linn) The king that first made coins

27 June 2015 – Angela. This is for “Unbreaking Me”

I stared at the rains out of my therapist’s window. The last four weeks had been surreal. Slipping in and out of a dream like state. Living in my own mind. Not even my body felt like mine anymore. It felt like I was donning a suit and posing as someone else while wearing their skin. I didn’t feel like me. I only felt normal while living in the other worlds.

How I missed my worlds.

The rain streaked the glass. I couldn’t cry. I know I should, but I couldn’t.


“Hm?” I turned from the window and gazed at my therapist. She had been talking and I only came in half way.

“Did you want to continue today?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Let’s.”

“Where were you just now?”

“I was…” I tried to explain. The nightmares, the…

(I have to record my nightmares)


1 May 2015 – This is a poem I wrote in the ’90’s. It’s done, I just have to pull it out of my files and post it. This is what I could pull from my memory.


In my world, the world I see

there sits I against the sea.

You and me and my lovers three

wishing to be free.


1 May 2015 – Poem

Sink into my books with me.

I will show you what I see.

Here my world comes to life

with all the things I see.

or step into my world.


Okay, the last two lines suck, but it’s a work in progress. I almost can make out the words I hear in my head. I’ve been trying to hear it now for four months.

Poem – 16 April 2015  – Just a little poem I recently wrote.

The kind of love that’s bitter bliss,

the kind of love that sweetly stings.

The kind of love that took my breath,

your love it was to me.


From 1994 – 16 April 2015 – I wrote these when I was 14. They are song lyrics.

I promise I’ll take you far away

To the lands you believe

Just close your eyes and you’ll be there

Princess, believe in me

As I believe in you

I promise you I will save you

I promise I’ll never let go

I promise I’ll build you the castles

you built in your dreams.

 …and also…

I’m crying with my face held high

And I’m crying with my face to the sky

And I’m smiling though I’m dying inside

I’m crying with my head held high.


If you read “Broken,” you’ll see how these two pieces fit right into the story…my psyche. I didn’t see it until now, but really…psychologically speaking, it’s fascinating!


22 March 2015

Every now and then someone says something that sits inside me like a stone. All I have to do is think of their words and it takes me back. I feel my blood rise and he owns me all over again.

I think…I think this is love. The kind that transcends what we think is love up until now.


Ireland: 26 February 2015

Oh, my blessed Irish home, one day I will run away to you where the magic of the earth flows deep. There, my heart lies beating far beyond my reach.

If ever there is magic still in this world, it is in Ireland. (It’s why the grass there is so green.)


Something random: 30 January 2015:

“That’s really what it comes down to. Are you content not being his first? Because you won’t ever be. You can’t be. It isn’t an option. There are three people who come before you always. Are you going to be happy with that? Can you be? Because you’ll never have more than that.”

And what choice do I have? To live without you? Is that a choice? To pretend I don’t know…that I don’t feel? To undo everything I feel for you. Is that a choice? To walk away as if you mean nothing to me? I love you because of what I am and because of what you are. I can’t not love you. It’s what I am.

But if I had the choice to settle for your fourth and not live without you at all, then I will take the fourth. I will be your friend. I will stand here and be ready if you need me, and never more than that. I will not, must not reach out to you because I am only ever your fourth.

And I am aware of the pain this will bring. And the hell I will live. This is what I trained for. This is the hell I was meant to endure. And endure it I will! This is my burden. And I will bear it. Despite all the pain and all the hell and all the hurt…I will love you and I will keep my silence. I will let it rip the heart from me like Prometheus bound to his rock. If it means I can be with you and not have to live without you, then so be it. I welcome it. If this is all I am to have, then this burden ahead of me is far less painful the hell I will have if I am ever to live without you at all.

I will live as a raven in love with a crow: in a distant silence.


Used for Bergen: Bane – Bergen: 24 January 2015

To taste her lips was to drink in a refined nectar tainted with poison that leaves you wanting only more than the last. And so I drank and took in her bittersweet that would forever leave me wanting more until madness devoured me or Death claimed me. And I could not stop it. This was the truth in her powers.


Used for Bergen: Bane – Ciodhan: 24 January 2015

Have you ever felt misplaced somehow? Like you belong somewhere else and it calls to? It closes in on you and takes your breath from you until you can’t breathe and leaves with you such a wicked ache. A hollow ache. A need you can’t define.

But here, with you, its like you’ve brought that place to me and I no longer am pining for the forests and winds. The soil…That’s when I realized, part of what I was needing was something within her people. In you. And suddenly, I’m not so alone anymore. I hear her in your voice, in your words, in the sweet things you call me. I hear Eire’s Land with every “lass” you breathe. You’re as honest and whole and pure as me, like I feel when the wind blows, as if it will pass right through me because I am part of it, like the air you breathe.

Where others dance in the rain, I dance with it.


Used in Broken : 24 January 2014

Everything we had said, everything we had promised each other simply suspended itself between us. Telling him was supposed to make it easier. So why didn’t it? Why couldn’t I think? When all I wanted to do was taste him, to know if he savored his kisses slow and sweet. Was he a hungry lover or domineering who took control, delicious, strong control that assured me he would have me, drink me, devour me, with so much assertion I would meet in his arms. Or was he an aggressive partner who would pin me to the wall with his body while he dropped his guard trusting that I could take whatever he gave to me. That I would rise up and meet him. No, what I wanted, more than anything was to sink into his kiss and devour him. Maybe there I could clear my mind and forget the world, our commitments, our lives, if only for a short while. Why couldn’t I think today? What I wouldn’t give to feel his fingers weave into my hair, while he held me in place and kissed me, drank his fill of me. I would moan into your mouth and arch my back inviting you in. Encouraging you on with every breath I took.

19 November 2014

Sink into my books with me.  Let me show you what I see. Through my windowed woven words, there you’ll read what’s not been heard… Within the morning’s crystal dew…   Still thinking  



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About the Author: Anna Imagination

Biographical Info... What you seek is my Story. Every Soul is a "Blurb" as one would read on the back of the book. But can people be "unwrapped" so easily? Most importantly, why try? I have long since learned to preserve the Savory that comes with Discovery. Learning of another Soul is a Journey. It is an Exploration. And it does not do the Soul Justice to try and condense a Soul Journey into a Bio.