Siberian Trap - Update 1/?
You might be wondering why Siberian Trap is taking so long.
Well, here's the major scoop:
So, why did I have to make the excruciating decision to postpone the release of Siberian Trap? It's simply not ready. Even though I'm self-published, there's a standard to all of my books. Frankly, until the last few days, the standard I've set for any new release hasn't been met by Siberian Trap and its plot.
That is mostly due to my PTSD.
I don't talk about my mental health a whole lot. It definitely creeps up in my work (Senka, anyone?) but blogging and revealing my family's every day struggle isn't something I do.
Is it because I'm private?
I'd like to think so.
I think, however, that there's more to it than privacy.
I'm embarrassed. And, I even though I know I have nothing to be embarrassed about, it's like my brain can't talk to itself. I don't believe myself and am unable to recognize the truth in my own thoughts. That, in itself is a struggle.
I need Siberian Trap to be up to the standard. What standard?
The unwritten rule I have for myself: I have to want to read it.
I now have a direction. And with the direction comes purpose.
With the purpose comes a creative burst. The one I've been waiting for, perhaps. But "waiting" for a creative burst downplays the sheer amount of effort my brain uses to function "normally" every day. It's effort to get out of bed. It's effort to brush my teeth. It's effort to stay present, to not lose myself to a dissociation or to a flashback.
No wonder it's taken me a long time for the creative process to be set free. It's working its way up through concrete. A small flower, or a weed, pushing against all odds towards the sun.
But everyone knows that there are trees that burst through rock. Or that there are weeds in the concrete sidewalk.
So, here's my weed. It's small, but it tangible.
Maybe, just maybe, the tangibility is really what I've been waiting for.
Kat was anxious.
It was more than anxiety.
It was a soul crushing sense of despair. It started in the center of her chest, radiating outwards.
It made her fingers numb and made it hard to breath. As if something was constricting her from the outside.
She shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat of Lita's unmarked police cruiser, refusing to look anywhere but outside.
Every second person on the street looked like Lily. Every block there was a kid with a bright pink toque.
Even though she knew it was impossible, her head snapped around and looked.
It never was Lily. The hope died in a 747 crash against the sea.
And with the deadening hope, came an inexplicable feeling of numbness.
Kat knew she should be feeling more emotions. She needed to cry, or feel sad, or maybe feel disturbed.
But there was only numbness.
Numbness with small interruptions of crashing hope. A whirlwind of suffering so deep there were no words for the emotions.
“Look, as much as I hate Nicole, she's the best,” Lita said, turning towards one of the rich areas of town. “She's found more kids than I’ve solved murders, and that's saying something. She'll find Lily, Kat. I know she'll find Lily.”
Kat could only nod at the echoing voice,unable to comprehend how life has turned drastically in the last 2 hours. Lita was distant, a world between them. Even though there was only a foot between the driver and passenger seat, Lita was in another Universe.
A universe of action that Kat wasn’t privy to. Maybe she’d never access it again, doomed to sit in the numbness until it consumed her. Until there was simply… nothing.
Check out White Queen, the first book in the Songbird Investigations series here.
If you are struggling, or need someone to talk to, please contact me.
We are not alone.