"Focus on the Good, and Fight for That": a #HoldOnToTheLight post

.As I said in my previous post, there's been a lot of Stuff going on for me lately. Enough for me to have a personal investment in this initiative, even though this is nonetheless neither the place or time for me to discuss particulars. But this topic is important. The Mental Wellness for Writers panel at ConCarolinas this June was heartfelt, honest, raw, and hands down, my favourite one this year. And out of respect for all who participated and shared, it's not one I'll ever take notes at.

Timing's a funny thing, though. I had recently written this scene during revisions to my novel, SIGN OF THE STAR, which will be on submission soon. And it felt important to share.

Background: A princess with healing powers who escaped murder as a child must choose between being the healer she wants to be and the country that needs her. When she encounters a fugitive nobleman seeking the lost princess, circumstances force them to travel together, and she learns that guarding her secret also means guarding her heart. At one point the two are kidnapped, but before they can escape, the bandits are attacked by a warring group. As a servant of the Land, Janni must deal with.the aftermath—and its consequences.

*          *          *

Lingering tendrils of clouds, violet-edged with the last of sunset, curled about distant peaks, clinging to them like smoke capped a fire.

My stomach turned. I tasted bile. Grimacing, I glanced away.

“Are you all right?” Concern tinged Brennant’s voice, as it had since we left Karovar.

I ignored him and focused on the road ahead, pressing onward. Shoving away thoughts of the pyre smoke’s stench, of copper and musk, acrid and sweet.

“We should stop before it gets any darker.”

Hmph. Likely Hush would have purred her agreement, but the puma had already gone off to hunt. I kept walking.

Away from the ashes of our work. The grim task I’d suggested, and now wished I could forget. Days had passed since we’d left Baesh, and yet the mindless slaughter still ate at me.
The morning after the battle, building the pyre had consumed the rest of the daylight. None of the dead had been less than half the chief's massive size, and all were far too heavy to drag on my own. Brennant saw my struggle with a corpse and rushed to help me, but then Baesh cursed and sent me into the woods to gather deadfall instead. And when we were ready, both men looked at me to speak.

I opened my mouth—and faltered. This was no Deathswen ritual, where the names of the newly dead were spoken to honour their memory. There were no loved ones to mourn their passing, no scribes to log their fates.

There was only me.

“We stand before the fallen,” I said, grasping for what words I could find. “Soldiers and captives, worthy and wicked. As we release them from the Land into the sky, may their souls find peace.” Spreading my hands, unable I looked at Brennant for help.

He met my gaze with his own, gave a grim approving nod. “May their souls find peace.”

Baesh, torch in hand, set his jaw. “Aye.” He lifted the flame high. “May their souls find peace.”

With that, he set the pyre alight.

The bodies burned until dawn. None of us slept until noon.

Brennant and I stayed another night at the clearing, too heartsore and worn to resume the journey at once. At least, that’s how I’d felt. The next morning, Baesh had taken us as far as the northern Karish border, where the wilds and some semblance of a road resumed at last.

And I still couldn’t shake the ghastly scene, that cloying reek of the dead, from my mind.

So on I walked.

“Janni.” He sped up and grabbed my wrist.

I jerked it away. “Scorch it, Brennant. What do you want?”

“It’s been four days since we left Karovar, and you’ve barely spoken.” There was raw hurt in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“It doesn’t matter. Come along.” I frowned at the road ahead. Maybe we could make it as far as the next mountain before full dark—

“Night falls quickly around here. You should have noticed by now.” He spread out his cloak, all he had left of the things he’d bartered from Derva. Everything else had been lost when we were kidnapped.

“What are you doing? We have to keep moving.”

Had to get to the vision-lady and her people before anyone else suffered.

He crossed his arms. “No.”

“Then catch up with me tomorrow.” I strode away.

Brennant snorted. “Fine,” he called. “Clearly you’re too foolish to listen to your escort. More proof that Sordinak made me go with you to protect you from yourself.”

That halted me in my tracks. How dare he.

“I have been summoned, Brennant. I have to get there, and soon. There’s nothing foolish about that—”

He threw up his hands. “There is when you won’t listen to reason! How can you help the woman if you’re injured—or worse, dead?”

“If I don’t hurry, who knows what else will happen?”

“We’re going as fast as we can safely. That’s enough—”

“It’s my fault they died.”

There. I finally said it. The truth I’d been holding in since the pyre, since the attack. I collapsed to my knees, my pack hitting the ground with a thud.

Brennant was on his feet and at my side at once. “What do you mean?”

“I keep seeing the bodies. The blood. The pyre. Every time I close my eyes.” I stifled a sob. “And I’m the reason for it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Everyone who died in the battle perished because of me.” I sniffed. “The soldiers. The prisoners. Even Baesh’s men. If he’d paid more attention to them instead of protecting me, they wouldn’t have betrayed him. And all of them paid the price. All so I could live.”

His lips thinned. “That’s where you’re wrong.” Crouching, he took my hand, and as he stroked the palm with his thumb, for once I didn’t flinch. “What the men did isn’t your fault. It’s theirs.”

Bitter and hot, the tears I’d held back for five nights finally broke free. “But—”

“No. They were criminals and traitors. That raid happened so easily, it’s obvious they were colluding with the Korish.” He reached out and gently touched the spot between my shoulder blades, flooding me with warmth. “Besides, think of the good you’ve done. You healed the barkeep’s son. Baesh, too. And if not for you, Elasa’s daughter might have died.”

“That doesn’t matter. All that death—” I choked back another sob.

“You can’t blame yourself.” Shifting, Brennant took both my hands now and squeezed. “The Land has its reasons for all things. We have to focus on the good, and fight for that.”

I bit my lip. The words were a platitude he’d probably picked up in the priesthood, but Zira had often said the same over the years. I never quite understood; I was a healer, not a fighter.

But maybe that’s what they meant. I could help people. That’s all that mattered, and why I’d made my choice.

Releasing a ragged sigh, I squeezed back. Shivered at his intent gaze, and looked to the distant peaks, where the clouds had scattered. “So what should I do, then?”

“As you said, we’ll keep moving forward.” Brennant helped me to my feet. “But first, let’s get some rest.”

*          *          *

About the campaign:

#HoldOnToTheLight is a blog campaign encompassing blog posts by fantasy and science fiction authors around the world in an effort to raise awareness around treatment for depression, suicide prevention, domestic violence intervention, PTSD initiatives, bullying prevention and other mental health-related issues. We believe fandom should be supportive, welcoming and inclusive, in the long tradition of fandom taking care of its own. We encourage readers and fans to seek the help they or their loved ones need without shame or embarrassment.

Please consider donating to or volunteering for organizations dedicated to treatment and prevention such as: American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, Home for the Warriors (PTSD), National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), Canadian Mental Health Association, MIND (UK), SANE (UK), BeyondBlue (Australia), To Write Love On Her Arms and the National Suicide Prevention Hotline.

To find out more about #HoldOnToTheLight, find a list of participating authors, or reach a media contact, go to the #HoldOntoTheLight Facebook group; or, check out the website or Facebook page.

Stuff, revisited

So I haven't been as forthcoming with notes as I'd hoped this month. I have good reason. About two weeks ago, I received some news that the Stuff I've been dealing with is pretty much done with.

Which is a good thing, right?

Of course it is, but there's also a factor I've come to understand over the years: sometimes, when something so stressful, so life-affecting, finally goes away, its absence can take some adjustment. There is a grieving process, even when the news is good.

The other night a dear friend and writing comerade-in-arms told me something that I hadn't expected, even if I was aware on some levels of its deep truth: "It was badly affecting you." Hearing that from a person I deeply trusted, who I knew could understand Stuff's impact on my life and my writing, was powerful. I mean, sure, Don Rocko has been a wonderful, supportive husband (and I maintain that marriage is the ability to put up with each other's bullshit, and that we all have it, and in this past year and a half, I've certainly had a lot). But hearing it from a fellow writer and query-warrior, someone else who witnessed firsthand the impact Stuff was having on my life, was meaningful in a vital way.

And now it's over. And I am happy to move forward.

Next stop: ConCarolinas, which happens in two weeks! I hope to have more notes from last year to share on Monday.

And then maybe I can start to catch up?

Well ... baby steps. As much as I love sharing my notes, actually putting words on the page is *slightly* more important. #SorryNotSorry

Happy Friday, everyone!

Stuff

Stuff gets in the way sometimes.

Stuff can be a problem.

Sometimes it's stuff that can't be shared. Whatever the reasons.

Stuff is a clever thief. It takes and takes and then it when it seems like it's done taking, it takes the resilience last, so that it can take some more.

For the past two months, stuff has run me ragged. Stuff has stifled my creativity. And yes there's ownership, there's the acknowledgement that I've let stuff do this to me, but that does not mean that I am its source.

I am dealing with stuff as best I can.

But I am done with stuff keeping me from myself.

Identity, Anxiety, Self-Esteem, and the Pen Name That Failed

How do I phrase this so I don't sound like a crazy person?

I forced back the bile threatening to rise in my throat. Tried to calm the buzz of nerves that had my heart competing to win the Indy 500. And when the moment arrived and my turn came, I took a quick deep breath, willing my voice not to shake.

The author glanced at the post-it note the helpful Chapters employee had stuck to the title page. "Hi, Laura. How's it going?"

That's when it hit me.

"Um, hi." I set down my bag. Now or never. "I'm *not* Moira Young, and I wanted to thank you for that."

Okay, the above exchange probably makes very little sense to anyone not in the know. As the webcomic Head Trip's creator, Shinga, would say, "Welcome to Out-Of-Context Theatre." So let me explain.

About six, nearly seven years ago, I was freshly married and reeling from events that ended my friendship with two of my bridesmaids and a few other people in my life. One bridesmaid in particular had done and said some very damaging things before, during, and after the wedding that left me picking up the pieces for months after. My self-esteem was at a low I hadn't experienced since high school or earlier, and despite my wonderful and supportive new husband, Don Rocko, my anxiety levels were higher than they'd ever been. Top it off with a rejection from a publisher who'd asked me to rewrite and resubmit, and it's no surprise that I suddenly didn't want to be myself anymore.

So I took a pen name.

Hey, it worked for some people. Gabe and Tycho from Penny Arcade, for example, who didn't mind the anonymity despite being "famous on the Internet," as I think one of them put it one Pax Prime. Local horror author Michael Slade, for another, who at a party told me and and a friend how it was helpful to keep his writing and personal lives separate. Many people have many reasons for taking pen names. So I thought, why not? I should, too.

I think at the time it was exactly what I needed.

Choosing a name wasn't hard. It just so happened at the time that multiple strangers, on hearing my name, for some reason misheard it as "Moira". Then I thought, well, a name like that needs a strong single-syllable last name. So I randomly chose the name of an old high school teacher, Mrs. Young, without giving it much thought.

New identity in hand, I went full out embracing the name. Thinking that one aforementioned rejection equalled failure, I started a new novel. I posted on the Internet under this new name. I set up a Twitter handle, got business cards, even purchased moirayoung.com. In 2010, I stumbled upon MagicalWords.net and started commenting there as Moira Young, too.

Awesome and now embarrassing factoid: there's a comment in the MW book, How To Write Magical Words, that is attributed to Moira Young. As I told the editor, Edmund Schubert, "That's my pen name, so I'd like to keep it that way in the book, too!" Sigh. Weeks later, just after the book went to print, I'd regret ever saying that.

Things were going well. I was happy. Then one fateful night between Christmas and New Years in 2010, I got an e-mail from a published author I know:

I saw the news on GalleyCat about BLOOD RED ROAD. Are congratulations in order?

Wait, what?

That's when I learned there was another author who'd just been accepted for publication under the name Moira Young. Further research told me the following: not only was that actually her name. Not only did she also write YA speculative fiction. Not only was she also Canadian. No, to top it all off she was also from New Westminster, which is very near where I live.

Seriously, what are the odds?

I won't lie, it felt like a cosmic slap in the face. After pouring all that energy into this new persona, I suddenly had to find some other name. I had to rethink who I was, who I wanted to be. Never was I actually angry at the other author (after all, it's her name), but I was mortified. And totally lost.

What am I supposed to do now? I think I floundered for about a week, asking everyone I knew for advice. But the more I talked about it, the more options I considered, the more I suddenly realized the answer staring right in my face.

More than two years had passed. I wasn't as hurt or scared as I'd been. My time as Moira Young had given me a chance to regain my lost confidence, to break new ground about my identity and most importantly, to heal.

I was ready to be myself again. My real self, the name I was born with. So I went with L.S. Taylor and I've been fairly happy ever since.

There was just one lingering problem. I felt like the story lacked closure.
 
I had nothing to regret. After all, when using the pen name, I'd kept my posts and web interactions polite. If anything, I was worried that the actual author would for some reason be angry with me. But I wasn't quite sure how to get in touch with the author (yes, me, of all people), especially without it sounding weird, or worse, me being written off as crazy.

Which brings me back to what happened last Saturday.

When I found out she was coming to my suburb of Greater Vancouver, it seemed like fate. I worried myself nearly sick that morning, trying to figure out what I should say, how not to get kicked out of the bookstore or sound harassing. I calmed down through her talk. Listening to Moira speak about how she was inspired by the landscape around her, when I'm a geography nerd and would like to think it's been a part of my writing too, absolutely mesmerized me. And as my turn in line neared, all I could feel was one thing: gratitude. Without this experience, I wouldn't have discovered myself.

At my words, Moira pushed back her seat, leapt up, and hugged me. "I've heard of you!" she said, and she didn't mean it in a bad way. (I believe my response was, "Oh wow. This is a thing?") And then we cheerfully talked for a few minutes. I got some photos and autographs. And everything was okay.

So this story had a good ending. I worried way too much for nothing. But I am grateful for the journey this Adventures With Pen Names led to. I'm not saying that no one should take a pen name, just that it didn't work out for me, and the path I took was exactly what I needed.

The best part was how she signed my copy of her book.