Why do I keep doing this?

I’ve finished the final, official round of edits for What Actually Happened to Isaac Moore and have sent it off to become an Advanced Reader Copy, where early-bird readers will be able to read it and like, leave reviews and stuff, hopefully positive ones… hopefully…


I’m terrified, you guys. Absolutely terrified. No, really. I’ve curled up and cried a few times. Just as it was with The Very Real World of Emily Adams, What Actually Happened to Isaac Moore is extremely personal to me, and I’m definitely showing off scars… through metaphor!

That’s terrifying.

Sometimes I wonder why I keep doing this to myself when it scares me so bad.

I do it because writing helps me process those wounds. Writing gives the pain a voice and a purpose. It makes breathing a little easier… not right now, but it did when I was writing it. And I just… if there’s someone else out there like me, I want them to know they’re not alone, and that there’s a light on the other side of despair. I need people to know that.

I really want people to know that forgiveness and loving kindness are about liberation from suffering.

I want to tell people that it’s not differences and wounds that turn people evil, but the hatred, fear, and pride that they allow to fester in their heart.

I want people to know that tragedy does not have to be the end of a good life, but broken hearts can be mended, and beauty can indeed grow from ashes.

I don’t know how else to do that but to write. I’m not great at talking. I often sound like a moron when I try to talk (people often think I’m a lot dumber than I really am—yes, you’re insulting me and trying to con me into buying your lunch, I know) because I get scared (that whole fear-of-people thing), and then my broken brain glitches…

But I can write it.

It’s just too easy to give in to fear. I’m literally scared of so many things. But oh well. I’ve got to try, ya know? I decided a while ago that fear is not allowed to keep me from trying. Life is really short—it really is—and that truth follows me like a shadow. And some things are more important than fear.

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