Howdy.

Happy Holidays.

I’ve printed and bound a copy of the below entries, collected into a completed book titled “About My Dad.” My father will get the first copy. It’s not technically about him, but it is loosely based on my grandpa who passed away last July. It’s also based on the love of music taught to me by my father. And it’s about dementia. And moving on from heartbreak.

I love the book.

I love even more how it helped me heal. Art helps us heal. If you’re having a bad day, a bad week, a bad experience with work, or friends, or family. If you’re in your head and unable to escape, might I recommend picking up a pencil, a keyboard, a paint brush, construction paper. Whatever format you create, just make something. It might be awful. It might be a excellent. Odds are the quality is somewhere in between.

But the healing will be your unique masterpiece.

Give yourself the courtesy, grace, and time to heal by opening up a different part of your brain while you create.

Updates on my end:

I haven’t posted in a week plus because I’ve been hard at work on the first draft of a new book. My process is 1000+ words a day every day until I complete a first draft. This book has been upped to 1200+ words a day. I will begin sharing snippets once I finish the first draft. That hopefully will happen within the next month. I’m having fun every time I sit down to smash out the wild journey of Wyatt Tarot.

I hope others enjoy it as well.

In the meantime, I’ll share a summary and sample.

The summary:

“A male model is turned into a zombie military machine and hit man. It’s Zoolander meets the Toxic Avenger.”

A sample (from the diary of his great-grandmother, Bianca):

Dominic showed me his snakes today. I love him so, but I do not love this venture. Upon turning the corner from the stairs, I was greeted by the shock of an albino boa constrictor thicker than a fire hose. I do not know how long it is as it was curled into itself. Dominic says the boa is almost ten feet long, which he said is average for an adult. He named her Doris, which I abhor. The sight of Doris and her white scales with black patches makes my skin crawl. The other two snakes, also boa constrictors, are smaller. One is black with orange diamonds, named Francis. Francis is six feet long and was curled in a corner of the cage like a prisoner. I cannot glean emotions from snake faces, but I sensed sadness in how the reptile’s tongue flicked out of its mouth.. The third snake is smaller yet. She has rings of white every few inches between her green scales. She is four feet long. Dominic says her coloring is rare, and that breeding her with Francis will create unique colors on the saddle and tail that will yield a large sum of money. 

I do not care about the money. We once had little, and now we have a lot. We are more comfortable, but most has not changed. Should we make more money, we will not be any more comfortable than we are now. I fear he does not see this the same as me, or that he has lost his ways. Dominic does not know how to breed snakes. He listens to Otto, who is a brilliant, but unpredictable man. 

Otto seems to know a great deal about science. He has strong viewpoints and states them loudly. Helen had us over for dinner last week. She cooked a lovely roast with potatoes and carrots and a decadent baklava for dessert. She takes after my mother. After dinner, we drank brandy and talked. Otto proclaimed America as the foremost test ground for cures to all manner of diseases, known and unknown. He speaks with a thick accent that I sometimes find it difficult to understand. 

Dominic did not enjoy Otto’s company when he and Helen first met. He often recommended we stay home for dinner instead of visiting them, using exhaustion as an excuse, or headaches, both things he rarely suffers from. I love my husband. He can be difficult. Thus, when Otto overheard Dominic explaining his desire to breed snakes for money, and Otto said matter-of-factly, “I can help you do that. I’ve bred many reptiles,” Dominic no longer avoided dinner with Helen and Otto. He went out of his way to visit Otto at their house, and at Otto’s laboratory, to ask him about snake breeding. When Otto spoke, Dominic listened. 

While drinking brandy in their sitting room, Otto explained a rare disease to us called Cotard’s Syndrome. I do not understand science. I am a baker. He said it is a neuropsychiatric condition that is characterized by strong feelings of melancholia and anxiousness. Those who suffer from it experience delusions. They do not believe their body exists. In extreme cases, patients believe they are immortal. He said the syndrome is commonly seen with patients who suffer from severe depression. He has a patient at his laboratory now who is undergoing testing. He said the patient believes she is dead. She sits in a padded room and pinches an arm she doesn’t think exists. She moans of smelling like raw fish and begs Otto to take her to the morgue so she can be with other dead people. 

My skin crawls more from his story than from the snakes in the cages in our basement. It crawls with the way Dominic grins while Otto describes a normal day at work. We are bakers, not keepers of the dead.