House of Oilworx products are so awesome, I’ll pimp them for free.

I’m going to take a step back from promoting my writing and trying to run Lowe’s Home Improvement out of business to do something good for the world in general. This is my very first product endorsement, so let’s see how this goes.

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If you know me, your’e probably aware of two things. If not, buckle up. The first thing is I’ve struggled with Generalized Anxiety Disorder my entire life. The second thing, I strongly believe that marijuana and all of its derivative products are the most compelling proof in existence that not only is there a higher power, it genuinely loves us. Wide-scale hemp production will prove instrumental in helping improve the US’s financial standing, as well as begin to offset the devastating effects of global warming. But, enough about that.

For everyone that hasn’t rolled their eyes and clicked away yet, I could go on and on about the medicinal benefits of marijuana, but everyone already knows what they are. I could also point out that hemp can be used to make everything from cloth to biofuel, but everyone knows that too. So, I’ll just share my personal experience with CBD oil, so anyone out there who relates can find the help I did.

Help from where you ask? From this company, House of Oilworx, based in Minnesota.

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Make with the Clicky.

Let me tell you a little bit about what I was dealing with before I found this oil. Like I said, I’ve always struggled with anxiety. Literally my entire life. A lot of people assume it’s social, but that’s not it. Yes, I’d rather be alone, but only because I’m highly empathetic and other people exhaust me. I’m not afraid to talk on the phone, converse with strangers, or be in a large crowd. As a matter of fact, I provide exceptional customer service. Sure, I come home and sit in darkened silence to recharge when I’m done, but that doesn’t mean I have social anxiety. My aversion to being around people I know and actually like is actually stronger than my aversion to strangers. People I know and like, their connection to me is stronger, therefore so is their draw on my energy.

My anxiety is mostly existential. For example, did you know earth has experienced several extinction events that almost completely wiped out all forms of life? I know it. I think about it a lot. Were you aware that should the planet be struck by a comet or meteor, not only would we be highly unlikely to see it coming, there would be next to nothing we could do to save ourselves? Because I think about it every day. Did you know that there was a sun before our sun?  Yeah, it lived for billions of years, then it died and reformed to make the blazing source of life which hangs in our sky today. Well, what if that former sun had inhabitable worlds around it, and the sun grew to encompass their orbit? You know, just like our sun will do some day. Someday, the sun will eat Mercury, Venus, Earth, and all of our moons. And on that day, every trace of art, music, history, technology, and every single grave of the billions and billions who died before us and who will die after us will be gone. Destroyed. Forever.

Religion won’t matter then, so does it really matter now? Our gods will die with us on that day, provided they ever existed at all, which any reasonable person would question. That’s setting aside the fact that the universal consensus of people who’ve actually died is that there is no life after this one. By their own accounts, they passed into literal Nothingness. So…what’s the point of anything?

This is how I make my co-workers cry.

Those as just the big fears I deal with on a daily basis. I deal with the regular every day fears of generalized anxiety too. Every time I hug a member of my family, I wonder if that’ll be the last time I ever see them. Every time I get into my car, I wonder if this will be the day I’m killed in a traffic accident. Every bite of food runs the risk of chemical contamination, e. coli, salmonella, botulism; hell, even actual poison. While I’m at work, I wonder if my house is burning down with my dogs inside, and then I picture it. Oh so very clearly, I can see them in my mind’s eye panicking, scratching at the door in terror, howling for someone to save them.

Are these thoughts logical? No, but knowing that doesn’t make them go away. And, I can function in spite of them, so I guess I have that going for me. I can work. Cook. Clean. Write. Be in a committed and loving relationship. I can appreciate my family and how very lucky I am to have them in my life right now, in this moment, which is all I really have anyway.

In summary, my demons know they have to attack me physically if they want to get anywhere. There isn’t a part of my body that hasn’t been effected by the constant flood of stress hormones being released from my brain. I suffer from gastric reflux, insomnia, daily headaches, heart palpitations, shortness of breath, chest pains, chronic fatigue, irritability, nausea, and a general achiness that never goes away. At times, my ability to think and concentrate is nonexistent. Finally, when I’ve been spiraling hard for a few days, I get to deal with depression on top of everything else. That’s when it’s the worst, when I know how lucky I am to be surrounded by love, and the greatest family in the world, and I’m still utterly incapable of experiencing joy.

Yeah, I know life is hard. I know everyone has problems. I know I’m far better off than most. Do you know what shaming me for feeling the way I feel when I have no control over said feelings changes? Nothing. Not a damn thing. So…

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I’ve tried two different prescription medications to treat my condition. The first was Paxil, which replaced my anxiety and depression with utter apathy. I started around the time I wrapped up Book Three of the Watcher Series, and I didn’t start working on Book 4 until I finally weaned myself off of Paxil a year and a half later.

Living unmedicated turned my brain into a swirling cesspool of dark thoughts again, which was less than ideal. I went back to the doctor. This time, I was given Doxipin to help with my insomnia. I took it for two days before I threw the entire bottle away. The shiniest example of how the medicine affected me would be the time my husband’s snoring woke me and I slapped the pillow next to his head. I was aiming for his mouth.

But, this story has a happy ending, because I’ve found it. I’ve found a non-habit forming, no side effects so far, not terribly expensive treatment that actually works. It’s completely legal all over the United States, is available without a prescription, and won’t make you pop dirty on a drug test. I can honestly say I feel like a completely different person, like a normal human being, and it is all thanks to CBD oil. No exaggeration, this stuff has been a complete game changer for me.

I’ve been taking it for about two weeks now, and my sense of general well-being has never been this good. Like, ever. With the Paxil, killing my anxiety killed every other spark within me, from my ambition, to my creativity, to my desire to do anything but lay on the couch and watch tv. CBD oil does what I wished Paxil and Doxipin did, as in quiet my fears so I can do something beside white-knuckle my way through every day.

As for my stomach issues, I still have to take my acid reducers every day, but I barely need my breakthrough medicines anymore. My stomach, which used to always be tied in knots, has unraveled and is now just a regular stomach. My appetite even came back, which would be a great thing if I was nauseated from chemo or anorexic or something. I’, neither of these things, so I guess the medicine isn’t perfect. I’m probably going to have to start dieting and exercising soon, so boo. BUT! Thanks to the oil, I think I’ll actually have the energy to do just that.

One of the things I was hoping the CBD would help me with was sleep. It didn’t, at least not right away, which disappointed me. I spoke to the owner of House of Oilworks, and she suggested just giving it a little while. The effects of CBD are cumulative. Or, I could give myself a slightly larger dose in the evenings (full instead of the half dose, which I had been doing). As it turns out, the full dose route was unnecessary. After a week or so, the CBD began to help me fall asleep and stay asleep. I’ve also noticed that my anxiety dreams have pretty much stopped. The last one I remember was from right around the time I started taking it, in which my house was under attack by a herd of Walking Dead. Since then…nothing. Nope, nothing. I sat here a good five minutes and tried to remember if I’ve had any more nightmares since starting the CBD and no. Not that I can recall. So, win!

I chose House of Oilworx for several reasons. First, my friend owns it. Hardly a qualification, I know, but I believe is absolute honesty. Now that CBD is becoming widely accepted as a nutritional supplement to combat afflictions like mine, there are dozens of providers out there. So,what makes House of Oilworx stand out?

In a word; professionalism. The websites are all pretty comparatively priced, but some are more professional than others. Personally, when it comes to the manufacturing of this sort of thing, I prefer to imagine scientists in lab coats sitting in a pristine lab somewhere performing very exacting procedures to ensure their product is top quality. As opposed to, say, some aging hippie in a garage boiling hemp in a dirty stock pot of vegetable oil. I’m sorry, but I am very unashamedly American in my views of who is and who isn’t qualified to handle the substances I put into my body.  When it comes to that, I’m going to have to go ahead and demand the dudes in lab coats, and House of Oilworx does the labcoat thing. My friend partnered with a professional extraction facility, whose products are exceptional.

The owner being a friend of mine aside, the customer service was amazing. After placing our order, the oil got here so fast. She was ready, willing, and able to answer all of our questions and settle all of our concerns.

As for the product itself, I take the oil sublingually, which means I squirt half a milliliter under my tongue twice a day, hold it for a minute, then swallow. In doing so, the effects last all day. I’ve tried other tinctures, which also worked but had a very earthy taste and unsettled my stomach. I’m pretty sure that’s because the other tinctures were alcohol-based, where the CBD oil was not. Finally, it tastes like mint. That’s it. It didn’t burn my tongue, there was no earthiness, and toothpaste leaves a stronger aftertaste than this stuff.

As for the price, I’m looking at around $65 a month to feel like a fully functional human being all the time. Maybe $130, if I break down and get two bottles to do the full dose twice a day, though, at this point, I don’t think that will be necessary.

So, in conclusion, I can’t support House of Oilworx strongly enough. It’s a ground floor business, so I promised I would do everything I could to support its growth, because this place deserves to succeed. When I asked my friend why she decided to invest everything she had into opening this business, she told me, “I tried CBD oil and it saved my life. I decided I wanted to sell it myself, because I wanted to help people.”

Now, so do I. In fact, as soon as I can figure out how, I’m going to put a permanent link to her site on my front page. I believe in this stuff that strongly.

 

I’m over here, just giving it away.

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Hey, there. I am here to let everyone know that I’m currently having a free promotion for the first book in my vampire series. The premise is pretty straightforward; humans and vampires have always lived side by side in a modern World of Darkness-type setting. It centers around Toby, a half-vampire outcast, and his best friend Karen, who is a closeted necromancer.

 

Here’s the link!

 

I am currently working on book 4, though I try to tackle a new monster in every book. Book one dealt with other vampires. Book 2, witches and voodoo. Book 3, demons. In book 4, I’m taking on werewolves.

 

I’m sure I don’t have to tell anyone that the kindle app is free, so you can download it straight to your phone/computer/tablet, etc. It would mean the world to me if you would all go check it out.

 

DON’T SHOP AT LOWE’S

This is a public service announcement: first, hit share. Everyone, share this. Everyone needs to know. You’ll find out why in a second, and it’s worth it trust me. All set? Good.

This is a bit of a departure for me, but it needed to be said: DO NOT BUY ANYTHING FROM LOWES. Not their products, not their appliances, and ESPECIALLY not their services. Now, I will explain why.

First, a little bit of backstory. Five years ago, my husband and I had good jobs with the state and we lived near Palestine, Texas. We had cause to buy a brand new washer and dryer, and we had just gotten our income tax. All of our little ducks were in a row to get an energy-efficient set, complete with the extended five-year warranty. So, that’s what we did.

Fast forward 4 1/2 years. Our fancy, high-tech washing machine, with all of it circuit boards and sensors, decided that it was through. Kaput. It began to quit cycling halfway through every load. It wouldn’t drain. It wouldn’t spin. We were forced to pull the heavy, saturated, musty-smelling clothes out of the dirty laundry water then drain the tank manually. That meant disconnecting the hose from the wall then siphoning out the nasty water ourselves. We did this twice before we realized that this was not a problem that was going to fix itself, and we had better call a repair man. But that was fine, because we had a few months left on our five year warranty.

Or, so we thought.

Did I mention that I pulled a muscle in my side lifting those soaking wet clothes we had to pull from the washer? Wet clothes are very heavy. Even with my husband’s help, I wrenched the muscle underneath my right arm pit so it felt like I snapped a rib. I had to go to the emergency room. I then spent the next three work days on the couch being electrocuted by a TENS unit, as it did its very best to unclench that pulled muscle. But I digress.

Knowing that we had bought the unit in 2014, and that our FIVE YEAR warrantee was good until 2019, my husband called Lowe’s to schedule a repair.

Lowes could not find any record of our purchase. They had a record of every single other thing we’ve ever bought there, even if it was just a single extension cord or batteries. But not the washer and dryer, and not the five year warranty. For some strange reason, they don’t use the model or the serial number to keep track of such things. They sort it based on your address and phone number at the time of purchase. Which, we provided to them, but they still could not find any record of our having bought that particular washer and dryer, much less the five year warranty, which was pretty much the same price as a third major appliance.

What could we do? We couldn’t prove that we had bought it there. We had lost the warranty and the receipt in the move so we were basically boned.

OK. Crap happens. Lesson learned. Hey, sometimes Life will throw you a curve ball. You’ve just got a learn how to roll and catch it. I began doing laundry at the laundry mat, to the tune of $40-$60 every week, until such time we could afford to get a replacement. We look for a cheap used one in the classifieds and on Facebook, but had no luck. It seems like every time we found one, some other poor soul bought it out from underneath us. We just had to suck it up, do laundry at the laundry mat, and wait for our next income tax return.

Curveball. Catch it. Keep rolling.

I know what you’re thinking. For $40-$60 a week, I could’ve made the payments on a new washer and dryer. You are correct, but you assume much. First, you assume that I have credit.

I don’t have bad credit. I have ZERO credit, which is worse. I am deeply opposed to borrowing money, preferring instead to pay cash for everything. I know that’s a strike against you in modern American culture, but it will actually save money in the long run, when one removes the finance charges and interest rates. This financial philosophy has served me well over the years, except when it doesn’t. This is one of those times when it doesn’t. My unwillingness to go into debt has left me with no credit to my name. In order to get a credit card, I’d need to get a secured credit card. Which, if I had $500 on me, I would’ve just gone and bought a brand new washer. Total catch-22, but whatever. That’s what I get for being poor.

2 1/2 months later, Lowes—yes, the same company that told us “they had no record of our purchase” in the first place—sent us a letter to inform us our warranty was set to expire in January. If we wanted to renew said warranty, we had only to pay $100 a month. For the next few months.

Basically, if we essentially paid for another washer, they’d extend the warranty on the washer they had no record of us buying the first place.

This was the break we had been waiting for. Letter in hand, my husband called Lowe’s to schedule a repair.

Lowe’s: but we don’t have a record of you buying that washer.

Mike: According to this letter, you do. *gives them policy number*

Lowe’s:…Oh, *that* washer.

One would think that would be the end of our story. Nay nay..

We were told that a technician would be in our area on Tuesday. My husband tried to call said technician and got his voicemail. My husband left a voicemail saying that the technician needed to call him back, so he could find out what time he would be in town and we could arrange for one of us to be there when he arrived.

He never called back. And, he never showed up.

The next day I called Lowe’s to find out what the heck was going on. According to the customer service representative I spoke to, the technician reported that he came to our house (he didn’t), and spoke to a tall man with dark hair and glasses (which describes absolutely no one we know). This stranger reported that we did not live there, so the technician marked our job as “complete“ and went about his day.

The customer service representative apologized profusely. He took the time to fill out the paperwork to hire a different repair service, who I was told would call us within three days to schedule a time to come out and take a look at our machine.

On day five with no word from anyone, I called Lowe’s back.

This time, I got a different customer service rep. This woman answered the phone with what could only be described as complete sarcasm. She would not listen when I tried to explain the situation to her. In fact, she was terse and dismissive. When I got irritated, she doubled down and got irritated right back. She informed me that, because it is the holidays, I will not be getting a repair before Dec. 31st.

Our warranty expires January 1. I think we can all see where this is going.

So, there you have it. This is how Lowe’s treats its customers. This is how Lowe’s honors it’s warrantees. And this is how their customer service representative’s treat their customers. This “mistake“ of Lowe’s has cost me and my family Somewhere in the neighborhood of $400-$600. That’s just in laundry mat fees. If I want to factor in the ER visit, it becomes much more expensive, but I will let that one slide. Unless I don’t feel like it later, in which case I will absolutely not let it slide.

$400-$600 DOLLARS. That is not a small amount of money to us. That is money that we could have used to buy food. Money we could have used to buy Christmas presents for our relatives and friends. That is money we could have used to pay for our daughter’s band trip coming up in the spring. We do not have so much disposable income that $40-$60 a week doesn’t hurt us financially. Every. Single. Time.

And this is why I have made it my goal to make as many people aware of this underhanded business dealing as I possibly can, so that they don’t experience the same nonsense.

Tell everyone.

Guess what; your kid doesn’t *have* to love you.

To paraphrase Cable from Deadpool 2, which I’ve seen at least a dozen times, but can’t recall the exact quote:

“People think they understand pain, but they have no concept of it, beyond their own worst experience.”

It’s the same when you declare to the world at large that you don’t love one, or both, of your parents.

When I tell people I haven’t spoken to my mother in 15 years, most react with horror and/or disbelief. Then, disgust.  I’ve broken one of the most basic social covenants, so there must be  something wrong with me. I must be some terrible, callous, incredibly selfish, and supremely hateful human being to even think such a thing, much less say it out loud.  There can be no other explanation, because that woman gave me life. I am a monster for cutting her out of mine.

Other people? They get it. This post isn’t for them.

Most of society has no real concept of what it’s like to have a truly bad parent. Annoying parent? Sure. Embarrassing parent? Of course. But truly piece of shit parents? No. They have no concept of it, beyond their own worst experience.  Ever been accused of something you didn’t do? Ever been grounded for longer than you thought was fair? Were you told no, you couldn’t go out on a school night?

I am sorry, but your childhood trauma is rated E for Everyone.

Now, to be fair, I realize that there’s no such thing as a perfect parent.  We are human, and as such, we make mistakes. Raising productive members of society is hard, and the standard is impossibly high. There are some good parents out there that screw up. Hell, they screw up big, and it doesn’t make them bad parents. But—and I can’t stress this strongly enough—there are some really bad parents out there. People so bad at being parents, they don’t even deserve the title.

The dirty details of why I cut my mother and her husband out of my life are no one’s business.  It should be enough to say that I have my reasons. Was my mother an alcoholic/drug addict that pimped me out for her next fix? No, to all of that.  Was she abusive? Not physically, sexually, mentally, or emotionally.  She was negligent, but name one teenager that wouldn’t delight in having a mother that didn’t care where they went, what they did, or who they were with. Right, you can’t.  Did we not get along growing up? Actually, my mother and I got along very well.  I left home the week after I turned 18 to get away from the toilet stain she married, not her. Again, the details aren’t important.

My mother is a pathological liar, and a thief.  She is completely selfish, and was never interested in being a mother or grandmother.  However, while she gave nothing, she demanded everything in return.

And that’s where the crux of the problem lies.  People seem to think that giving birth is all that’s required to claim the honor of being a parent. Yeah, that’s bull.  Exhibit A: all of the baby-mamas and baby-daddies running around out there that don’t pay child support or even go out of their way to see their kid.

Think about it. Some random idiot doesn’t like the way condoms feel, never calls, never writes, never shows even the slightest interest in their child, but they have the brass cajones to demand love and respect? How about no, jackass?

Exhibit B: the step parents that stepped the hell up when they didn’t have to. For them, I have nothing but respect.

Ted Bundy had a kid. John Wayne Gacy had kids. Fred and Mary West had a lot of kids.  These people were monsters, and have no right to demand anything from anyone.  Granted, these are extreme example, but where the line is drawn depends on who is drawing that line. Bad  Behavior is only acceptable as long as there are people around who are willing to accept it. Me? My willingness to accept unacceptable behavior came to a screeching halt a very long time ago.  I realized, maybe too late, that some people will take everything you have to give, then demand more. Once finished, once you’re completely empty and strip mined to the bare bones, they’ll toss you aside like used Kleenex and never give you a second thought.

And sometimes that person is your mother.

Do my kids love me? I think as much as any two people are capable of loving someone they’re forced to live with.  I know I annoy them. I embarrass them. They are overwhelmed by my ignorance at times. We argue.  If someone has figured out how to live with two teenagers without that being an issue, please, what’s your secret? Throw a bitch a bone.

The thing is, I don’t expect them to love me. They’re people, not my personal property.  They have thoughts, feelings,  inner lives, and interests as diverse as mine.  They are two human beings that did not exist before I came along, and wouldn’t exist without me, but here’s the thing about that…the decision to bring them into the world was mine.  I wanted to have kids.  They don’t “owe” me anything.

If they love me, it’s because I’ve earned it. Every day, since the day they were born, I’ve earned it. I am their biggest cheerleader, because I sincerely think they’re incredible at everything they try.  Sure, I can’t be trusted to be impartial where they’re concerned, but who cares? I don’t have to be impartial. I laugh at their jokes, because they’re funny.  I cook their dinner,  I do their laundry and—gods help me—I even pick up their room for them sometimes. My kids know I’d fight for them. They know I’d kill for them, because I 100% beyond the shadow of any doubt love them.  Not because it’s my job,  not because God commanded me to, but because I do. As people, not just because they’re my kids.

If they love me back, it’s because they genuinely love me. Now because they are obligated to by religion or society.  So, let’s take both equations out of it.  Disregard “honor thy father and mother.“  Consider, just for a moment, if that ancient adage wasn’t so deeply ingrained in societal consciousness…

Do you think your kids would still love you? Would you still love your parents ?

I asked myself that question.  The answer was no. It’s ugly, but the truth often is.

Where the hell have I been?

I’ll bet you thought this webpage had been abandoned, didn’t you? That’s extremely fair. I only ignored it for a year and a half, let the paid subscription lapse, and stopped writing altogether for roughly 15 months.  I can see were you might have gotten that impression.

Where have I been? The short answer is I finally got treatment for my anxiety disorder. The long answer; I started taking Paxil, then lost all interest in writing. I got a second low-paying job to supplement the income of my first low-paying job, then I sort of got lost in the endless grind of existence for a few months.

Until, Writer Kate stepped up, then I broke free.

So, hi. I’m Kati. I have social anxiety disorder, which causes occasional depression, and I choose not to treat it. That doesn’t make sense, you say. No, it doesn’t, but hello, anxiety disorder. I don’t want chemicals messing with my already messed up brain. Plus, the meds I’ve tried didn’t help much. Paxil is really just apathy in pill form, and Doxepin made me…a little violent and extremely hateful. Luckily, I didn’t take it long.

Which leaves treating myself with diet, exercise, and a can-do attitude. Unfortunately, I only have one of those things. My diet consists of whatever I can grab, not have to cook, and eat on the run. My exercise regimen is bust my ass at work and home, be constantly on the move, because if I stop at any point, I will fall asleep.

The thing is, I’m a lot luckier than most. I can function outside the home, even though it sucks and I have an awesome support system. I know a few people with the same disorder, or other equally scary mental illnesses, that can’t say the same.

So, what does that mean for my writing? While I was taking Paxil, I still had story ideas, absent any desire to actually write them down.  When I decided, essentially, that writing was more important than my mental health, the need to write came back. I’ve been working on Book 4 in the Watcher series for about 4 months now and I’m getting close to finishing the rough outline. Oh, it’s not a 600 page book, or anything. It’s just coming to me as easily as a Barbie doll giving birth to a 15 pound baby. And, writing another book absent an audience to actually read it is an exercise in pointlessness that pushed me onto the Paxil in the first place.

Who’s fault is that? Oh, it is 100% my fault. I wrote those books, published them, then never, ever looked at them again. The very idea of talking about my books with other people triggers a mini panic attack.  I don’t have a publisher or literary agent to back me up, so building an audience was supposed to be my job. I dropped the ball off a cliff.

So, here’s my dilemma. How do you build a social media presence when your mental predisposition is to keep EVERYONE at bay? It kind of feels like being on the bomb squad. If you’re successful, nothing happens. If you screw up, everything blows up in your face.

I am a wife, and I love being a wife. I’ve got 23 years experience at it. I used to do it professionally, until the economy tanked. I can talk to other people about being married, and I know I could give them good advice.

I am a mom. I absolutely love being a mom. I could talk to other people about what it’s like to raise kids in this world.

I am a writer. I could talk about writing all day,  and I like helping people with the stuff that they are writing. I offer a second pair of eyes and give honest feedback, which is essential for any artist.

I also have social anxiety and generalized anxiety disorder. It affects every aspect of my life. It drains me mentally, it affects my physical health, my ability to think clearly at times, and severely limits my social interactions. And so, this thing that I’ve kept hidden for the most part from everyone I know is the part of me that everyone needs to see.

There are a lot of people like me.  They’ve been made to feel ashamed. They’ve been told that there’s nothing really wrong with them. They get accused  of making it all up, or of acting out for attention.  So,  they’re the ones that need my help. Even if it’s just me changing the way I do things, to show them they’re not alone, and that it is possible to do the things that freak you out. Maybe, in the long run, doing those things will help you.

Because I’m broken, not useless.

 

 

We have liftoff!

Okay, Lady and Gentleman. Watcher in the Darkness: Book 3 is up and running. It took a little longer than I expected because they sent the proof copy to my old address (my bad), but my new book baby looks beautiful. You can buy the paperback and ebook version on Amazon. Or, if you prefer, there is a Nook ebook version available on Barnes and Noble.

Don’t forget, if you followed the story as it was being written here on the website, there is an epilogue-ish final chapter that sets up the next book that is exclusive to the ebook and printed copies. Just…thought I’d throw that out there.

Wow. Over a month, already?

It doesn’t feel like it’s been that long since I updated the website. It feels like much, much longer.

Hi, everybody. I missed you. I just thought I’d poke my head in for a minute to give anyone that might be interested a status report.

So, what have I been up to? I’ve done three editing passes through the finished novel. Pathetic, I know, but such is life when you have a full time job, a full time family, and precious little time to work on anything else. I’m still not quite satisfied with the end product, but that’s nothing new. I don’t know if I speak for any other writer out there, but after I finish a book or story, I can barely stand to look at it again. Not necessarily because I hate it. It’s just that I’ll never stop trying to “fix” it, then I’d never get anything new written.

When will Imprisoned be released? I’m shooting for around the beginning of March. Luckily, I already bought my cover art, so at least I don’t have to worry about that.

What are my plans for the future? I have two more short stories rattling around my brain that I want to add to Haunted, Etc. I’ve also got a lot of cool ideas for the next Watcher book, so I need to get started on its outline.

In a nutshell, work, work, work, work, work. It never finishes. And until I simultaneously win the lottery and science comes up with the cure for sleep, my progress will be slow.

Ah. It appears that Createspace has finally finished uploading my interior file. Back to the grindstone. I hope all of you are having a blessed day.