Author’s Speak Out - Piper Anderson

Woe is Me

One of the highest points of a writer’s, and if not a writer’s then definitely my life, is the day they go from aspiring author to…wait for it… Author. Finally sharing the stories of the characters who’ve bothered you while driving, nattered while you grocery shopped, pestered you during dinner and maybe even intruded when you were in the bathroom, is exhilarating. Authors toil for years writing, rewriting and reworking, nurturing their babies until they can kick them from the nest. No matter if choosing to publish traditionally or going a non-traditional route, published is published. Most authors are professional storytellers, able to live several lifetimes through art, fantasy and imagination. However, today I’m going to spin a tale about a monster so twisted that the confines of paranormal can’t hold it and how this writer regained her equilibrium after my publishing dreams were infiltrated by…

Reality.

To say I’ve been an author since I learned to write, would be selling myself a bit short. I was born, of course, who wasn’t, but that’s where things veer off, swirl, twirl, zig-zag and just when you think you’re gonna spew, they twist. That’s about the most visual, yet concise way to explain how I went from zygote to the stunning—if I may say so myself—young, single mother before you today. Seriously, my life is full of roads less traveled. My parents were the first to stumble off the path when personal vices trumped parenting duties. The middle was, well, the middle filled with angst, heartache, strife, personal growth, perseverance, struggle, more angst and then I turned ten.

Yes, the ripe old age of ten is when I first turned my daydreams, the device I used to get through some of the hardest times in life, into a fanciful story called: Mystery of the Pancake. When my fifth grade teacher first mentioned having my (blows twice on my knuckles then cleans it off on my favorite, threadbare, night-shirt clad shoulder) self-illustrated, twelve page masterpiece published, I thought “Ha. Ha. Very funny. Everybody laugh at the poor abandoned black girl.” So, you can imagine how shocked I was when she actually got my work into the hands of a small publisher. OMG! I was gon’ be an author y’all. Then, I climbed off that cloud and got realistic. A ten year old girl wearing—fashionable—yet, gently used clothes, living in a shelter, or orphanage if you’d rather kick it old-school-terminology style, was about to embark on one of the loneliest career paths possible. Say it with me people…

Lo-ser!

Once the disappointment over my newly chosen profession, the thing that made me feel attuned with the universe and my place in it, settled I told a few people close to me about having my book published and placed in the school library. For the most part, I kept that secret guarded. I didn’t need all my cool points tossed out the window. Instead, publicly anyway, I cashed in my pencils and glasses for pom-poms. Cheerleaders were the most popular, hot chicks. It allowed other kids to accept my good grades, role in chorus and band membership more easily. The word nerd seemed to lose its negative connotation and validity when cheerleader proceeded it. Still writer, no matter how popular, never made it into the Guinness Book of World Records as dopest profession. Of course, I might have been able to focus on getting it there if life hadn’t thrown me ninety more curve balls.

I could go on ad nauseam about further abuse, moving so often I became adept at decorating and repacking in five minutes flat or becoming an—amazing—mother at sixteen, but who wants to hear about that, right? Wait for the, yet to be pinned tell-all, folks. This is a coming-of-age blog. Things are about to get good.

After eighteen years of being way-laid by college, romance, and a magnitude of careers where model and radio disc jockey don’t even complete the list and more children, I managed to rise through the ashes anew and recapture my love of writing. I shouldn’t say recapture because that implies I lost the love at some point. No, I never lost it. I wrote all the time and even had a few poems published. But, the single-minded fire which caused me to write no matter the time or place had transferred to other areas of life. One sleepless night—I know, trite right. Bear with me—I started thinking about where my life had been and where it was. It dawned on me that I’d never lived.

No! Don’t go back and read the part about modeling. Take my word for it, I hadn’t lived.

I’d managed to survive life without hitting every pothole. However, there was no passion. Do me a favor, don’t tell my ex’s about this column. Me and going through the motions were on a first name basis. Nothing excited me, and then I looked through some old journals. There are a ton of those bad boys! They go all the way back to fifth grade and transversely, Mystery of the Pancake. In almost two decades I hadn’t felt in sync with myself, and the universe seemed like the black hole where lost mates to socks go. I’m sitting there wading through my memories and the same feeling of oneness settles over me. It was then I restarted the arduous journey of writing.

If this were a movie, we’d skip passed a lot of the meat and potatoes of writing. We may have some awesome MOS montages where I write at three seemly different times. You’d be able to see that each of those times didn’t turn out because I’d be doing something archaic like ripping the paper out of the type writer and throwing it into an increasingly fuller trash can. Then we’d pan to my sweat dotted brow tired, dropping anxious eyes and pencil lodged between my teeth as I place the title page to my first, award winning novel atop nine hundred single-spaced pages. See, what I did there (quirks a mischievous, well-groomed brow)?

Okay, I won’t skip ahead entirely, but let’s say a lot went on between the inception of the idea and September 6, 2013. Bad things, no matter the duration of said “bad things,” always make the time between them and our last pleasant memory seem like yesterday. How I wish the movie montage had been reality, three attempts…

Puh-leese!

More like three million attempts. Thank heavens for the internet. Otherwise, several forests in the U.S. would be completely bare from the number of rejects I received. I’d been rejected so many times I didn’t remember sending query letters to certain places. Puppy Chow Weekly? No! C’mon it’s chow, for puppies. Just kidding. Tired of rejection, I decided to send several screenplays I’d written to contests I’d found online. Instead of monetary prizes they gave books on the craft of writing and sometimes critiques. I needed critiques to take my writing to another level. Turns out my writing wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. With a few tricks and tips, I found my voice. What a difference critiques make! My taglines sparkled, no easy task when you have to grab someone’s interest in two sentences. But, I did it and I won film festival contests and optioned a couple screenplays. Now, I was ready to write novels.

My first novel sucked. No sugar coating it, the manuscript was garbage. There were a lot of fun moments and witty dialogue, but I’d lost something when transitioning to imagining the story in my head and letting the actors work on the rest to relaying a well-balanced story. Can anyone guess how I got through this? Ding. Ding. Ding. I entered contests, got critique partners and joined some writing groups. I’ve gone through a lot in life, but it’s made me the person I am today. A person not averse to hard work. Finally, hard work paid off and my first novel in a dark urban fantasy, paranormal romance series by the same name: Dead Inside, would be released.

Talk about excited! Gone was the anxiety over what others would think of me. I was abandoned, abused and a mother at sixteen. Everyone had judged me for years! What’s that saying about opinions and buttholes…? Yep, everyone had one. I didn’t care though because the sum of my heartache and struggles had prepared me for September 6, 2013. My books release. Fate truly is an evil mistress.

I’d barely delved into promoting my novel when tragedy struck. As stated before, I am not averse to hard work. Sickness and circumstance never kept me from doing what needed to be done. When my car broke down, I walked my children eight miles to school and bummed rides to work. But, November 20th of 2013, something was amiss. Upon waking, I notice an odd tingling sensation in the tips of my fingers and toes. Like a body part going to sleep, but the feeling never went away. My back hurt so bad I saw spots. I had difficulty breathing. A migraine with the subtlety of being struck in the temple by a bolt of lightning hit me. Fatigue to the 100th degree descended. I couldn’t move.

Guillain-barré Syndrome, a rare auto-immune, neurological medical condition that attacks the nerves. A staggering number of tests, total paralysis, a lengthy stint in the ICU and a hospital stay stretching well into the New Year, confirmed the incurable diagnosis, and Dead Inside died. I didn’t recognize myself anymore. Once an able bodied, vivacious young woman, morphed seemingly overnight into the literal definition of a bump on a log. Who could think about writing when I couldn’t feed myself? How would I conduct book signings from a hospital bed? What I wouldn’t give to have even one of the supernatural abilities my characters possessed. It would have made life exponentially easier. Sadly, writing once again took a back seat to life.

Recovery from Guillain-barré Syndrome can take anywhere from weeks to years, and guess who was on the latter end? I found I’d taken so much for granted. You never know how many nooks and crannies can itch on a body until you can’t scratch them. Due to my nerves basically dying, I had to work to repair the connection between my brain and my extremities. I had to be potty trained, again. I now understand why my boys had such a hard time with it. I had to adjust to life in a wheel chair. Stubborn through and through, that’s me, my legs just don’t want to make this easy. Given all of this, I couldn’t think about Dead Inside. So, sales dropped off and my proud moment was never realized.

Who can say dream fulfillment comes around twice? I’d worried about all the wrong things in life and now when my ultimate dream presented itself again, I couldn’t grab it. Depression set in like a mutha! For months I let the task of recovery consume me. At night when everyone was sleeping and I lay paralyzed in bed I wept for the missed opportunities and the person I was, then I got fan mail. This is supposed to be where I include some piece of profound insight or knowledge given to me by an unwitting fan. It wasn’t. All the email said was, “Your book wasn’t at all what I thought it would be. But, I really enjoyed it anyway. Nice spin on an old favorite can’t wait to read book two.” The person ended it with a smiley face emoji and no name. Crap! Somebody’s waiting for book two?

How could I tell them there would be no book two because life took a major dump on me? I couldn’t. Their words ignited the dying embers of my passion. Can I walk yet? No. Can I drive? No, but if I’m being honest, I didn’t really like it that much, but, still… I could think and I could type and there were a lot of people doing more with less than I had. Plus, I had my amazing kids who needed their old mommy back. Long story short, I talked to a counselor to sort out my issues with adjusting to my new way of life and that’s it. Sike!

Talk about going through it. Life has kicked my butt all over town. But, I restarted promotions for my book and started writing again, which led me here: Bitten by Books. It makes sense that I’m a writer look at all the twisted and deranged crap I’ve gone through. And I’m still alive! You are the sum of your experiences. It’s up to you what you turn the knowledge gained into. With all I’ve been through, I’ve got stories for eons. But, it still would’ve been sweet if with every level of life you pass without dying fate gave you a power.

Telekinesis! Laptop come here. Type these keys there. Get myself a drink? Holla!

Questions for the Readers:
Carrie and Firestarter are two of my favorite novels and movies.
What old movie or book would you like to see retold with a modern day twist?
Would you add powers if there weren’t any?
Take powers if you could?

About Piper Anderson

Author Bio:

A long strange trip…? Doesn’t begin to describe the outlandish, insanity, which has been Piper Anderson’s life. Abandoned at five years old and raised in the foster care system, Piper didn’t allow her often traumatic beginnings to dictate her future. She’s a dreamer, and believes in making the seemingly impossible, possible. She’s modeled, graduated from college with a degree in Social Work, dabbled in acting, written screenplays, and was an on-air DJ for a few top radio stations where she lives in Arizona as a single mother.

Piper has seen the good, the bad, the ugly, and OMG fugly sides of people and life. So, naturally, she is drawn to darker tales. She writes dark urban fantasy, dark paranormal romance, and supernatural and psychological thrillers. Although, the genre may change, one thing remains consistent about Piper’s stories. They are dark, shaken, not stirred, with a twist.

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