Like most writers, I started as a voracious reader, losing myself in the beauty and magic of fictional worlds. As a teen, I wrote for THE HORNET, my high school paper. Back then we took our copy to the local newspaper after hours where we did all the typesetting by hand before inking the plates before running each “page” through the press. (Yes, I am that old.) It was a painstaking process, but those long hours spent squinting over the plates are some of my fondest memories. Writing was also a hobby that generated a stack of spiral notebooks filled with angsty poetry about unrequited love. For me, the writing was something I did for school or and fun. I never considered it as a career choice.
My career aspirations ranged from wanting to be a radio DJ, an attorney, a therapist, and the proprietor of a Christmas tree farm (I still kinda want to do this one). But somewhere along the path to adulthood, I stopped asking myself what I wanted to be and began focusing on what I wanted to have. A distinction I didn’t grasp at the time.
By the time I hit the BIG 30, I was a wife and mother with a successful career and a beautiful home. I was happy. I had all the things I wanted, but there was no sense of fulfillment. Don’t get me wrong, the parenting thing brought its own special kind of joy, as is being blessed with a supportive partner – one the universe set in my orbit to help make me a better person. But there was still something missing, something left unfulfilled inside me. Like, was this all there is? Was I being too greedy for wanting more?
Was I bored, or just an ungrateful monster? Or both?
I threw myself into new hobbies; camping, kayaking, refinishing furniture, and interior design. I took wine appreciation, soap making, painting, and floral design classes. I volunteered, devoting my time and creative energy to the people and organizations that impacted my children’s lives, and still couldn’t find my complete self in any of it.
Fiction became my escape once again.
I re-kindled my obsession with reading – mostly bodice-ripping romances, but hey I was reading again. For me. I feel like I should note here that I’d been reading all along, but not for myself. Bedtime stories were a BIG deal when my kids were little. Do you know how long it takes to read ALL the Harry Potter and LOTR books out loud to an eight-year-old? A long, effing time.
I had a major book hangover after binging all four Twilight books in three days, forced back into the real world where magic and monsters didn’t exist. And it got me thinking, what if they did?
Over the weeks that followed, I mulled over the things that I’d seen and experienced IRL and realized that my life was, in fact, full of magic.
The universe had already given me that coveted happily ever after with my husband and children. I’m fortunate and privileged and all kinds of grateful to have them in my life. They make me a better person, and that love is the purest form of magic.
My kids are everything to me, but it was HARD right from the start. The first time I got pregnant, my ego soared. I was a goddess, a creator of life. I read all the books and thought I knew all the things. But bringing another human into the world wasn’t the magical experience I’d been expecting or promised.
Diagnosed with severe preeclampsia two-and-a-half months before my due date, our world came to a screeching halt. My life and the life of my little stow-away were in danger. Getting the baby out was the only cure. We were told he might not breathe on his own and that we should prepare ourselves because premature white males didn’t have stellar statistics. There’s even an awful name for it – Wimpy White Boy Syndrome. Born ten weeks premature, he weighed just two pounds.
Thankfully, he was a stubborn little shit right from the start. While those first few months were scary as hell, we were incredibly fortunate. Not only did he survive his rough landing in this world, but he also thrived – thanks to the magic of modern medicine and an army of health care wizards. Thank you to anyone who works in a NICU or children’s intensive care unit. Seriously, you ALL deserve gleaming golden halos.
There were plenty of monsters in my life as well. I struggled with internal insecurities and anger management. Parenting was hard, much harder than I ever imagined. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing and worried every day I was screwing it all up. Anyone who’s gone head to toe with an irate three-year-old kicking and scramming on the floor of the small appliance section of Kohls understands what Nietzsche meant by “when you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back.”
I suffered from postpartum depression after my second child, and was, yet again, saved by modern medicine. This time it came as a magical pill prescribed by my wise mage of a therapist and it helped quiet the monstrous thoughts inside my head. Confronting your own demons is daunting work, and I needed a lot of help.
My husband and I trudged our way through the pressures of adult responsibilities and raising a family. We fought tooth and nail to overcome the toll that toxic people and toxic work environments had on our marriage and our ability to be good partners and parents. Family therapy saved our relationship and helped us eradicate some of those demons from our lives and became yet another magical milestone for us.
In the middle of the blissful post-toddler years, when the kids began to resemble rational humans, our lives came to a screeching halt once again. This time at the hands of a real-life, flesh, and blood monster in human form.
My husband and I had the honor of being mentored in college by one of our professors, Dr. Debra S. Kelly. In those nebulous years, she became more than a mentor to me. She was a paradigm shift. The person who unlocked my brain and opened my mind. She was the catalyst for the person I am today. The John Keating to my Todd Anderson. She also made a mean glass of iced tea.
Debra had a sharp mind, feisty spirit, and an open heart. A diet coke, cigarettes, born and bred southern charm force of nature. She dedicated her career to enlightening young minds to many things, most notably, the role of women in crime. She even wrote a book about it. Sexual Violence: Policies, Practices and Challenges in the United States and Canada.
We stayed in touch after college. Her daughter, Emma, who my husband and I frequently babysat during our college days, was the flower girl at our wedding. Debra and I talked once or twice a year about parenting, relationships, careers, and our inner demons. She rejoiced in my successes and encouraged me through my defeats. Debra challenged me to be the best version of myself personally and professionally. I loved her.
My world shattered when I walked into a 7-Eleven on a sunny September morning in 2009 to grab a Yoo-hoo for the kids while my husband filled up the car with gas. We were on our way home after a beautiful fall weekend picking apples in VA wine country. I’ll never forget the front-page headline staring at me from the news rack, right next to the damn donut case, Suspect Arrested in Slayings at the Farmville home of Longwood University Professor.
I yanked the Sunday paper off the rack, my heart skipping from shock to horror to gut-wrenching desolation as I read about the gruesome quadruple murder of my dear friend and her entire family – Debra, her husband Mark, daughter Emma, and family friend Melanie – bludgeoned to death in their sleep by a boy their daughter met on-line.
I didn’t pay for the paper. I walked out of the store with it clutched to my chest.
All I could do was shove the smudged pages into the hands of my confused and concerned husband as my chest caved in with sobs. The three-hour trip home was the longest ride of my life. After that drive, I didn’t cry in front of my children again. It upset them too much to see me that way. It upset my husband too. He was struggling as well, but watching me fall apart was hard for him. Instead, I cried alone in my car. On my way to the store. Too and from work. I couldn’t drive anywhere for months afterward without having to pull over on the side of the road to get my shit under control. Sometimes I left at night after the kids were asleep, drove to the local library after hours, and sat in the dark parking lot while my rib cage ripped open again and again, trying to make sense of the inexorable cruelty of it all.
Years later, after reading Stephenie Meyer’s fictional tale of bloodthirsty monsters, unconditional love, and difficult childbirth, I recognized the magical and monstrous events deeply rooted in my own story.
They say write what you know and pen your personal truth. I suppose that’s why I write about magic, monsters, and love. It took time to find my way to it, but I finally knew what I wanted to be – a storyteller.
For anyone interested in learning more about the tragic death of Debra S. Kelly that made national headlines, I recommend starting with this article from the Richmond Times Dispatch. Warning – Graphic Content.