Writing hiatus leads to life on the road

Introduction to this blog post

This will be an insanely long post about what led to my three-year hiatus and how living on the road in a 20’ RV (Recreational Vehicle) forced me to go on a journey of self-discovery and face some hard truths that changed my life.

Confession: In my New Year = Change blog, I knew I was going on the road, but I didn’t share that because I wasn’t sure what would happen and to be frank, I was a bit embarrassed. I had been obsessed with the #vanlife movement for years, but knew there was a stigma attached to the lifestyle that was one step up from being homeless in some people’s eyes. Everyone around me was saying being a nomad was the worst idea ever considering record high gas prices, unstable economy, riots, rampant sickness and countless other issues and honestly, they had a point, but I didn’t let that stop me. It’s been 10 months since I set out on my adventure and I can honestly say, aside from quitting my corporate job to take a chance on writing, this is the second-best decision I’ve ever made.

To explain the hiatus, I have to go back to the beginning of my writing career and my experiences with the book community that led me to leave social media and consider walking away from this career altogether. I’ve always shied away from discussing ugly stuff because I abhor drama, and I’ve always felt it was my job to protect my readers from this type of stuff, but the fact that authors disappear from the public eye so often tells me that these issues are common. I think it’s important for people to know what authors are dealing with behind the scenes.

I hope this doesn’t get too depressing. Just know that there’s a happy ending that led to me completing Bitter Secrets, returning to social media, and being happier than I’ve been in years! I went through an insane journey this year that led to some groundbreaking epiphanies. I felt it would be a waste to keep these revelations to myself when I suspect we have similar struggles. I’ll be delving into subjects like self-sabotage, imposter syndrome, and even some deep-rooted shame from my childhood that I didn’t realize was holding me back. I hope that by sharing my story, I can inspire others to take time for themselves to figure out what they truly want in life and make the leap to go after it.

My publishing journey

The first time I picked up a pencil with the intention to write a story was probably around eight or nine. I rewrote the ending of the first book that ever made me cry by Tamora Pierce. The main character’s twin died, and my little heart couldn’t take the pain, so I changed the ending to make sure he lived to make myself feel better. That’s how I started, by tweaking plots from other books, switching out characters, and eventually coming up with my own storylines as I evolved.

In my early 20s, I submitted a contemporary romance to Harlequin. My manuscript was rejected, but a fateful visit to Suzanne Wright’s website pointed me in the direction of self-publishing, which was just starting to take off in 2013. For the next three years, I worked sporadic jobs while I published 11 novels across multiple genres. What I made was barely enough to pay for my phone bill.

I resigned myself to the fact that I would always have a day job and write on the side, but losing my best friend at 28 and the realization that life was short compelled me to leave my corporate job and take 6 months off to publish 3 novels I had on the back burner, one of them being Crime Lord’s Captive. I read The Dominator by DD Prince and maybe Knocked Up by the Bad Boy by Vanessa Waltz, but I didn’t know that mafia romance was a genre. I fell into it accidentally and had no idea why I was suddenly selling more copies in a month than I did in 6 months under my other name.

It was a whirlwind. I was suddenly meeting other authors, being invited into Facebook groups (I had no idea these even existed), and talking to hundreds of readers around the world. Things moved so freaking fast. One month I wasn’t a writer and the next I was? I was terrified I would lose momentum, so I released books 2 and 3 in the Crime Lord Series pretty close together. Between Once a Crime Lord and Awakened by Sin, I learned how to format my books, expand on other retailers, and took marketing courses.

I was living my dream. I should have been insanely happy, but the more established I became, the more depressed I felt. I couldn’t make sense of it. Yes, there was immense pressure and stress involved in running my own business, but that should have been offset by the fact that I didn’t have a 9-5 and could do what I wanted. Everyone around me became impatient and annoyed with my melancholy, which only made me feel worse. But, my release for Bitter Heat was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Bitter Heat downward spiral

Bitter Heat was a significant book for me. I had been successful with the Crime Lord Series and when people found out I was writing something new, my readers were politely skeptical and a bit miffed that I wasn’t completing Carmen’s story (understandable), but this story hit me hard, and I didn’t want to let go. I was intrigued with the premise and enthralled by the development of the story, which bloomed like the best stories always do.

This was the first book I put so much of myself into. Jasmine was me, so it was easy to write her struggles and Roth… He was everything I wanted in an anti-hero. There’s a time and place for the assassin with a heart of gold, but I wanted a darker, rougher, caustic, manipulative bastard. Dreamy sigh. Roth was a total ass, and I didn’t try to soften him up. I let him be himself and was thrilled with the results. While I thought he might rub some people the wrong way, I was totally unprepared for the backlash this story would receive.

When I finished Bitter Heat, I gave it to a handful of writers who I considered friends and who read my other work. This was the first time I had done this, and I was eager to hear what they thought, since this was a departure from my norm. It never occurred to me that they wouldn’t like it, so it came as a shock when the first author said, “Your characters have no chemistry.” This stunned me stupid for a minute before I tried to find the silver lining and asked what she thought of Jasmine’s writing sequences, to which she responded, “I don’t need writing the way you do.” This was the first time that I realized some authors see writing as a hobby or job. They don’t need it like I do. I’m more like J. K. Rowling, who says she writes for her mental health. I thought all authors were like us. Apparently not.

I was a bit taken aback by her bluntness, but I thanked the author for her honesty and went to the next one, hoping I would get a different verdict. No such luck. The second author’s feedback was even more alarming. Instead of addressing the characters or plot, she warned me that this book was going to alienate my audience and put my career in jeopardy.

I went into a full-blown panic.

I had never received such dire feedback. Was I regressing? I absolutely loved the book and thought it would be well-received, but these comments made me second guess my work. I waited to hear back from ARC readers, and something inside of me died when half of them never got back to me. The ARC readers who finished, loved it, but the fact that people either enjoyed or DNF’d made me ill. If the book wasn’t on pre-order, I would have done another pass on it to see if there was anything I could improve or tweak, but I had no time.

This release was riddled with problems from hiring three different cover designers (two of which had major tantrums), to attendance issues with the release party, and (I didn’t find this out until a couple of days past the launch) an ARC being published on a pirate site.

On release day, the hate mail started pouring in. I distinctly remember a long, scathing email where the reader called me disgusting and a bunch of other unspeakable things before she declared she would never read anything from me ever again. I apologized and actually drafted a public apology that I was going to post in my group, but my girls talked me out of it. It took me years to realize I had nothing to apologize for, but at the time, I felt like I deserved the bashing and name-calling.

Bitter Heat caused the most backlash I’d ever experienced. This didn’t make sense to me since I’d been writing mafia, which wasn’t a “safe” genre, but something about James Roth really rubbed people the wrong way. I spent my release day deleting pending hate posts in my group. What was next level humiliating was that the authors attending the release party had administrative access and were seeing these awful posts from my audience. To have my peers witnessing this made me want to crawl under my bed. Although there were positive reviews, it wasn’t enough to drown out the deafening negativity. I stayed in bed for two days afterward bawling my eyes out, regretting that I had ever written this book and wondering if I had just ruined my career.

I tried to move forward and get back to work, but I’d internalized everyone’s feedback by that point and began to hate everything I put on the page. To make matters worse, the harassment continued in comments, emails, and even during takeovers in other groups. When I tried to promote, trolls would tell other readers not to take a chance on me because I never finished anything, which of course savaged my already injured pride and confidence. I went into this downward mental spiral and I didn’t know how to get out of it.

There’s good and bad in the book community with authors and readers. There are sweet authors who check in to make sure you’re doing okay and tell you to ignore the haters, and then there’s the backstabbing, petty, gossipy ones that I avoid like the plague. Same for readers. There are wonderful readers who are ecstatic to interact with the author and who can’t wait for the next book, and then there are the ones who hate you, hate your work, and tell you to kill yourself. There’s really no middle ground. In Bitter Secrets, I compare social media to Russian roulette. You never know what kind of reception you’ll get when you log on.

When I dreamed of being a writer, I never imagined this was part of the equation. I thought writing was the hard part, but it feels like people feel justified in chastising you, pelting you with tomatoes, or spitting on you for daring to put something out into the world. I didn’t understand it. Needless to say, being on social media eroded my self-esteem. I started to forget who I was, what I liked, and why I started in the first place. I started to hate myself and writing, which had always been my lifeline.

During one of my releases, an author messaged me to ask if I was satisfied with my numbers. (Authors can figure this out from a book’s ranking and their own sales.) When I said yes, she was like, “Really? Oh, well, congrats then.” 😑 I was grateful that any book sales and thought I was doing quite well, but catty remarks like this minimized what I accomplished and made me feel like I was bottom of the barrel and not at their level. In retrospect, the fact that she was even watching my numbers says something, but back then I couldn’t see past that and l felt like crap. The fact that readers buddied up to ruin your launch, pirate your book, and get you banned from retailers was disheartening. That’s not including other authors who plagiarized and tore each other down… It was horrific.

In an effort to regain some control over my writing, I channeled my frustrations into a story I published under another name. It was my way of hitting back at critics by writing something much more depraved and unsettling. Also, I needed to write something without second guessing every word or living up any expectations or standards. Although getting the story out was therapeutic, my satisfaction didn’t last and the experience didn’t make me feel better.

I did some brutal tactics on myself to try to snap me out of the mental abyss I was thrashing in. I set the pre-order for Bitter Secrets, a race against time that I failed. Patreon actually did help. Gathering a dedicated, supportive group of readers who loved the characters and story and were so enthusiastic over the snippets I showed slowly helped to repair my shattered confidence. But, when the raw draft was stolen and leaked by the Samira, Queen of the Trolls, I was dragged back under the dark, choppy waters and this time, I wasn’t sure I wanted to come back up.

Writing used to be this joyous, magical experience, and now it was a source of such pain that I wasn’t sure it was worth it. Getting a 9-5 would be easier than spending 6 months to a year on a piece of work that would be mocked and chewed up by the masses. It would be easier to scan items at a grocery store or tap a 10-key in accounts payable than to sift through my pain and bleed on paper to bring my characters to life. I did have positive interactions with readers, but I found myself doubting their praise when the criticism and hatred was so damn loud.

I was a total mess and to make matters worse, I was in physical pain. I’d been chained to my desk for years, and now I was paying the price for it. I needed carpal tunnel surgery, but the risks and recovery period scared me. I also thought having this type of surgery before my mid-thirties was a death sentence of sorts. How many of these surgeries would I have in my lifetime, and was writing worth the cost?

I needed time away from everyone and everything to let my mind and body heal. I decided there was no better time to live out my dreams of being a hobo, so I bought an RV and hit the road.

RV Life

I’ve always had this weird urge to run away from civilization to a cottage in the woods or go on a road trip to nowhere. I tried to get an RV on two other occasions, but it didn’t work out. This seemed like the worst time to start, but I didn’t care. I needed off the island, open road, and freedom. It didn’t matter that my only experience in an RV was a 4-day trip with my friends up the California/Oregon coast. I was confident I would figure it out along the way. I went all in. I sold my car, computers, standing desk, and donated everything else. I wanted to simplify my life and give myself a clean slate that would allow me to do whatever I wanted next without anything holding me back. I packed necessities in two suitcases, apologized to my dogs about what I was about to put them through, and jumped.

You all know what I’m going to say, right?

This is one of the hardest damn things I’ve ever done! Most of the time I felt like a fool (and probably looked it too). I had no idea how anything worked in my rig and had a dozen near-death experiences in my first month. The first time I tried to park my RV, I banged a tree, and before I learned how to drive a 13,000 lb (ca. 6 t) beast, I felt like Sandra Bullock in Speed, screaming at everyone to get out of the way because I couldn’t stop. I got marooned at a travel center on my first trip because I didn’t have the foresight to check the weather, took showers in gas stations, and barely survived a three-day stomach flu extravaganza in my RV. There were plenty of tears and freak-outs, but I never questioned whether I made the wrong decision because the tears always passed, as did any issues that came up. I was terrified, but exhilarated. For the first time in a long time, I was living. I was on a real adventure, full of the great unknown.

RVing isn’t a passive experience. I huffed and puffed as I hauled hoses, dumped my tanks, checked my tire pressure, and broke every single nail. I fell asleep from sheer physical exhaustion. For years, I had a sedentary lifestyle where I used only my brain and arms, and now I was crouching, kneeling, leaping, crawling… Oh my God, you guys have no idea. Just to get into bed every night, I had to hop onto the back of my dinette and then jump onto my mattress and then do an army crawl in because I’m a damn shorty. RVing required my undivided attention. My mind was suddenly occupied with researching elevation, keeping an eye on the weather, reading my car manual in my downtime, and planning where I was going to go next.

The first couple of months were a lesson in survival, and I was constantly on the hunt for things I needed, of which there were too many to count. I started in February, and it seemed that I was always fleeing from one place to the next because of weather. I didn’t really get a break until I was four months into RV life. This was my first dry camping/off-grid experience. Before that, I’d been in RV parks and felt comforted by the presence of others, but what I really wanted was to be in the middle of nowhere by myself. But, where the hell did I go?

I had my fair share of worries: What if I broke down and had no cell reception? What if a bear tried to break in? What if there was some psycho lurking in the woods? I blocked it all out and stayed within two hours of my brother in Salt Lake City (just in case) and headed to the Uinta-Wasatch National Forest. I lost service, so I didn’t make it to the spot recommended by other campers, but out of sheer, dumb luck I found myself on a dirt road and saw other RVs in the distance. My people. LOL. I found a site in the middle of this meadow and parked.

Actual photo of what one of my nephews calls my ice cream truck.

I stayed here for almost a week. No electricity or running water. Harnessing sunlight to charge my laptop and cell phone and washing dishes in a bucket. It was primitive and simple, but that’s what I needed after being part of a world that complicated everything. Here, there was no urgency, fear, or anxiety. No one bothered me. Those that passed when I happened to be outside just held their hand up in acknowledgment and kept on going. All of us were out here seeking that elusive thing I’d been searching for. For the first time in what felt like forever, I was still and at peace. It was just me and the sun, a gentle breeze, and the occasional call of the hawks that soared overhead. I found myself sitting on my steps, staring out across the endless green, marveling that I was actually doing this… and surviving.

Nature reset me. I rose and fell with the sun. I saw more sunrises and sunsets in the past ten months than I have in a decade.

And I stared up at many starry, moonlit sky's.

For a time, I wandered. I didn’t think that far ahead. I was just living in the moment and enjoying the solitude. I couldn’t believe how little I actually needed to get by.

My brother would come out and camp with me when he could. He needed respite from his demanding job as an Executive Chef. He’d bring provisions, build a blazing fire, and we’d talk long into the night.

The thing about this lifestyle is that it cuts out all the white noise, distractions, and worries of daily life, so you can think clearly and dig down to what really matters. I’m a young (ish) woman by herself with two little dogs, and no one hassled me. If anything, people went out of their way to be helpful and offer advice on routes and where to go next. RVing restored my faith in humanity. If you listen to the news, you would be afraid to step outside your door, but I've had the privilege of meeting some of the nicest and most helpful people ever. I was at a laundromat in Heber City, UT and this woman in her 60s pulled up behind me to ask where I was from, where I was headed, and whether I had a blog or YouTube channel she could follow. We chatted for ten minutes or so before she thanked me for representing women on the road and wished me safe travels. This happened time and time again. I was invited to dinners and birthday parties by other campers, exchanged numbers, and have plans to visit my new friends in Arizona this winter.

I loved the laidback lifestyle and considered a career change. Maybe I could become a park ranger or, better yet, a camp host. I could live in gorgeous, remote areas, migrate during seasons, and live a quiet, fulfilling life. I was on the mend. My arms and hands weren’t giving me as much trouble since I didn’t spend so much time on the computer, and I was constantly outside, getting exercise and fresh air. I was better. I was happy. That’s all that mattered, right?

For a time, I lived in this euphoric daydream, but little by little, the haze began to clear and something that had been in hibernation began to stir. The being that whispered to me in my dreams, the one who had been with me since I was a child and stimulated my imagination, demanded my attention. I resisted, ignored, and then tried to placate it by writing other stuff, but it wasn’t satisfied and honestly, neither was I. I still had a major mental block and something was still off with my writing. I wasn’t in flow. I wasn’t living the stories, I was a tentative narrator.

I was sitting on some back road in Utah, pondering my life, my approaching 34th birthday, and my abandoned career when I acknowledged several key truths that changed my life.

Long road home

On that fateful day, I admitted to myself that I didn’t feel like I could live up to the expectations for my stories. The fact that so much time had passed put the bar that much higher. I was afraid of putting out something that would kill the series, so I did nothing. On the heels of this thought, I realized how stupid that was. If I was able to start a series people were interested in, then I was good enough to finish it and even if it didn’t meet their expectations, it would be better to put out something that sucked then nothing at all.

I realized I was so terrified of publicly failing that I was trying to destroy my career. I was self-sabotaging to an extreme degree and had been for years because I never accepted my career. It sounds crazy because being an author is what I’ve always wanted, but I felt like Crime Lord’s Captive getting picked up was a fluke and eventually, everyone would realize I was a fraud, and it would all go away.

News flash: It didn’t.

Imposter syndrome is quite common. I hear writers talk about it a lot. This wasn’t mind-blowing, but the next revelation was a doozy.

I was kind of digging around inside myself, trying to self-diagnose (don’t recommend you doing this, get professional help) and get to the root of this not-accepting-writing thing and I hit upon another oddity. I never called myself a writer. I had been self-publishing for almost 10 years and was almost 20 books deep and had never claimed the title in real life. I always lied about what I did, preferring people to believe the worst of me instead of claiming my work. I had to ask myself: Why? More digging, and then I hit gold… or dynamite. Whatever.

Like Jasmine, I grew up in a strict, conservative household under a dictatorial father. He didn’t approve of my writing, so I learned to hide it. Even though I’m now an adult and able to support myself this way, I still harbored that childhood shame because I know he still feels the same way and doesn’t accept this part of me, which is a huge part of my identity. Some of my family, who know what I do and are aware of the content, equate my stories to porn, which reinforced my old beliefs.

This made me realize why I was so susceptible to the criticism—because I didn’t believe I deserved to be successful and I deserved to be punished.

This sounds crazy, I know, but maybe there’s some shit inside you that you don’t know is there. I never questioned why I was so miserable, why I was so embarrassed. Why I felt like I had to apologize for being me. People who accept themselves would fight back and throw up double middle fingers. Why did I put my tail between my legs? Because I’d never known true acceptance, even from myself.

This unraveled 33 years of programming. I decided to accept myself and my writing and stop self-sabotaging. To conquer my fears, I had to finish Bitter Secrets and the three installments of Carmen’s books, which I was holding back because I didn’t think they were good enough. This is a lame excuse and I’m done with that. I’m going to revise, rewrite, and publish all my unfinished work and then go on to complete the Singed Series and do all the other stories taking up space in my mind.

I started rewrites on Bitter Secrets in August and didn’t finish until the end of November. It probably took me twice as long as it should have because I’m still living on the road and I had to battle self-doubt every damn day, but I made it. The book is almost here and the satisfaction I feel, the pride that I actually finished and that the story is better than I believed possible, makes me feel as if I’ve made one million dollars even though I haven’t made a cent.

I focused so much on the negatives of social media, but there were obvious pros that I decided were worth coming back for. Why should the trolls drive me away from hanging out with my peeps? Before, I felt like I couldn’t say what I wanted because I was afraid of offending and didn’t want to deal with any resulting mob/drama and this time… I don’t care. I’ve been through too much to allow these people to shit on my parade. My happiness is hard-won, and it doesn’t come from their approval. It comes from within, and I’m going to surround myself with people who understand, accept, and actually like me. Life’s too short to hang out with assholes. If people don’t like my shit, I really don’t care. I write for myself and if others like it too, awesome. If not, there are millions of other authors who are much more articulate and talented. Go bother one of them. Geez. So, for all of you who are actually still reading this: Fair warning. When I come back to social media, I’m not taking the shit I did last time. I’m going to be blocking or even responding to these haters if the mood strikes me to get into mischief. If you hear someone say that I told them to go fuck themselves, it’s probably true. But, know that they must have said something really nasty, and they deserved to be put in their place. 😉

Conclusion

I know this was probably a little deeper than you were expecting, but I felt the need to share, and hope my candid honesty can help someone else in their struggles.

I still live in my RV, but I’ve rented a house for the time-being, so I can do all the work necessary to release Bitter Secrets. I haven’t been in a house longer than 4 days at a stretch for 10 months, and I am stoked to have a real kitchen, heat, hot showers, backyard for the dogs, a bed I don’t have to climb into, a couch, and countless other things that would make you stare at me like I’m cuckoo.

Although I love RVing, I’m hoping to get a home base this year, so I can complete Carmen’s books and sell paperbacks and do some other stuff that is much harder on the road. I have no idea where I’ll settle. I’m keeping an eye out, but my ideal place is some cottage in the country. Anyone have any ideas? LOL. I still plan to RV in my downtime, but would like to upgrade to a truck and trailer for more room now that I know what I’m doing. Life on the road has been pretty hard on my 14-year-old shitzu. I think settling down for a while will be good for him.

I spent my time in Arizona, Nevada, and Utah this year. I'm not sure what the next year holds, but I have to say, I really love this lifestyle. It forces me out of my head and into the moment, which has helped put things into perspective. It’s also given me the freedom I craved. I’ve learned to stop controlling everything and go with the flow. I’ve learned to be more patient, adaptable, and learn to trust myself again. I’ve never been a true outdoor person, but I’ve learned to love it. One day I went hiking and took this photo:

Another day I decided to take a ride and came upon this scene:

I have to say, I’ve had a great year. Challenging? Yes. Life-altering? Also, yes. These epiphanies helped open my mind and gave me the option to embrace who I really am and, in doing that, choose happiness. You don’t have to work at being you, but it’s exhausting playing a part. After I decided to embrace my life, I was asked by some man at a park what I do for a living. For the first time ever, I told the truth. “I’m a writer,” I said, and he didn’t bat an eye. “Cool,” he responded, and that was that. I was positively giddy. He had no idea, but he helped me step into my new destiny. I was honoring the pact I made with myself. No more hiding. Truth, acceptance, joy.

I’ve always had this idea of traveling around and doing a call-out when I land in a certain town. “Anybody live here? Anyone want to get coffee or have dinner?” I really hope I do this at some point. What’s the point of living on the road and being connected to all these people if you never meet them? Another thing I love about being on the road is all the people you cross paths with. I love hearing their stories, getting to know their personalities, and lifestyle choices. Fascinating and always good for book material 😉Would anyone be interested if I did this?? Warning: I’m reserved and look homeless, but once I feel comfortable I have a winning, sarcastic personality. 🤣

Anyway, I still haven’t had carpal tunnel surgery. I try not to spend too much time on the computer without breaks, and I am more active than I was before, which helps. I’m going to release the books as quickly as I can without compromising my health. I’ve learned slow and steady wins the race, so that’s what I’ll continue to do.

I wanted to thank all of you who have been so understanding and supportive through all of this. You couldn’t have known what was going on (shit, even I didn’t know what was wrong with me), but most of you suspected it was bad. It was, but I’m happy to return with renewed fire and a positive outlook. I plan to finish what I started and hope to share many more stories with you in future!

If you got to the end of this blog, whoa. Thank you for listening and can’t wait to share Bitter Secrets with you! 💛 Happy holidays!