When it clicks.

There was a moment this past weekend while writing that I found the story going in a direction that I hadn’t anticipated.

This sent me to rework the story and go after it from a different direction.

It started, as many stories have lately by being a story prompt. This one took me where I hadn’t been before in my writing. It became more personal.

The personal aspects of it is leading me towards questions I’ve asked about my family while growing up.

Where did we come from? How did our family get to America?

I don’t know why this came up. My family has been in the U.S. on my father’s side since the 1600’s. The other side has been in the U.S. since the late 1800’s.

I know bits and pieces about aspects of my family members on one side. To me it always felt like aspects of my maternal grandmother’s family weren’t told. Those aspects are things I’ve wanted to know.

I’m choosing to delve into them with my writing.


Do you have anything published? And other things.

I bartend events on occasion and I get asked, ‘What do you do when you’re not doing this?”

“I write.” Is always my reply, then I wait for those words to compute, sometimes I get a follow-up like this, ‘Like freelance or books?’

‘I write novels and short stories.’

‘Do you have anything published?’

‘Not right now, but I’m trying to get a book published soon.’

‘Oh…” they reply and that’s the end of the conversation.

Here’s the truth. I have written four books, I’m working on number five right now and the reason I haven’t published is I guess I just haven’t.

That’s the truth. With the first two books, I got scared of publishing because they weren’t very good, first novels rarely are. With the last two, I want to get one of them published, but I’ll probably be doing Indie or self-publishing them.

Having written nearly five books, I’ve learned a lot about what works and doesn’t in the story, having never published I don’t bring in any income aside from the bartending gig.

My goal for this year is to publish two books, it doesn’t matter how, just that they’re out there for readers.

My daily routine consists of writing in the morning after dropping off my kids, working out after writing, reading in the afternoon, picking up the kids, eating and spending time with my family then editing whichever book is on the editing table at that time.

I would love to get published so I can say to these people who attend these events I bartend, “yes, I do. I have books on Amazon, iBooks, and a few others.”

I love writing more than anything else. I enjoy creating stories more than anything else and I want to share those stories, but honestly, I just haven’t gotten around to getting them published because I hadn’t found a system that works for me until recently.

Now that I have that system, I’ll be publishing in one form or another.

I write short stories and have submitted numerous stories this year to various magazines, but haven’t had a nibble, yet. I’m hoping to get one soon so I can contribute more to my family’s finances, because working one or two days a week bartending, doesn’t cut it.

Another from the Asylum Makes Her Entrance.


I guess, that’s how this should go. I know the others have had their say, but, me, I feel that…maybe…possibly, I should do something else.

Cubist is psychotic, Jack is prude and B, well, he’s the ringmaster or the Director of the Asylum that is us.

As for me, I’m Shae. I’ll just leave it as that one word. I think things are about life, death and possibly getting through adolescence, but that’s another story for another day.

I won’t keep you waiting, or write a lot like Cubist, he does that. I’ll just say,




It started behind my right ear, dug in deep to the inner cortex and moved towards my frontal lobe, stopping, pushing and holding until I released the pain in a torrent of liquid.

My hearing heightened as if I living in Hell’s Kitchen.

But it didn’t stop, I felt punished and devoid of my thought processes.

My brain, pulsed, ached and pounded within my skull. The force felt like it was splitting through the tissue covering my grey matter, but it didn’t desist, it kept coming, striking and throttling my head .

I lay motionless. My body worn and pushed beneath the surface of who I was.

Each throttling threw my head into my hands as I curled into a fetal position.

I’d regressed until I felt the suddenness of the chemical hit the blood stream.

My hands fell to my sides, my head resting softly against the pillow until my eyes closed and I blacked out.