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During the day, I'm a structural engineer. When I'm not a total introvert, I enjoy being alone, flying in the backcountry, hiking, and paddle boarding with my dog, Apollo.

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Mondays are my favorite day of the week, I love my family, and each day I give the world all that I can. Child of a Mad God by R. Ravi Chandra Singh injects spirituality into modern day technology. In times of severe stress like now , Ravi sees gods. Om Her beautiful monster Enjoy another 'exhilarating roller-coaster ride of unusual cases' Publishers Weekly in this second book of the Ravi PI series, featuring detective Ravi Chandra Singh and his team at the gleefully amoral, unfailingly dangerous secret agency Golden Sentinels.

With its firecracker box-set pace and spectacular big-budget imagery, Adi Tantimedh's Her Beautiful Monster is the best high- concept television show you've never seen, with hardboiled Hindu gods and two-fisted theology acted out against the treachery, politics, and violence of a blisteringly modern digital world.

Walking the precarious tightrope between shamus and shaman, Tantimedh's vivid and divinely beleaguered Ravi is a triumph of the fabulous. Introduce yourself to him immediately Tantimedh's second fun-filled romp brings back PI Ravi and the gang of Hindu deities who turn up in his hallucinations to offer sharp and mischievous comments on the action. Ravi's adventures in London and LA push the boundaries of the gumshoe genre to the limit, but he and his oddball posse human and divine sweep you along with breezy readability.

Once again, Tantimedh ebulliently spins out a world in which pandemonium doesn't reign; it pours. She stopped at the bottom of the concrete stairs that led to the entrance, an entrance marked by ever glowing neon lights and double glass doors. She had yet to flick away the cigarette burning slowly between two fingers and her free hand pushed her wild hair from her eyes. She was suffering from the same exhaustion and stress and heartbreak Matt felt, but there was something more, something like confusion and a little bit like guilt since she knew Duke had been trying to get to her.

Rory started crying, crying really hard, alone in a parking lot in the gray light before dawn. It was a pitiful sight, especially when Rory wrapped her arms around herself to keep from completely going to pieces. Forgotten, the cigarette was still burning down between her two fingers. Matt climbed from the car, slipping his keys in his pocket and nudging his door shut with his hip.

All she offered Matt was her back.

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He grabbed her shoulder and spun her around to face him. And I am selfish and I do make everything about me, but he still wanted to see me. Rory brought her hands to her face, sad and shamed and tired, and Matt took her into his arms. Matt shushed her. Matt laughed softly and tried to soothe her further by gently rubbing her back. They stayed like that for some time, not saying anything, happy just to be held until the sky turned rosy gold. They headed inside the diner, and over coffee and pancakes, they talked about anything and everything but Duke.

They returned to the hospital a few hours later. Matt used the time to sleep and shower, but Rory stayed put, dozing across a few chairs for 30 minutes at a time, pacing up and down the hallway, and chugging coffee incessantly. When the doctor came to find her and tell her she could see Duke for just a few minutes, Rory did her best to patiently listen to the doctor; he advised her to speak softly and stay calm. If she were to make it worse, she would not be able to live with herself Rory found herself panicked into silence as the doctor excused himself and shut the door softly behind him.

He was the only one to use her full name, not even her parents did, and the sound of it nearly caused her to collapse. He laughed but it was almost inaudible. Rory stepped forward, trying to stay composed. She remembered herself after a moment and offered a disappointing smile. Duke stared straight ahead, blinking furiously. He was also terrified of what lay ahead, that he might make such mistakes again. Everything he felt and believed he had to consider was overwhelming and he knew his voice would be affected as a result, and sound shaky and overcome with emotion.

He wanted to be strong. Rory straightened up and looked down at Duke with a soft, sad smile that Duke suddenly wanted to violently smash. Duke lay there, absolutely loathing himself until he fell asleep. Rory and Matt returned the next day, sometime in the early afternoon.

Rory had smuggled in one of those milkshakes you mix yourself from the local convenience store and she was thrilled to find Duke in much better spirits. She gave the milkshake most of the credit. So one day while Duke was still recovering in the hospital, she emptied and disposed of all the liquor bottles and syringes, moving from room to room, carefully inspecting each for hiding places both clever and obvious. Matt helped, dutifully following Rory from room to room as an extra pair of eyes and as an extra pair of strong and sturdy hands.

Rory vacuumed the broken glass, removed the wooden shards, and cleaned the bloody palm print from beside the front door. It was almost as if Duke had never left that night, but only almost. His breath moved in and out in shuddery spasms as Rory pushed his wheelchair over the threshold of his home. It was the same, but it was also entirely different. Once inside, Duke opted to wheel himself around. He moved from room to room in the same way Matt and Rory had, but it was unclear what it was Duke was searching for. His face was immoveable and his expression was impossible to read.

Matt and Rory contented themselves with following just a few paces behind. They were intrinsically and inexplicably cautious, anticipating some kind of outburst from their stormily silent friend. Both assumed his stoicism was only temporary, but Duke kept on keeping on. She paused to clear her throat. Duke raised his chin to indicate a bizarre looking light upon the end table on the left side of the bed.

Rory stepped forward, a dull, pulsing heat rising in her cheeks. But again, all she managed was awkward and forced and lame. He looked around the room once more before deciding to leave. Matt stepped to the side to allow Duke to roll past, but then he lingered where he was. So once Duke was on the road to recovery and absolutely all of the damage could be assessed, Matt stopped dropping by everyday though he did check in on a daily basis.

Rory was more devoted, as she always had been and always would be; she went food shopping, drove Duke to all of his appointments and anywhere else he needed to be, cooked dinners at least once a week, stayed on top of the bills and let Duke know which money was due when. She took care of her best friend until he was able to get around without assistance and was cleared to drive, which was well after the spring semester had ended and well into the beginning of the following fall semester.

Rory never registered for classes and much to the chagrin of those who knew and loved her Duke included , she never returned to school. Rory moved back in with her parents because the rent was free and she was only blocks away from Duke, so when he needed pain relief in the dead of night or when he woke sweating and screaming from god awful nightmares, she could be on her way before Duke even hung up the phone.

It was a perfect situation until her parents started to get pushy about school, until her parents asked her pointed questions about exactly what she was sacrificing and for whom, until she could no longer ignore the valid points her parents raised during difficult discussions that rapidly increased in frequency. And since she was well-known, and more importantly well-liked, Rory had no trouble getting hired at the local tavern and in the two years that followed, she was able to work her way from hostess to bartender. Between the tips from the regular customers who adored her and the tutoring jobs she scheduled on the side, she made ends meet.

It was a quiet, simple kind of life. So the all-important conversation about what it all meant for both parties involved never came up. In all the hours spent nursing Duke back to health, spent helping Duke regain mobility and independence and a sense of identity, neither him or Rory talked about the constantly advancing September or points beyond. The first time I thought I had any real talent, or any real future with writing, was when I was in the third grade if you can believe it.

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We had a homework assignment having to do with vocabulary, and I wrote a poem using the entire list of vocabulary words. The first season is pretty much universally lauded as a masterpiece, and I agree. I highly recommend both, as Pizzolatto tells fresh stories with a love of language. His prose, while dark, is beautiful and cerebral. But the second season is pretty much universally lauded as garbage though I think history will be kinder than the current climate of critics.

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There were so many plot lines and so many characters that nothing ever felt authentically fleshed out, and the ending was deeply unsatisfying. I did some research, and came across an article that Pizzolatto was deeply affected by the criticisms of the first season and wrote the second season as a response. Instead of guarding his art, he lost his voice.

I am by no means passing judgement. So when season three was announced, I was more than skeptical. I had no expectations, really. And boy, was I pleasantly surprised. Season three is a subtle, nuanced narrative that is delicately crafted to expose the many problems that come from the passing of time, failing memories, and the choices people make with no regard for future consequences.

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Particularly in the last couple of episodes, Dorff shined and added a human element that was more palpable and tangible than what the main story line had to offer. Granted, the third season had definite parallels to the first season, and I suppose it could be argued that Pizzolatto simply reverted back to what worked instead of venturing into new literary territory, but I call bullshit.

Entertainment Weekly gave the finale a C rating and wrote a hit piece, specifically blasting a heartbreaking scene featuring Dorff. I read it angrily, remembering that scene from season one when Woody Harrelson accuses Matthew McConaughey of shitting on any moment of human decency. But I digress; back to the list. When I first seriously started writing, I thought everything would be easy and happen in a predictable pattern.

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I thought everyone I encountered genuinely believed in me and my talent. However, I have learned the hard way that some people just want to stroke their own egos and make money, and some people have no problem doing that at the expense of a young writer. It costs money to make money, even as a writer! The greatest asset as a writer, other than the obvious necessity of talent, is a professional network. It really helps you get your foot in the door if you know someone. I know no one, so to start making connections and contacts, I began attending conferences, which is really the only way to go.

Unfortunately, attending legitimate conferences where you can meet agents and editors and other serious writers costs money. That cost does not include travel and lodging and other incidentals, and that can be difficult to manage on an average salary, which leads me right to my next point… It takes time! It takes patience to finish a novel, send it out to agents and publishers, and wait to hear back. But it also takes time to hone the craft, to read and to write. It takes time to travel to conferences. I realized that writing takes serious time, and needs to be prioritized.

I need to start turning down invitations and stay off Candy Crush and social media to get writing done. I have to choose my writing over other obligations, even those that involve my job, because it is my true passion and what I love to do. I never thought it would happen to me. But when I sit down at the computer, sometimes, nothing comes. I thought I could have my cake and eat it too, that I could write while having a life. I have to do it everyday and pursue agents tenaciously. People are people are people; no two human beings are the same, so no two writers are the same and no two writers are going to have the same exact path to publication.

And no two writers are going to have the same art. Finding a tribe! I recommend finding a writing group, or a book club, or even just one person who will talk shop with you. Writers can often be introverts and have trouble selling themselves and their works. Staying relevant releasing new material! It takes time to be published, so in between releases, how does a writer stay relevant? This blog is one way, but I want to be able to keep my writing in the spotlight. Was the list helpful?

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Was there something I missed? All I want, and all I have ever wanted, is to be loved. I surround myself, mostly, with people who temporarily need me, thinking it will grow into some kind of permanence but unfortunately, it rarely does. It is a real possibility that people out there are mean, plain and simple. If not mean, then self-serving. I should start celebrating the completion of drafts and manuscripts. I should get my nails done and go shopping — self-care is always a good idea.

I mean, I moved way less and cheated on my diet on 5 out of 7 days of the week. Or to love myself? So yeah; I will celebrate when my next book is completed by taking care of myself. What about my fellow writers out there? What do you do to celebrate when you finish a book?

And here are Ten Tips for Happier Living: 1. Go for a run or a light jog. Meditate or do deep breathing for five minutes. Take a break when you need it. Choose who you spend time with. Laugh heartily at least once a day. Eat green daily. Avoid emotional eating!! Start a journal. Check and check! I have TONS. Stop overthinking. So difficult for me! Acknowledge these thoughts are not productive. Challenge your thoughts. Acknowledge that your thoughts may be exaggeratedly negative.

Keep the focus on active problem-solving. Schedule time for reflection. But how does one practice mindfulness? Take a seat Set a time limit Notice your body Feel your breath Notice when your mind has wandered Be kind to your wandering mind. I hope these tips prove beneficial for other writers up there who are trying to improve their respective head spaces. I worry that it makes me boring and predictable and safe. I also worry it influences what I write, like how all of my first drafts are wildly melodramatic. I always do the responsible thing and revise, but is that guarding my art?

Am I dumbing it down too much? Or am I just overthinking? Maybe all writing is juvenile — at least at its most basic level — because all it really is, is wish fulfillment, simply a continuous retelling, or re-imagining, of a specific moment in time the author cannot move past. But then where does that leave this blog? Rather than pump out mediocre responses to Googled prompts on a bi-weekly basis, I thought I could approach entries with more direction and, as a result, more substance. Why not really delve into the writing life?

Simple as that. Happy reading, folks! Comment with your reading resolutions, and feel free to share recommendations! Better yet, find me on Goodreads. The weird thing is that no one wants to grow up. No one really wants knowledge or to face consequences or be responsible. Being a human being is hard at any age. The goal is to send it to agents I spoke with at the conference in June next week.

Wish me luck! The sky was an uninteresting shade of gray. Michelle eyed it warily through the kitchen window as she let the faucet run, waiting for the water to get warm before she started the dishes. She had removed her rings, her engagement ring, her wedding ring, and the blue sapphire with the gold band she had inherited from her grandmother, and placed them carefully on the window ledge above the sink. The windows looked out over the backyard, an especially desolate scene at the end of a bitterly cold January.

Thinking of warmer and greener climates, she sighed as the front door was swung open.


Michelle spun to see William entering the home, closing the front door firmly behind him against the rising wind. On the television earlier that day, the meteorologist had looked very serious indeed, with his shirtsleeves rolled above the elbows, as he warned of the impending squall. Michelle Googled the definition on her phone and was glad she had taken the day off. Her fever had been mild and her cough had not returned, but a day spent mostly beneath the covers had done her a world of good.

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She hurried to William, smiling, and offering to take his coat. William nodded, blowing on his hands as he rubbed them together. I probably would have survived a day at the office, but traveling in this cold also could have knocked me right back on my ass, you know? He sat to take off his shoes and Michelle turned to the closet to hang his coat up for him.

Michelle assumed he was on his way to the fridge. She hung his coat and smoothed it lovingly with her palms. It was a stylish, expensive coat Michelle had bought William for his 35th birthday. He looked absolutely perfect in it, and she was glad she had married a handsome man.

She thought about his strong body and full head of hair, but as her hands passed over the coat, she felt a lump. Michelle was worried William had left his car keys in his pocket, but digging her hands in the soft fabric revealed nothing. His pockets were empty. Determined to find whatever it was, Michelle dug her hands into the pockets on the inside of the coat and on the left side, she retrieved a small, velvet-covered box.

A box that held jewelry, specifically rings. William had been standing in front of the fridge, guzzling a bottle of beer. When Michelle walked in with the box, the color fled from his face and he sputtered beer across the kitchen. He looked terribly guilty and Michelle felt terribly stupid once she began to understand. She grabbed her boots and slid them on, and she shoved herself into her winter coat. She was digging through the bowl that kept their keys by the front door when she heard footsteps. She found her keys and was out the door before William could say another word.

Whether it was the inclement weather or the tears in her eyes, Michelle waited for the squall to pass before she continued away from the home she shared with William. I am so fucking annoying to myself. Will it be enough to get published?