Thirteen Months

It all started when I realized that maybe being a cancer researcher wasn't my purpose in life. I was in a PhD program, living ten hours away from the nearest person who even knew my favorite color, when I realized that. Few things hurt me more than dropping out of grad school. It wasn't lost on me that I was making the conscious decision to take everything I'd ever worked for and shoot it in the face: my pride, my self-confidence, my expensive college education, my entire self-concept. It was agonizing and I had no one to blame but myself.

While I waited for the lease on my apartment to end and for my irate mother to come save me from myself, I was awaiting something else with far more dread. My cat was 19 years old and fading fast. She hardly ate anymore and all she did was sleep. She meowed when she wanted me to put her in the window and she meowed when she wanted me to move her to my bed. Seeing her so frail broke my heart in the most visceral sense. I knew I was on the verge of losing her. So, I turned to something that I hadn't done in a long time.

I hadn't written a story since the fourth grade. I considered anything that wasn't math or science to be a complete waste of my time. I'd found a one-sided love in research like you wouldn't believe. Art was a foreign language I never cared to decipher. Emotions were for other people. My life was safe and sterile, my purpose mighty and untouchable. But I ruined all of that.

I hated myself when I started writing again. I thought to myself, "You're just doing this because you can't find anything more useful to fill your time." And that had some truth to it. I couldn't bear the thought of what I'd become (unemployed, ugh) and I couldn't bear to look at my dying cat and empty apartment. I did anything I could to escape.

A world started to take shape in my head. Rules, magic, and a fair helping of regret: Beritru the Brutal was born. Some snark and apathy: Arvul. Then little Vonrael Solus, who would bear all the pain I felt. He would share in my tears, my hateful disillusionment, and my quiet triumph at the end of it all. I made a whole cast of characters and I entrusted a piece of myself to each of them.

Thirteen months is a long time to write. In that time, my heart broke more before it began to heal. I held my cat as she died. I sold my car, my symbol of independence. I left science for good and started from the ground up in IT. Each wave of grief and uncertainty fueled my writing. Likewise, each day I didn't cry became a pebble in my growing mosaic of self-assurance. Page by page, I became more whole.

I published The Afternoon King with the hopes of helping someone like myself. I wanted to give another grieving person a story to relate to without saying, "I understand you." I don't understand your loss. You don't understand mine. But we can both look at each other and know that we're in pain. I would've been happy with that.

This past weekend my book was named a Finalist in the Fantasy category in the 13th Annual National Indie Excellence Awards. I couldn't be more proud of the little digital sticker I get to put on the cover. All it took was an imploded career, a dead cat, and thirteen months.