As most (many, all) of you know, much of the world is under quarantine because of COIVID-19. There is a lot of propaganda from all sides–at least here in America where everything must be driven by politics, else is cannot exist–that says this is a media hype created by the liberals, or an attempt for the conservatives to look good because they took action. And so much of this discourse is surrounding people and group thought, that the truth that people worldwide are getting very, very sick is going to the wayside.

So today I’m not going into all of the politics surrounding this issue. Today, I will only deal with the truth, and my truth. My experience is the only experience I am a true expert on; and it’s the only side of the story I can tell.

What this quarantine means for me is a lot of time away from work. I know I’ve kept is a major secret that I’m a teacher (aka not a secret at all). So while I am thankfully not economically impacted by this, this social distancing is impacting my job nonetheless.

I am a mega, super, giant extrovert. So I am first and foremost made really uncomfortable by staying home all the time. I require people. I require going out. I require attention (and lots of it), so being cooped up inside really puts a strain on my mental health. I feel lost without other people, which I’m sure is a ridiculous thing to say. But I do. I long for days with my coworkers. I long for a chance to see them face-to-face, to be in proximity. And they’re struggling too, as evidenced by our nonstop group texts.

A few weeks ago, I drove three hours from my house to the Dallas area stay the night with my best friend before my flight to Rhode Island. I prefer flying out of Dallas, even though there is a small regional airport in the city where I live. It also gives me an excuse to spend time with my best friend and her kids, who have thought of me as their uncle since birth.

As I was driving, I was listening to Stay Sexy and Don’t Get Murdered: The Definitive How-To Guide. At this point, I have spent more than two years listening to Georgia Hardstark and Karen Kilgariff tell me about heinous crimes. While I’m aware they’re not everybody’s cup of tea for so many reasons, they are exactly my cup of tea. So I knew this memoir was exactly what I needed for my drive. And as I listened to their words, I was overcome with tears.

Now, to be fair, I’ve had a really tough few weeks at work. I’ve experienced stress from a million angles and I haven’t have a chance to properly sort through anything I’ve been feeling. But something about their words, about this book existing, and this particular drive hit home for me. Something Georgia said about going to see Ray Bradbury speak after his books essentially saved her life.

After she had the chance to talk to him in person (oh my God, can you imagine? I’d have died for real.) and give him a letter she’d written for him. In the mail a few weeks later, she received a package from THE Ray Bradbury himself. In it was a letter thanking her for her kinds words, and a copy of Zen in the Art of Writing, which he’d signed and inscribed on the inside: Onward!

Look who’s back with a book review! Me, it’s me. I’ve been reading. And painting. And singing. And performing. And not finding quite enough time for self care, but I’m getting there. I’ve even found a few spare minutes here and there to play a few video games.

This week, I had the immense pleasure of reading No Truth Left to Tell, a brilliant work of historical fiction that rings most–if not all–of my bells. Cops, crime, moral dilemmas, and a hint of home, as it is set in the fictional town of Lynnwood, Louisiana.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned this somewhere on here, but I am one of the hosts of a true crime podcast, Lifetime Sentence. As such, I love learning about true crime. That also means, however, that I am very picky with crime novels. They have to be believable; they have to have a premise that compels me, and the investigations must be well-researched, because I’ve done a lot of reading about actual investigations. Tomorrow we will release our 62nd episode on top of the bonus cases we cover on Patreon, so I have a little experience with the investigation process. All that to say, No Truth Left to Tell doesn’t feel forced in its treatment of things. Even when investigators catch a lucky break, it still felt authentic. That happens all the time in real life.

Today I flew to Providence, Rhode Island, for a week-long workshop. I’m really pumped about the things I’m going to be learning and all the ways I’ll be able to use them in my classroom. I love bringing innovation and excitement to my room; kids need it. And God knows I need it.

This morning, I woke up at the ungodly hour of 3 AM and began my harrowing journey to the airport. I came downstairs at my best friend’s house after showering, and was greeted by a TV flickering in the living room. Odd. We turned the TV off before we all went to bed last night. Then suddenly, at the sound of my footsteps, the TV flickered off and I noticed that the lid to the ottoman was off-center. I hope and pray that one of my best friend’s children was in the ottoman, because I had just enough time to have a minor heart attack and get in my car to drive to the airport. I guess I should check in with her and make sure they’re all alive.

My GPS took me to the wrong place–which wasn’t bad, it just said the airport was on the wrong side of the road. I turned around in a parking and went to try again, except there was a curb in the middle of that road. (Dallas, what’s up with that?) So I drove the wrong way up a highway for about twenty feet. Thank God it was 3 AM so there were no cops or anybody else to see me. I was so embarrassed.

When I finally got to the airport, things went a lot more smoothly. Airports at 4am are a very strange place. There are men in business suits and teenagers in pajamas all sitting side-by-side, ignoring the world in favor of their cell phones. There are women with big bags people-watching and couples with dogs that are too cute for me to pass without petting (the dogs, not the people.) The smell of Auntie Anne’s pretzels mix with the bite of Starbucks and somewhere in the distance, the sound of the Chick-Fil-A grate announces the arrival of chicken biscuits in our lives.

2019 summed up:

If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.

So, the long version of things is 2019 was a rough year for me. Every time I got on here to post a blog, all I could think to do was talk about how bad things were in my life. And the rational part of me–that part that I bury deep because I much prefer to be emotional and that makes me “quirky”–couldn’t claw its way out of a hole. All I could see was darkness surrounding me, and for no reason.

I know I’ve written about my depression on here before, so I try not to be a broken record about things. But this was a particularly rough year. The best way I can quantify it is this: it was my least productive year, maybe in my entire life. I didn’t read much. I didn’t paint much. I didn’t leave my house much.

I allowed myself to be pulled into this endless cycle of going to work and coming home. And when I’d get home, I’d be so tired that writing or reading were the last things I could even fathom doing. What I could fathom doing was getting on here and letting my fingers rip everybody with whom I’d come into contact that day to shreds. So I just didn’t type anything.

Kilauea’s smoldering lava fields — a unique place to bury the bodies.

Recently, I had the pleasure of reading a new crime novel by Robert McCaw, Off the Grid. And it’s like the jacket copy was made just for me.

For those of you who don’t know, I am the co-host of a true crime podcast, Lifetime Sentence. I am a true crime addict. I watch Forensic Files and everything Investigation Discovery has to offer. I’ve made a hobby of talking about murder. I know, I know. It’s so morbid. You don’t have to tell me.

All that to say, a book about murders in Hawaii seemed like the perfect read for me, especially following a book that I was not quite feeling. And what a breath of fresh air this was, too! I mean, as fresh as murder can possibly be.

Do any of you remember the original Top Gun? Tom Cruise, the reckless bad boy in a flight suit. The killer soundtrack (my mother-in-law listened to her copy of the soundtrack so many times that it stopped working recently). The action. The needless love story. It was one of the few movies I actually watched as a kid (I’ve never been a movie kind of person.)

Some time ago, I got an email asking if I’d like to read an upcoming book billed as “Top Gun for the new millennium,” there was no way I could say no. I didn’t even read the jacket copy, which is unusual for me. I just gladly accepted a copy of the book, excited to read an action book.

I’m not typically an action reader. My books are always slow-burn kind of books. I like quiet. I like espionage. I like books that take their time and pull me in. So I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect when I finally got the chance to read Lions of the Sky.

So… You may have noticed I’ve been gone for a while. You may not have, I don’t know. But the fact remains, I have been gone for nearly three months from the Pluckyverse.

I took some time off this summer to recover from the busy school year and to set up my new classroom and to start learning my new curriculum. Then I took some time off to recover from the busy start to summer. Then I went to workshops and meetings and I was still recovering from recovering. And then I needed to recover from my recovery period, and suddenly I look up, and here September is, creeping its way into October already.

The world kept spinning while I was recovering, and it left me in the dust. At first I called it a rut. Then a phase. Then I reminded myself that I always do this. I always withdraw from people and books and keep to myself as much as possible. (I never do that. I’m an extreme extrovert and a voracious reader.)