Tami Parker

Fantasy Author & Other Duties as Assigned

Latest stories

An Oil Change

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So a few weekends ago I changed the oil in my car for the first time.

To some of you, this is a pretty boring topic, I realize. For me, however, it was the first time I’d ever even CONSIDERED doing it, and it was … interesting.

It’s all my mom’s fault, really.

So I mention that I need an oil change. Mom says, “Hell, I can do that for you.” And I think to myself, “She sounds pretty darn confident, and I am not feeling the motivation to go into a shop.”

“Let’s do this thing.”

Famous last words?

So we stop at an auto parts store and buy 5 quarts of oil and a filter.

The guy recommends the oil. Mom is thinking the price seems a little steep (and I still don’t know if it was. He said he gave us a deal on the fifth quart, but the bottle said it was the lowest tier of oil and the overall price was pretty close to what I remember paying for an oil change at a shop … eh, I dunno.) The filter is definitely a nice filter.

We get home (after noodling around birding for a while. There are a great many hawks in the area that are probably still baffled by a little white Juke that keept creeping up on them), Mom lays out these plastic rampy things, and I drive the car up so that his nose is pointed somewhat more skyward than usual.

Then, we wait.

Lesson the first – driving makes the oil HOT. But if you haven’t driven the car, the oil won’t be hot enough. You’ve got to Goldilocks this thing, where the oil is warm but not burning. Because you WILL get oil on you and you do NOT want skin-searing oil on you while you’re trapped under a behemoth.

We lay a cardboard box down on the driveway and Mom and I scootch under.

“This,” she says, pointing to something that looks like a turtle shell on the passenger side of my car’s delicate underbelly, “is where the oil is. You can feel how it’s still too hot.”

I touch the turtle shell and murmur as to how I agree it seems more warmish than not warmish.

“This,” she says, pointing to a palm-sized cup hanging off the side of the turtle shell, “is your filter.”

I nod, feeling myself growing wiser by the second.

“And that,” she says, pointing to a bolt at the front of the turtle shell, “Is what you’re going to remove so that the oil drains out.

This all sounds very reasonable.

  1. Remove the bolt
  2. Wait for it to drain
  3. Remove the cup (filter)
  4. Replace the cup with the NEW cup
  5. Replace the bolt
  6. Fill it back up with oil

What could go wrong?

So, let’s take a look at step 1, shall we?

Or, if we may, step 1/2. Because I am NOT changing the oil in my car in my nice jeans and shirt, no sirree bob. So mom digs out her “painting clothes.”

You guys. I love my Mom. I do. But these … these are not even worthy of a rag bin. There’s a sweatshirt that has nearly as many holes as it does fabric. I think it used to be a Christmas themed shirt? You can’t even tell anymore because it’s so stained.

Then there are a pair of shorts that have seen better days. The less said about them, the better.

It’s fine though. I mean. I’m changing the oil in a car, not heading to a movie premier. I’m no stranger to dressing for work, and pride is a stupid thing to ruin good clothes over.

So, the next thing is to find something to put the OLD oil in. Because you can’t just let that stuff into the wild. It’s bad for the environment and I’ve seen enough Captain Planet to know better.

Mom found … some kind of metal bin. God only knows from where. Maybe it used to be part of a stove? We put it on a rolly cart that she also got from some mysterious place. The cart has a handle. The handle doesn’t actually pop up, so the bin is resting on the folded handle at an angle.

However? It actually works pretty darn well. Fit under the car at just the right height and the wheels meant I could position it easily.

So then I take THE LARGEST WRENCH IN EXISTENCE under the car with me and find the matching sized … um … socket? Whatever. To match to the bolt. Then I turn.

Nothing.

So I turn the other way.

Still nothing.

Did I mention the wrench is magnetic? So every time I awkwardly brandish it, it slams itself in a random direction, CLANGING as it hugs whatever metal thing I got too close to.

“Turn it towards the passenger side,” says Mom helpfully.

I try. Nothing.

So I throw my weight against it and WILL THE BASTARD TO TURN.

It works. He turns a little, then slips easily open the rest of the way. Dark oil slides out of the turtle shell in an even pour, I got a few drops on my fingers, and all is right with the world.

We wait. A LONG time. (Like, to the point where mom was getting worried). But finally the pour turns into a drip, which stops.

So I go under the car, new filter in hand, and unscrew the old filter. It (and the oil inside of it) drop into the pan without resistance. I can only assume my mighty wrench skills scared the stiffness out of it.

One finger wet with old oil, I grease the grooves to the new filter and screw it in place.

Then I use THE LARGEST WRENCH IN EXISTENCE to put the … thingy back on the thing. The nut? Bolt? Whatever. You know what I mean.

Mom checks my work to make sure it’s tight enough. All good. I am feeling pretty damn fine right about now. Lookit me, a woman of the world, changing my own oil.

Two small drops of oil mark the spot, a piddly amount. Pride, thy name is Tami.

We roll the cart out from beneath the car and I realize that we have accidentally avoided a disaster.

You see, the bin was at an angle on the rolly cart.

Had the bin been at the OPPOSITE angle, the oil would have easily fled the bin by way of two pencil-sized holes.

I mean, a disaster averted is still a good thing, but it was a little alarming to see how close we came to a giant mess. VERY carefully, we move the bin to the side. Mom says a lot of auto parts stores will take the old oil for free and recycle it or something.

But our adventure is far from over, dear readers.

“Ready to pour the new oil in?” “Yup!”

Handily, I note that there is a funnel already in place, so I take the first quart and start pouring.

After the smallest of pauses, I hear the pitterpatter of liquid hitting cement.

Crap.

“Mom?” I call out in what surely sounded less like a scared little kid in reality than in my memory.

Her eyes widen and she checks under the car. (Later, she tells the story and includes her perspective, which is that OIL IS COMING FROM EVERYWHERE, WHAT THE HELL DID WE DO TO THIS CAR?! but from my perspective in the moment, she gave a strangled little sound and said “Well, that’s not supposed to happen.”)

Turns out the funnel wasn’t QUITE in place, and I needed to pour slowly because the funnel never would quite perfectly seal the entryway into the turtle shell below.

Fine. Right. I mean. I had no way of knowing, but there’s a small flood of oil beneath the car now and things are FINE.

Cardboard box is sacrificed to try and soak up some of the mess for now.

I add the rest of the oil without mishap.

Interestingly enough, NEW oil looks like golden syrup. OLD oil looks like something that would turn you into a supervillain. Mom says that’s how you know it’s doing its job — it catches all the dirt and grime and stuff and keeps it from hurting the engine. BUT, it certainly makes me feel more motivated to make sure oil changes happen on time. Old oil is very clearly old oil, even when it’s only a LITTLE bit past the point where the window sticker says you need an oil change.

Right. Anyway, with the oil change officially done, I grab some kitty litter and drizzle the oil spots.

That, my friends, is when the delightful and wonderful neighbor lady, Gail, comes over to introduce Mom and myself to her son, the world traveler.

Need I remind you that I currently look like a hobo? And not just ANY hobo, but one slightly more hard on her luck than usual? Sidewalk dirt in my hair, oil on my hands, wearing clothing no self-respecting rat would use to line her nest?

I introduce myself as the homeless person my mom is helping out. Mom and I theorized that they were going to invite us to dinner at the local bar, and I scared them off. We’re both only half-joking.

They escape (very politely and without any overt signs of horror in their eyes, which is awfully nice of them. My legs are so pale they probably couldn’t even see past them to realize how shredded my shirt was).

I am granted permission to shower and change clothes. (Cleanliness is next to godliness, folks.)

Our story winds down as my brother stops by later that evening. As an ACTUAL mechanic (like, who does this kind of stuff for a living, but on gigantic big rigs instead of wee little fellows like my Juke), he gets a giggle out of the whole situation, declares the entire engine area doused with oil, and says I can expect burning-oil-smell and dripping off for a few days. Because I really did kind of get it EVERYWHERE.

And he was right. Tiny spots as I pull out of parking lots for the next few days, but no disasters.

I tell you, though, there’s an interesting sort of stress that comes with working on your own vehicle. I had a three hour drive home, and was at least a LITTLE worried the whole way that the car might explode. Or catch fire. Or catch fire, THEN explode.

So that is how I learned to change the oil in my car, horrified the neighbors, terrified myself a little, and saved about $25.

(I will be more than happy to let a professional take care of my next oil change, you guys. Just sayin’)

What is this Blog?

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The History of My Blogging

I find myself at a conundrum.

I’ve had a blog ever since college. (Livejournal peeps in the hoooouuuuuse)

I used that original blog for some randomness … but mostly for posting Blue Moon serially.

I had a blog for my weight loss way back when, and nixed the blog once I hit my goal weight. (No, I won’t give you a link, and yes, it was hilarious to re-read younger me’s writing voice)

I had Egotistical Priest for a long time, which focused on World of Warcraft … a game I no longer dedicate that sort of time and effort to.

There was Choose, which was for posting another story. And TavenMoore, which focused rather strongly on the writing craft.

The Present Tense of My Blogging

Now, I’ve been struggling with what to post.

I’ve never been a slice of life blogger, and it feels weird to even consider a blog based solely on what’s going on in my life right now. I never like that sort of spotlight anyway. Even my facebook is primarily cat photos (though I’m down to checking it maybe once a week, so even that is a waning endeavor).

When I think about the sorts of things I would blog about with a focus on slice of life … it rings hollow. False, like a bell made of plastic.

The writing prompts that I posted for much of last year honestly didn’t generate much commentary — I don’t really know that anyone was reading or enjoying them (which is totally fine, so please don’t rush to their defense in the comments). They weren’t serious writing for me anyway, more like rough sketches to keep my writing from completely atrophying.

Book reviews also — I enjoy sharing the books that impact me, but I’m not sure any of the readers here really care to have an alternate stream of reading suggestions and I don’t want to start posting negative reviews just because they’re more entertaining. Positivity, yes. Negativity, no thank you.

Thinking Thunky Thoughts

So I’ve been doing some thinking. I do like having a blog. I like the link to the readers, most of whom I have no other real contact with. I get to check in on YOUR lives a little every time you comment, and it makes me happy.

But I don’t want to blog JUST to blog, either. I want to have some kind of content that makes ME feel fulfilled and that I hope you would enjoy reading.

I don’t feel comfortable posting my next work in progress here. I am itching to throw my hat in the traditional publishing ring, even if just to see whether I get any bites. That means no early chapters posted anywhere. Plus, it allows me the luxury of crappy writing that can be edited later … and also for purely selfish reasons allows me to keep you (my pool of alpha and beta readers) unsullied by previous knowledge when I beg you to read it later.

So what’s a Tami to do?

Learning is My Bag, Baby

Well, I’ve evaluated my history and I think that I am happiest when I am sharing things that I have learned.

Whether it’s a new recipe, a video game trick, or a writing technique — that’s when I’m happiest as a blogger.

So that’s what I’m going to try. And if that doesn’t work … well, I can always convert it to a static site if I need to.

So on that note, I hope you’re all SUPER interested to learn about Hawaii, because my next book takes place on a volcanic island and I have PAGES of hand-drawn notes to transcribe.

Finish the Story: Mother

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Join in for a lighthearted, no-pressure writing prompt. Leave your perfectionist at the door and follow a dangling story thread to see where it leads you.

I always post my story doodle in the comments, and I’d absolutely love to see yours as well if you feel comfortable sharing it!

Even after a long day at work, my mother’s hands worked tirelessly: chopping vegetables for dinner, stitching our clothes, whatever needed doing. I loved her hands and admired them. I wanted to be strong like her. But at the time, I couldn’t be. I would have, and gladly, if I weren’t so …

Finish the Story: Kids

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Join in for a lighthearted, no-pressure writing prompt. Leave your perfectionist at the door and follow a dangling story thread to see where it leads you.

I always post my story doodle in the comments, and I’d absolutely love to see yours as well if you feel comfortable sharing it!

Sometimes kids are the only ones willing to say what’s really on their minds, and our family needed a little dose of honesty. We almost never said something straight out. My mother was the worst. All she would do was …

Finish the Story: Family

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Join in for a lighthearted, no-pressure writing prompt. Leave your perfectionist at the door and follow a dangling story thread to see where it leads you.

I always post my story doodle in the comments, and I’d absolutely love to see yours as well if you feel comfortable sharing it!

I stopped for a breath before cutting the turkey. I wanted to appreciate the moment. Seeing everyone there, sitting around the table, almost felt like we were family again. But if we had been a real family …

Memories of Prissy, The Motherliest of All Shar-Pei

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Prissy the Shar-Pei

Growing up, the first dog I remember in our family was Prissy. A rescued Shar-Pei, she was one of the sweetest and gentlest dogs you could hope for.

I remember her wrinkled cinnamon-roll tail and her round manatee-like muzzle with equal fondness.

Mother

The most interesting thing about Prissy wasn’t her breed, however. It was how devotedly she approached the life calling of “Mother”.

She gave birth to exactly one litter of puppies while in our care. Apparently, that wasn’t remotely sufficient for her big heart.

If a puppy ever graced our backyard, her cinnamon-roll would spiral in the closest thing to a wag she could accomplish, and she would scootch under the old truck we had in the back and produce toys we didn’t even remember giving to her. Anything to please the young pup. Balls, frisbees, dirty rags that used to be stuffed animals … whatever she could find.

Bella’s Kittens

I had a cat named Bella who would routinely balloon with kittens. (No, we were not conscientious pet owners. I now know that unfixed outside pets are neither normal nor acceptable, but middle-of-nowhere Texas was not known for its forward-thinking)

Now, Bella would wait as long as possible before having her kittens. I swear, it seemed like their eyes were already open at least once when I first met a littler.

Additionally, she would suffer through the only the merest brush of motherhood. She grudgingly suckled her kittens until such time as they could be trusted to eat solid food, then soundly ignored them forever.

Prissy, on the other hand? ADORED these so-young castoff kittens. She took over their raising, which included suckling them from teats that long ago should have dried up after her own litter was gone.

Many times, you could look out the back window and see her lying in a patch of sunlight, a nearly-grown catling suckling happily at her belly.

Stray Kittens

One night, I was driving home with my mom when I thought I saw the glint of light off tiny eyes.

“I think I just saw some kitt–” I began.

“–NO YOU DIDN’T!” mom tried to convince me.

Alas for her, I was not convinced. We turned around and found ourselves the new owner of two teensyweensy kittenthings.

We took them home (one short-haired and black, the other long-haired and gray) and set them in a wheelbarrow so the rest of the backyard menagerie could get used to their scent.

Bella hopped up next to them, arched her back like she’d landed in water, gave me one VERY offended look, and proceeded to disown even the notion that the other kittens existed. She tolerated their presence in her domain, but did not stoop to share square footage with them. Ever. Their sin of existing simply could not be forgiven.

Prissy, on the other hand, circled the wheelbarrow like a mad thing, whining and begging to be given the kittens. When we finally gave in and let her mother them, I’ve never seen her more relieved or happy.

Poncho the Goat

Then there was Poncho.

Poncho was a goatling we bought at a flea market called First Monday probably hours after her birth. She was a frail, black and white darling of a kid, and we bottle-fed her for months.

Prissy adopted her instantly, which led to some very interesting moments where you could look out the back window and see Prissy, standing, allowing a baby goat to drink milk from her, and looking at least a little bemused about the whole thing. Kittens and puppies knew to drink laying down, of course, but whatever this weird tall dog needed, Prissy was going to offer. Even if the creature DID headbutt her in the belly in the middle of a meal.

Coco – An Animated Movie You Should See

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Last night, a friend and I watched Coco.

It. Was. GORGEOUS.

And super good, to boot.

But GORGEOUS.

And Tumblr-approved for avoiding even a whiff of cultural appropriation, which may not matter to all of you, but which did make me feel relieved.

I enjoyed every moment of it, from the art (did I mention GORGEOUS) to the beautiful music and the wonderfully tender storyline.

And the seriously goofball dog.

It felt like stepping into another world and there was a part of me that ached to leave it.

Definitely a recommended watch, and one that I’m glad I caught in theaters. The sheer awe-inspiring scale of the City of the Dead would be lost on my tiny screen.

P.S. I want a flying catbird alebrije.

How I Accidentally Became a Member of the NRA

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The National Rifle Association (Eddie Izzard voice)

So … I’m a member of the NRA, and it happened by accident.

A couple of years ago, I’m tooling around on Groupon. Just seeing deals in my area, that sort of thing. Shoes, manicures, haircuts … the normal shabazzle.

An offering caught my eye — a gun safety class at a crazy good discount.

I’m a writer, I says to myself. And I sometimes write stories with guns. Also, I am currently afraid of guns, and this is not a great situation to be in.

So I bought the class, thinking I’d get a little experience in safely handling a gun. You know. Nothing fancy. I just wanted to know more than “point that end away from you and pull the trigger” as far as guns were concerned. Get some experience actually shooting a gun so that when I wrote about it, it would be more authentic than just regurgitating things I’ve read in other books.

Right? Right. So this all sounds great.

The Class

We drive out to the gun range where the class was being held, and enter what I recall as feeling like a big nice garage. There are chairs and tables set up, an old tube tv on a rolling cart, and a long table filled with different types of guns up at the top.

Pretty close to what I expected.

The room fills up pretty quickly and I thinks to myself, “Self,” I says, “That is more people interested in basic gunmanship than I thought would be here.”

Turns out, I was right on both counts.

  1. The class was super full because laws in Wisconsin were changing so that you had to have a license if you wanted to carry a concealed weapon.
  2. This was not “basic gunmanship” (I’m assuming that’s the right term. Please don’t disabuse me of the notion if I’m wrong.). This was a “concealed carry” licensing class.

So the room was filled with people who knew more about guns than I do about horses, all of whom were forced to watch painfully contrived videos about the benefits and dangers of concealed carry.

AAAAAHHHHWWWKWAAAARRRD.

The Students

Two of us in the class stood out.

Me, because my still-ignorant self sat at the front of the room and so was one of the first people to introduce myself as “an author looking to know more about guns.” — when everyone else was like “Joe, and I’m here to get my license.”

Awareness of context clues, I do not have.

A fellow in the back who may NOT have been in some sort of mob/mafia situation … but who DID have two “bodyguards” and who ALSO happened to have a gold-plated pearl-handled something  of a gun that the man leading the class requested he display because it was so cool it needed to be shared. Also, I remember something being said about either a chain of massage parlors or dry cleaning companies.

I tried not to listen too closely. There are some things I’m happier not knowing.

The Lesson Plan

ANYWAY, so the class was almost entirely “watch this series of videos,” all of which showed various situations that were defused by the hero having a concealed gun handy. A woman followed into a bathroom. A guy attacked while his car was broken down on the side of the road.

There was also a lot of advertising for various gun-themed vacation/training packages? It’s been a few years, but I do remember feeling bemused at the amount of advertising in the class.

Right. So. The teacher clearly was torn between “oh god, this young lady in the front is clearly in the wrong class” and “everyone else is so bored and is only here to get licensed” so it was a very strange vibe.

I never did actually touch a gun.

On a practical note, I did learn that the teacher strongly recommended mace as a self-protection choice, which I appreciated. Laws about gun use and concealed carry are not straightforward, but peppering someone is far less likely to lead to jail time for a victim to may or may not be able to prove they were defending themselves.

Licensed to WHAT now?

Anyway, end of the class and we were told that we now had our licenses to carry a concealed weapon.

I realize I was slow on the uptake here, so you’ll have to forgive me, but it wasn’t until THAT INSTANT that I realized … I can carry a gun. Secretly. Hidden about my person.

AND I HAVE NEVER ACTUALLY FIRED ONE.

Additionally, I found out via the mail that I was now a card-carrying member of the NRA, to boot.

Um.

Politics about gun ownership aside, I think we can all agree that unless I get some serious training, -I- should not have a weapon. Concealed or not.

Me. Tami. No guns. Checkaroonie.

And yet.

Looming Future

Some day, I feel like someone is going to find out I’m a member of the NRA and that I have a concealed carry license, and I am going to have to answer some very serious questions.

I just … don’t know how to answer them without pointing to groupon and saying “oopsie.”

Finish the Story: Deal?

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Join in for a lighthearted, no-pressure writing prompt. Leave your perfectionist at the door and follow a dangling story thread to see where it leads you.

I always post my story doodle in the comments, and I’d absolutely love to see yours as well if you feel comfortable sharing it!

“Deal?” he said, extending his hand toward me. I hesitated then reached out. Frank thought he had the upper hand, and in a sense he did. What he didn’t know was that …

On Discouragement and “Hate Reading”

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The Unclimactic Climax

I unfollowed a blog the other day.

It was an excellent writer’s blog. Frequent updates of a very high quality, including a system to showcase old content that was still relevant but potentially new to many of the readers.

It was witty, entertaining, and it gave superb advice.

Unfortunately, I never once left it feeling fired up and excited to write.

I ALWAYS left it with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. A feeling of shame and worthlessness and hopelessness.

It’s Not You, It’s Me

It took me a very long time to realize what was happening because the blog itself is intended to help writers.

It must be me, I said to myself. His advice isn’t wrong. For example, I SHOULD write every day if I actually want to be a writer.

So I told myself the problem was with me rather than with his blog. That it was my failings as a writer that needed fixing. That I couldn’t turn away from the ugly truth just because I didn’t want to hear it. The very fact that I felt guilt when I read his advice was proof enough that I had something I knew I was doing wrong.

Right?

WRONG.

It’s Not Your Life, It’s Mine

So here’s the thing.

It doesn’t matter if he gave good advice.

He wasn’t giving good advice FOR ME.

I should have stopped following him months ago. Not only was I not his target audience, I was the opposite. I was the lazy wannabe writer he so often impaled on the sharpness of his wit.

I was reading because I thought it would make me a better writer but in truth all I was doing was hurting myself.

He didn’t lie or falsely advertise his blog.

HE TOLD ME HE WAS HOLDING A SPEAR. It’s hardly his fault I kept blindly running forward and stabbing myself with it.

His readership wants his message. Needs it. Theoretically, it is helping them hone their writing edge.

I Need Something Else

I want to spend my time on things that elevate me. Things that inspire me and make me feel good about writing. Things that make me think “hey, I could do that,” or “that’s a great idea, I should try that.”

I know that not all writing is rainbows and unicorns. I know that it’s often a slog. I know that selling a book is a combination of luck and skill that I can never guarantee.

I know, I know, I know.

So I don’t need to keep rubbing my face in it. It doesn’t help me any more than it does a dog or cat making a mess on the carpet.

I need positive reinforcement.

“Hate Reading”

I mention it to you because I realized what I was doing and I want you to stop and think about the social media YOU consume.

Granted, my example is writing related, but you’re not all writers here. You probably ARE all folks who wade in the complex, foggy miasma of the InterWebs.

Do you have blogs that you follow out of a sense of obligation or duty?

Do you have content you read that riles you up in a bad way, that angers or sickens or disgusts you on the regular?

Is it affecting your well-being throughout the day? Is it affecting your pleasure in activities you used to enjoy? Is your reaction to it affecting your friends or family?

Then my suggestion is … maybe stop hate reading.

Maybe stop reading things that make you feel hate.

Self-Defense

YOU HAVE PERMISSION TO PROTECT YOURSELF.

The world is out there and as an American citizen who Can See The Shit Happening, I know how easy it is to fall down several different kinds of awful, horrible, wells.

I know how easy it is to feel like you HAVE to read it. You HAVE to expose yourself to this awfulness because if you don’t, you’re just deliberately being ignorant.

Right?

Wrong.

Just because you aren’t deliberately diving into a river of sewage daily in order to Make Yourself A Better Person, that doesn’t mean you have to be ignorant of what’s happening and that you can’t or shouldn’t do the right thing.

Find Your Warriors

There are people out there who THRIVE on this. There are people for whom it isn’t hate reading. They are our warriors, our defenders, our champions. I salute them and I depend upon them.

I try to find those people and read what they share and listen to what they have to say, because I am trying to find a balance somewhere between burying my head in the sand and caring so much I shred the heart on my sleeve daily.

I pick my battles based on my energy levels and the things around me. I vote with my money. I vote with my vote. I don’t back down when “mild” racism or misogyny crop up in my life. (Well, I try. I’m not even close to perfect, but I am making an effort).

Honor those on the front line fighting the battles you cannot.

And Unfollow The Rest

Everyone has a different limit. For me, that particular writing blog was having the opposite effect on me – I associated writing with failure, which is just about the worst thing that could have happened to my productivity.

(Sorry, the blog was encroaching on politics there, so I’m wrapping it up. I’m not interested in preaching to a choir OR a lively round of sea-lioning from anyone looking to spark a debate.)

I just … I want everyone to drop any burdens they don’t need. If you can lighten your mental and emotional load, please consider doing it.

Tami Parker Fantasy Author & Other Duties as Assigned

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