How do you support your kid when their interests go against your moral code?

As a parent, I sometimes read other parents’ blog posts. I’m comforted by those posts when you have a parent who supports their child in whatever they choose to do and whoever they choose to be. I’m thinking of the dad who put on a dress to support his son wearing dresses. Or the mom who supports her young daughter who already knows she’s gay. I mean, these stories are INSPIRING. And to me, easy. If my kids come out or if they want to be artists or designers, philanthropists, missionaries, business execs, whatever, I’m on board. I’ll carry a flag. Or so I thought.  

It reminds me of a woman I was a friend with once. She told me that she was ready to support her son in anything he chose. They’d sign him up for summer classes, they’d take him to institutes, whatever. She’d encourage and promote whatever he was interested in. Her test came when it was clear her son wasn’t interested in ANYTHING. Totally apathetic. He didn’t want to go to college. Didn’t want a job. Didn’t want to date. Just wanted to be home. How do you support THAT?

That’s the sort of thing I’m dealing with with my 8 year old. I could support anything, but how do I support and encourage his fascination with guns? Should I? This goes beyond the whole “he’s a boy and likes gun” stereotype. I mean, my 8 year old is OBSESSED with guns. He wants to be a policeman. He’s got a plan: first he’ll join the army, then he’ll become a police officer. He lifts hand weights while watching war documentaries. He plays army men and puts them into tactical formations. He’s started a folder where he draws guns, notes down their names and abilities. Last night he was working on a description of anthrax: what it does, how it affects people, and how to destroy it. (Apparently you heat it to 10,000 degrees.)

So. My dilemma. His interest in guns and war is the only thing that is getting him reading and writing and studying. But do I encourage this? I tried to get him to watch and be interested in kid shows, but put on the Wiggles and it’s like throwing acid on him. (I sorta get that.)

Instead I’m trying to teach Franz that the important thing about police and the army is that they PROTECT people. And I don’t want to go into the details with him about war, and death, and destruction. I try to support him and his interests and also humanize it.

But inside I want to say “Hell no! You are not playing with toy guns, or war scenarios! You are NOT going into the army. You are going to get an education and become a pharmacist. Or a fashionista. Whatever you want. Just not THAT!” And I refrain from telling him about all the school shooting tragedy, but as a parent, I worry about it. What if his fascination with violence is because he’s angry? What if he…

I can’t even finish that thought. The trouble sometimes with being a neurotic writer, is that your mind goes places you don’t want it to. I mean, what if these are BEHAVIORAL SIGNS? But what if they’re not? What if Franz will lose interest? What if this is totally normal? How do you know what normal IS?

I guess supporting your kid is a little harder than I thought. Why, why, why couldn’t Franz want to wear dresses?

Going Chuck Norris on my Garden

For eight years, I have been trying to grow zucchini in my garden. Every year, I hear other gardeners boasting :“We have so much zucchini that we pay people to take it from us! I mean, buckets and buckets!” And then I imagine punching the person in the solar plexus, and I am not a violent person. Apparently, I am a violent gardener.  

I have grown exactly two measly zucchini in 8 years. My plants consistently suffer from root rot, alien grubs, and general wilting. I’ve even tried saying positive affirmations to the plant stalks, you know, like a Kindergarten teacher: “Come on! You can do it! I believe in you!” And the plants promptly die. Fuckers.

This year, I am determined, yet again, to have a garden. Last year, I had lovely green shoots of fresh peas and green beans growing. I tenderly gave them netting to grow and cling to and imagined wearing white and fluttering in my garden picking my cornucopia of fresh vegetables while birds landed on my shoulders and random beavers said hello to me. (Yes. I dreamed of beavers.)

Then a fucking evil rabbit consumed all those lovely tendrils, we had a drought, meteors fell from the sky, and it snowed in July. There went my garden.

I am determined this year. This year will be different! I will have so much green stuff that I’ll force it onto my neighbors and say: “Take that, beotch!”

I’ve been flipping through catalogs circling soil testing stuff, and seeds, and sprouts, and all sorts of things.

This morning I asked the kids for their help. “So, what do you guys think we should do about that rabbit in our yard?”

Franz, 8, immediately spoke up: “See, what we do is we get some gear on and a tranquilizer gun and we wait for that rabbit to show up and BLAM! We hit it with the gun and put it in a cage and toss it in a…”

Moxie, 7, began to cry. At first, I considered Franz’s idea, but then I thought maybe I was getting a little too commando with my gardening. It is, after all, supposed to be a gentle and loving thing.

“Maybe we’ll just have Kealoha spread blood meal all over to freak the rabbit out.”

Moxie said, “What’s blood meal?”

I said, “Uhhh…”

I’m back to the catalog, dreaming.

Someone please tell me the secret to growing zucchini before I go all Terminator Rambo Chuck Norris on my yard.

The Flu. A Teachable Moment.

If I were speaking, this blog would be punctuated with hacking coughs, occasional sneezes, and general stomach-churning throat clearing. Luckily, I am not reading this, nor do I have to narrate for another week—that’s a good thing because my voice is about as sexy right now as Joe Biden with his shirt off. (The horror)  

I’ve spent the last four days moving from the basement couch to the upstairs couch and have had various hallucinations due to sinus medication. I’ve gone through two boxes of Kleenex, and my fair share of my Netflix queue.

This experience has not been for naught. While suffering from the flu, I’ve learned a few things which I will now share with you.

1)   Having the flu is an excellent time for a Hitchcock marathon. I’m glad I purchased a boxset for myself for an ‘emergency’. I watched “The Birds”, “North by Northwest” and “Psycho”. I learned (or was reminded) that Hitchcock heroines are cold mofos who have manicures that match their lipstick. I am envious of this. I also learned:

1. “Psycho” is still brilliant.
2. “North by Northwest” has a great drunken driving scene with Cary Grant mugging for the camera. It made me warm and happy.
3. “The Birds” is a weird movie. Tippi Hedren proves that you can be beautiful and blank even when birds are trying to peck your eyes out.

2)   You can’t snap out of the flu the way you snap out of drinking too much. There’s no sobering up. You just have to suffer.

3)   If there is ever a plague, I will get it. And I will get it hard.

4)   When you can’t taste anything, even chocolate will taste bad. This will cause you deep sorrow. The only thing that will work for you is peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And tea.

5)   If you have to be sick, it’s nice to be sick with someone who loves you unconditionally and doesn’t tell you you look like a beached porpoise while you’re panting on the couch, feverish, and stripped down to your skivvies.

I’m trying to take it easy. It’s really hard. I have so many things to do, like record another book, and exercise, and get groceries. Kealoha keeps warning me to stop, take it easy, slow down. So. I’ll try. Today I’ll watch “Vertigo” and “Rear Window” and try to work on my memoir. I’m thinking my slight hallucinations from cough medicine will enhance my writing with some excellent ‘memories’ of my days in the circus.

Ridiculous Things I've Said To My Children

It occurred to me this morning when I was talking to my kiddos about if there was a zombie apocalypse would it also affect walruses, that I have said many, many things to my kids that I never envisioned. I mean, I envisioned saying “I love you” and “Let me get a Band-Aid” and “Call 911!” but the things I’ve ACTUALLY said trump my imagination. Here then are some ridiculous things I’ve actually said to my children.  

1)   Put the monkey down. Do not fling the monkey! How would you feel if you were a monkey and you were being flung all over the place? Yes. Monkeys fling poo. They do not, however, fling other monkeys. I repeat: Monkeys do not fling other monkeys.

2)   I know it itches but I’m not touching your butthole. You touch it. I’m not doing it. I’ll get a Q-tip for that. I didn’t sign up for that when I became a mom. I’ll get a Q-tip.  Just…don’t…move.

3)   Try the falafel. Just try it. Try the falafel. I made this falafel. It’s falafel and I made it so try the falafel. FA. LA. FEL. Arrggghhh! Falafel!!!!

4)   It’s okay, sweetie. No one likes to be sick. Just let it out and…oh. Okay. It’s okay. I don’t know why I tried to catch that. Mommy has to run to the bathroom.

5)   Mommy is barfing! Leave. Me. Alone.

6)   Yes. Babies come out of mommies. Where? Their vaginas. It stretches. Yes. It hurts. A whole lot. Yes. If you adopt, you’re still a mommy.

7)   Get your fingers out of each others’ belly buttons!!!! I don’t know WHY…just…don’t do it.

8)   If you were a vampire would I still love you? Probably. From a distance. While wearing garlic.

9)   Do not put that kabob directly in your mouth! Why? Because if you move your head rapidly you could impale yourself. Remember when I told you about Vlad The Impaler? Yeah. Like that.

10)                   Mommy loves you. Mommy loves you more than chocolate and the sounds of the night and swimming and the ocean and even more than she loves the moon. Because I said so.

Poll

Man, it's cold out. And there's snow. And I'm dieting. It's the perfect time for a nice, fattening, cheesy, gooey dip! But I can't decide.

Which new dip recipe should I try for my food blog? Hmmm? Help a girl out here. Voting is open until I go to the grocery store. It could be open until spring.

[poll id="2"]

To The OCD Snowblower, Just Keep Blowing

I admit that I have a few teeny, tiny quirks. I will list some of them here so that you and I can establish trust. After I have shared my vulnerability with you, this will enable me to talk about what an ASSHOLE my next door neighbor is, and I will have credibility.

It helps when you have therapists for relatives.

My teeny, tiny quirks, then:

1) I leave cupboard doors open. I don’t know why. I’m pretty sure it’s genetic because my mom and brother do the same thing. 2) I haphazardly turn off lights to save on electricity, even when it’s dungeon-dark and even if someone (Kealoha) is in the room. 3) I wear socks to bed because my feet are ice cold ALL THE TIME. 4) As soon as I am in bed, my feet heat up to coal furnaces and I kick the socks off. 5) There are sometimes four to five pairs of socks trapped at the bottom of my bed. Sometimes one makes a death defying leap and escapes. 6) I get anxious about socializing, driving, flying, working, eating, and relaxing.

There. So, see, I’m not entirely normal. We all have tender pieces of our soul.

That said…

THE NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOR IS AN ASSHOLE.

There. I said it.

Maybe asshole is too tough. Really? I mean, who can blame a guy for snowblowing his yard, especially when there’s two inches of the white stuff? Two inches is A LOT. I don’t blame him for not using a shovel. I DO blame him for having a snowblower that also seems to serve as a walker, thus enabling even an octogenarian to snowblow a yard. But faster than the guy next door.

He has a small yard. And he goes over every single inch of it in the slow, heel to toe pace. Now, mind you, this is in the middle of the day when I’m trying to record from my home studio. It’s not his fault that I sometimes work from home. I don’t blame him for that. But could he please, please blow his yard in a half hour and not THREE? Could he please, please, blow with the snowblower and not switch to a LEAF BLOWER until he’s uncovered the crisp frozen grass underneath?

No one should blow that long.

At least for free.

And with that, I release my anger into the wind like a kite in a strong breeze. Fly away, kite. Fly.

When Depressed, Sing 80s Music Loudly

I'm not totally depressed. Just mildly depressed. Sorta...oh...melancholy. I blame it on the new diet I'm doing, which isn't a diet but more of a cutting-back on stuff. And my body is missing the sugar. To help with the endorphins, I've decided to sing to 80s music this morning, loudly, into a brush-microphone. Join me.

Any other suggestions?

Overexposed

Every time I come out with a new piece of writing or an audiobook, I feel pressure to promote it. It all makes me feel dirty.  

I know. I know. You’ve heard it before, but if you’re a self-published author, or you have books with a small house, you do have to put yourself out there.

But every time I write a tweet or a status update where I’m like “Hey! Buy my book!” I sorta feel like I’m saying “Hey! Look at my nipple!”

I’m reading this book called “Quiet” where it talks about characteristics of an introvert and it’s sorta like reading my own sequencing of DNA. I might come off pushy and gutsy, but inside, I’m pretty much a shriveled raisin.

The truth is, I don’t want ANYONE to look at my nipples, let alone pay me to look. Ew. But I would like them to read my words, like them, comment on them, tell other people about them…but. It’s exhausting. And that’s a lot to expect from other people.

I went to do my newsletter and the stats were depressing. I had about a dozen notices that said “Aw! You lost a subscriber. Someone doesn’t like you.” I’m pretty sure that’s a quote. It’s Mailchimp’s way of being kooky, but for a super-sensitive person, like myself, it’s just confirming my worst fears.

So. Instead of constantly promoting, my wonderful Kealoha put a nifty tab on my blog that we’ll continue to update where if you want something of mine, you can click on the link and it will take you to it. BOOKS TAB HERE.

And if you have time and energy to write a review, that’d be great, or suggest me to someone, that’d be great too.

But as for now, I’m done with showing my nipples.

At least figuratively. I’ll still show my nipples to my hubby if he asks very very nicely. That’s probably more than you need to know.

You Can't Be Martha Stewart Unless You're An Alien Or On Drugs

I started recording the second book in this fun cozy mystery series by Jill Marie Landis. (Find Book One HERE. Some doofus gave it a low review, but I think the book is charming.) Anyway. The book is set in Hawaii and the protagonist runs a Tiki Bar with her Uncle Louie and murders and mayhem happens. Fun, fun, stuff. Plus she’s always mentioning these Hawaiian drinks and pupu platter stuff and trade winds and I just thought “I NEED TO THROW A LUAU LIKE IN THE BOOK”. Except without the poison.  

Here then is the evolution of the party planning and convincing my husband that we needed to do this.

ME:

I want to throw an indoor Hawaiian Luau Open Hose in February except without the roasted pig in a fire pit and no bare bellies.

KEALOHA:

Okay.

Two hours later.

ME:

What about a date? Can we pick a date? How about a date? Let’s pick a date. Like NOW.

Two hours later.

ME:

Can you do a Facebook invite?

KEALOHA:

Sure.

ME:

Like now? I know the party’s not for another month, but people are really busy. They need to plan. Can you do it now? NOW?

One hour later.

KEALOHA:

Okay. It’s up.

ME:

I know. I already invited people.

KEALOHA:

How many?

ME:

I don’t know? Fifty? Eighty?

KEALOHA:

But we also told people they could bring kids and family. That’s like two hundred people!

ME:

No one ever responds to Facebook invitations anymore. We’ll be lucky to get ten people.

KEALOHA: Then why did you have me do a Facebook invitation?

ME: I don’t know. It’s just what one does.

Ten minutes later.

ME:

Ohmygod! We only have two people confirmed! No one’s coming! We aren’t popular! What if we have an empty house and no one comes and there’s Hawaiian music and you and I are drunk and the kids are depressed in the corner rocking themselves because no one likes us. NO ONE LIKES US.

Okay. I may have just thought the above. This is why I’d make a terrible Martha Stewart. You can’t be Martha Stewart unless you’re an alien or on drugs, preferably ecstasy.

We are throwing the party. I’ve already started planning the menu, and if people don’t show up, I’ll document and post it all right here. You can witness my shame. And possibly come over and pick up leftovers.

What Every Divorced Parent Dreads Hearing "Well, at my DAD'S house..."

I had the kind of day yesterday where a big cry probably would’ve helped, but I just couldn’t seem to do it. I was too tired, too worn down, and I didn’t want the kids to see me cry. Not because I hide being sad from them; I don’t. I just didn’t want to manipulate them. My son, Franz, was pretty much a beast yesterday. And I keep seeing this stupid Facebook post:

First of all, it’s not funny. Secondly, most people who are posting this either don’t have kids, or had kids a long time ago. Parenting has changed. The world has changed. And it angers me that when someone sees a child misbehaving, they automatically blame the parent for everything. What makes you assume that the parent isn’t doing everything they can to raise a kind child? What makes you have the authority to be so judgmental?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot.

Why are my kids so bratty so much? Is it me? Am I not strict enough? Is it the world? I was well behaved when I was a kid, but we were poor and I was afraid most of the time of being hurt by a parent. Is that what a modern parent should do? Raise their kids in fear?

I have structure in my house and rules. There are consequences to bad behavior. The kids are never afraid of me. But…I don’t know. They still throw fits and act out and are mean.

Yesterday, my son was throwing a fit, even though he’s too old for that. I did what you’re supposed to do. I got down to his level, in his face, lowered my voice and said strongly “This behavior is not appropriate”. He then pointed his finger in my face, screamed at the top of his lungs that I was a terrible mother and he hated me. I dragged him into the Time Out spot.

He recovered. We made up. He apologized. But it was awful and embarrassing.

Later Franz couldn’t sleep and kept getting up. We took away the iPod. Spoke firmly. It did nothing. Then I said, very calmly, “Franz, you don’t behave this way at your dad’s. Why is it appropriate for you to behave this way here or treat me the way you do?”

His answer: “At my dad’s, there are people to PLAY with. You don’t have anyone here for me. I play all day at my dad’s, but there’s NO ONE here.”

And that’s when I lost it. I was sooooo soooo close to saying things I’ve wanted to say for a long time. I did not say them. I WANTED to say, your dad got in a serious relationship two weeks after we split up. He was engaged four months after we split up. He was irresponsible. I waited. I tried to take time! I tried to find the right partner that I was sure would love me and love you and we'd be safe with. I’m sorry that I don’t have kids here for you, but I wanted to avoid forcing other kids into your life. I wanted to keep you safe. I didn’t want to give you step-siblings that might or might not like you. I’m sorry your dad does everything better. But while you’re playing at your dad’s and having fun, where is he? Is he there? I’m here with you. I’m HERE. I talk to you. I give you attention and feedback and love. Why isn’t that enough?

Instead I took a breath, left the room, went downstairs into the bathroom and just…shook. My body just shook on tears I couldn’t shed. On words I couldn’t say.

I don’t have a bunch of playmates here for the kids. We can’t have pets because the kids are allergic. I try to discipline and be firm, but I still can’t get them to behave. I’m afraid of taking them to a restaurant or a friend’s house because they might be rude or throw a fit. So, in essence, their behavior controls us.

When I was a kid, I used to play outside on my own, but I can’t let my kids do that. The world has changed. I can’t just let them out unsupervised and I don’t have friends with kids in the neighborhood. We don’t all get together for cocktail parties etc. I don’t have animals for the kids to play with and I chose a partner who didn’t have kids partly because I love him, but I also didn’t want my kids to feel replaced by another family. I’m not a sports person. I don’t enjoy playing outside, so it’s an effort for me to constantly plan things to tire the kids out.

Parenting is hard. I’m doing my best. I wish my kids knew how much I’ve given them. I wish they were perfectly behaved and kind all the time, but they’re not. Some times, they’re mean little dinks.

It’s hard not to compete with an ex, but at this point, it certainly feels like he’s winning, especially with a house filled with playmates, whereas ours is filled with just me, Kealoha and a few too many toys. But our house is also filled with time and attention and love and Kealoha and I doing our very best to raise two loving, empathetic kids.

Sometimes, though, it’s overwhelming and just plain hard. And those stupid Facebook posts can cut right to the heart sometimes.

Enter to Win the Paperback of "Tunnel Vision"

Visit Goodreads and enter to win a paperback of "Tunnel Vision". I'll probably sign it, though I feel silly doing that;

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Tunnel Vision And Other Stories From The Edge

by Tanya Eby

Giveaway ends January 26, 2013.

See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

Enter to win

Monopoly Shenanigans

The following is a transcript recorded by my in-home recording device (AKA my brain) on Monday, January 7, 2012, in which my eight-year-old son, Franz, kills me in Monopoly. This excerpt occurs about an hour into the game, when the concerned parties have purchased most of the board’s property.

ME Ah ha! I’ve landed on Boardwalk! Aw, yeah! Aw, yeah! And I already have Park Place! I’m gonna buy me some houses and hotels and…Soooo…

(I look at my stack of money. I have three 1s and a 5.)

ME Uhm…how much is it? $400?

(FRANZ notices my stack of money.)

FRANZ:

Aw, yeah! Aw, yeah! You’re in the poorhouse, Ma! You’re bankrupt.  Say it! Say it! Say “I’m on the low end!”

ME What?

FRANZ:

You’re on the low end!  The LOW END! You spent all your money!  You got nothin’. You always go bankrupt! You’re always on the low end. Hahahahah!

ME Fine. I’m on the low end. But…boy…I’m movin’ on up…to the east side…

KEALOHA

To a deluxe apartment in the sky…

(Then Kealoha and I started clapping and singing the Jefferson song while Franz did a jig. We recovered after a while. Maybe after too long a while.)

(Awkward silence.)

ME Okay. I’d admit it. I’m on the low end. I’d have to mortgage all my properties to buy Boardwalk.

(It occurred to me that maybe this would be a Teachable Moment.)

ME Let that be a lesson to you, boy.

(I’m such a good mom.)

FRANZ

Whatever. It’s my turn.

Random Blogness And Star Wars Hyperspace

  I’ve been staring at this empty white page for a while now. It’s not empty now, because I’m slowly hacking out some words, but this is what I’ve been looking at:

For a while. I’d say it’s like staring into a blizzard, but at least with a blizzard, you can sometimes pretend you’re in Star Wars jumping to hyperspace or whatever.

Or maybe that’s just me.

Why am I wordless and thought-less today? I don’t know. Maybe because I started work on a memoir, so all my writing energy and self-reflection is going in there.

Maybe because I’m promoting the release of “Tunnel Vision & Other Stories From The Edge” and as much as I love self-publishing and getting my work out there, no one buys my books.

That’s not true. Ten of you did, and I’m really, really grateful. I shouldn’t look at success in my writing life, numerically, right? But it’s hard not to. My whole life, I wanted to be a Writer, but in my mind Being A Writer meant having thousands of people read my work, not just the act of writing. It meant being in bookstores. It meant, I don’t know, a corduroy jacket and book readings at tiny bookstores where I’d been invited to go. It didn’t mean a near constant plea of “Please! Buy my book! Or my recording! Read it! Listen!”

Blurgh.

I’m trying to ‘adjust my expectations’ and ‘be grateful for those of you who choose to spend time with my words’ but it does make me cranky. No quotes around that word. Not ‘cranky’. CRANKY.

So sometimes I sit at the white page and I think, why bother? But then I bother because I CAN’T STOP MYSELF.

I need to write the way that marathon runners need to get up at 4 am in the bitter cold and run on ice. (Here I remind myself that I am glad my lifelong dream was not to be a marathon runner.)

Here’s the good news: I had two weeks off from work and it was terrific. I’m back to the studio this week, and it’s slowly sinking in that I don’t have to teach anymore. Suddenly, I have more energy for my own reading, and writing, and just energy to be a good mom and wife and person. It’s amazing what lowering your stress level can do.

And I’ve been eating healthy and cooking and working out for almost two weeks now, and have even *shocker*, lost a few pounds.

And I love the design and effort my husband did with “Tunnel Vision”. I’m proud of that creepy little endeavor. (Click here for other new releases. Soft sell, see?)

I guess, today, I just stare into the blizzard a bit longer…and home at some point my words will take flight.

Except when my words and books finally do take flight, I hope that there's not a giant Wookie sitting next to me. I'm sorry, but Chewbaca probably smells. There's no conditioner in outer space.

Some of the Recent Projects I'm Proud Of

In an effort to expand the blog to start covering some of my narration endeavors (because I'm full-time freelancer now), I thought I'd occasionally update you all on some of the my recent projects and releases. Since this is the first time I'm doing this, it might be a longer post. In the future, I'll highlight two or three releases, and probably just once a month. (Just click on the picture to go to Audible or Amazon. On Audible, you can hear a free sample of the book.)

WORK I WROTE & NARRATED:

Finally! A couple of my pieces are available on Audible, and I'm thrilled that they're getting 4 and 5 star reviews. Audible critics are notoriously tough. In fact, I'm pretty sure a couple of their reviewers want me fired....so....to have my own books getting such high reviews is especially pleasing.

 WORK I PRODUCED & NARRATED:

This one only has a couple of reviews and one of the reviewers totally missed the point of the novel. I loved reading it. It's set in Hawaii, has all sorts of crazy characters, a mystery, and it's just plain funny. (Crazy characters include a group of senior citizen hula girls, a fire eating detective, and a drunken parrot.)

The next one is a scary book by Scott Nicholson. I really liked the darkness in this piece and it kept me interested and engaged the whole time. His work isn't gory or anything, just lots of spooky stuff going on.

If the picture doesn't link, click HERE. RIGHT HERE. ON THIS LINE.

WORK I NARRATED:

Here are two books that I had a blast narrating. The first is a post-apocolyptic story with a kick ass heroine. This book hasn't received nearly the press I think it should've. Good conflict, action, plot, and characters. And there's a heart to it too. It's called "Flowertown" by S.G. Redling.

And here's a fun, strange listen. In it, Marilyn Monroe meets Nikita Kruschev (I can never spell his name) for a little spy adventure. So, I got to give voice to Marilyn. Hello. Dream come true. I tried not to mimic her, but rather, tried to suggest her voice. This was so fun to narrate and I'm hoping people will think it's a great listen, though, again, there's no press really on this book. So many good books get neglected, I think.

And the link for Bombshell (for some reason it keeps evaporating) IS RIGHT HERE. REALLY. RIGHT HERE.

WORK I'VE WRITTEN:

My newest release, if you didn't know already, is "Tunnel Vision & Other Stories From the Edge." Please take a chance on it, especially if you like slight dark and/or creepy stories. There's a novella and three short stories. Click HERE for Kindle and HERE for everything else!

Next month I'll highlight fewer books...but there are definitely some great ones coming. I'm so lucky I get to read such terrific work.

Win a Paperback of "Tunnel Vision"

You can win a copy of "Tunnel Vision and Other Stories from the Edge" on Goodreads! Just follow the below link and add your name into the pot. Also...more regular blogging coming to this site soon, but for now, I'm off to the studio to record a truly wonderful book called "What The Family Needed" by Steven Amsterdam, in which during a time of difficulty each family member discovers they have a super power.

All good stuff. Enter the contest here:

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Tunnel Vision And Other Stories From The Edge

by Tanya Eby

Giveaway ends January 26, 2013.

See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

Enter to win

"Tunnel Vision" is Now Available!

What a good way to start 2013. I woke up and Kealoha informed me that "Tunnel Vision & Other Stories From The Edge" is now available as an ebook. Paperback is coming soon, and we hope to have an audio version as well.

You'll notice from the cover that this is a departure from my comedic writing. Don't worry. I won't always be dark, but it's fun to mix it up.

Here's a quick summary of "Tunnel Vision" as described by the inmates. The novel switches POV between the inmates and Dr. Kinney:

SUMMARY:

It is 1932 and we are the inmates at the Northern Michigan Insane Asylum. We are tended by physicians like Dr. Elliot Kinney, but we do not care for him or his modern techniques. There is a secret he carries; it slithers within him. We can tell. We watch. We know.

 At night, beneath the asylum, we move in the vast network of The Tunnels. We slip in and out of shadows, for we are keeping our own secret close to us. We have kept her for over twenty years.

 She is our Alma, our soul, and we do not want Dr. Kinney to take her from us. There are ways we have of fighting.

 Shhh.

 We will never tell.

***

Along with the novella “Tunnel Vision”, author Tanya Eby includes three stories from a dark edge: “The Perfect Neighbor”, “The Shedow”, and “Birth Day”.

Thanks to everyone who helped me get this piece out there. I hope you enjoy the novella and the short stories I've included.

Links to purchase:

CLICK on this line to go to Amazon

CLICK on this line to go to Smashwords

My List Of Unattainable Resolutions And One I Can Do. Probably.

Well, it’s the end of another year, and the beginning of a new one. I’m not prepared. I mean, I thought that all civilization was going to end because of the Mayan Apocalypse but all that happened was my Facebook page blew up with funny pictures of Godzilla and Grumpy Cat.

Actually, maybe that WAS the Apocalypse.

So I guess I’m supposed to make resolutions or something now. I’ve said this before. I hate resolutions. Nothing makes me feel like a bigger failure than setting unattainable goals and then obliterating said goals with self-destructive behavior twenty hours later.

Here then are my

Unattainable Resolutions:

1)   Lose 20 pounds. Really. 20.

       --Impossible to achieve since I’m ALMOST 40 and the only way I seem to be able to lose weight is if I’m depressed and stop eating. And I’m happy. So, mixed blessing.

2)   Sell 10,000 books.

      --I’ve sold about a hundred. Unless I threaten people with another Apocalypse, I don’t think my 10,000 goal is going to happen.

3)   Work out five days a week.

       --After working out for two days, my knee got all puffy and started sending me Morse Code messages that said “I’m. In. Pain. Bitch”.

4)   Cook more.

       --I’m doing this!!! Until I start working again. But so far, so good.

5)   Relax more.

      --I’m doing this too! Especially since I started taking anti-anxiety meds. Yay! Pharmacy!

6)   Actually do yoga once while wearing yoga pants so the next time someone asks, “You do yoga?” I can say “Yes” instead of “Ohhhh, no. I just wear the pants.

       --Again, what fantasy world am I living in? Never going to happen. NEVEHH!!!

7)   Realize that if I eat the edges of  all the brownies in the pan, this still counts as EATING BROWNIES and is not free of calories simply because I’m eating the crunchy part of the brownie and think no one will notice.

      --Fuck you, Resolution Maker. Fuck. You.

Ahem.

I’m a pragmatist. I know that my 1-7 goals are pretty unattainable. Here then is my revised list of

Attainable Resolution(s) of 2013:

1)   Remind yourself that even when things are tough, good things can and will happen. Good things like to happen as unexpected surprises, because they like to make an entrance.

That’s it. All I’ve got to do is REMIND myself of the above. I don’t even have to believe it.

I can totally do this.

Happy New Year to you, dear reader. May you have unexpected good things come your way with a heavy dose of laughter, and no indigestion.

New Cover For "Tunnel Vision"

Coming soon to a bookstore and ereader near-ish to you:  

Cover created by David Kolenda.

Meh, Meh Christmas

I didn’t blog at Christmas. Shocking, right? Usually I get all emotional around Christmas time, you know, sorta like in days-of-yore (my twenties) where I’d drink too much and then start randomly calling people on my phone to tell them how much I loved them. But this Christmas I was just…meh.

I did the Christmas stuff you’re supposed to do: I made cookies, ate too much Chex Mix, and sent Christmas cards. I listened to Christmas music by Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby and the hottest song EVER by Dean Martin “Baby It’s Cold Outside”. (He’s the only singer that seems to understand that this is a song about seduction, about Getting It On, and not about staying inside where it’s toasty.) So, I did everything RIGHT, but I just couldn’t get into the spirit.

I don’t think I needed ghost visitations like in Scrooge to get me excited about cooking a turkey while simultaneously giving me hope for the future. I just needed…snow. And the kiddos. They spent the week leading up to Christmas with their dad, and that made me a little blue. It was also just plain WARM outside, and I just can’t think about sleigh bells when I’m sweating.

A True Story to Illustrate My Sense of Meh:

A few days before Christmas, I stayed overnight at a hotel near the studio I record at because I was exhausted. In the morning, I decided to treat myself to breakfast, so I went to a little diner next to a fast-food Chinese place. It was dark out. I hopped out of the car and was immediately startled by a legless man sitting in a wheelchair in a dark corner of the dark (so, dark squared) smoking a cigarette. Nothing against legless men, but the dude was scary, and he was LURKING. Not that he could run around or anything. Oh, shit. Forget I said that. (Horrible horrible me.)

Anyway. Here is the diner I went to. I know, I know, I should've known it'd be scary:

I ran into the restaurant which was about 2/3 full with old men in work clothes and heavy duty boots. The waitress (in her 60s with a smoker’s voice) sat me in the Singles section. All the Singles were facing the same way, except one dude was turned to look at all the Singles, and she put me right in front of him. We were a chair away from each other and he was staring at me while shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth. In between bitefulls, he made big hacking coughs, as if attempting to expel a demon from his chest.

The waitress poured me coffee. It was so thick, I thought it was syrup. I tried to drink it, but it burned…the way vodka burns, except without any hope of getting a buzz. Getting The Plague, maybe, but not a buzz.

I took out my iPad and everyone sorta stared at me, and I could hear their thoughts: “Look at that lady bringing in her fancy tech gear and thumbing her nose at our coffee”.

I looked around the restaurant for a friendly face, and immediately noticed a table with four women, one of whom was dressed LIKE AN ELF. A 6’3 ELF. She had on this red velour shirt with a pointy green collar and bells. And she was wearing old jeans. And the whole experience made me feel as if 1) I’ve become a snob and 2) It’s hard to feel merry about Christmas when a legless guy scares you in the parking lot, a guy hocks up breakfast, and a tall lady-elf glares at you.

So I didn’t write during Christmas because I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer.

Wait. That phrase “Debbie Downer” is someone who makes others depressed, right, and not a porn name? Right?

Aw, jeez.

We ended up having a good Christmas. Kealoha spoiled me. And I feel better now that the kids were here for Christmas Eve and day. But I sorta am ready for the comfort of routine, and the time when you don’t feel so much pressure for everything to be sparkly and perfect and life-affirming. You know? I’m not hungry for turducken or caroling or miracles; I’m just hungry for normalcy. And maybe a wet burrito. But normalcy first.

Is Your Name On The Asylum Wall? Here are the Acknowledgments

Lots of people have encouraged me as I've worked on "Tunnel Vision", and I want to thank you. Since The book is about to go to print, and here are the names I've culled from looking at the website and Facebook and previous comments. If your name isn't here and you want it to be, let me know. Also, of course, if you DON'T want to be listed. It is a story about an asylum in the 1930s, after all. It's pretty messed up. You might want to keep your distance. :)

THE NAMES

Janel Atwood Heird

Tim Beeler

Melissa Baldwin White

James B. Bradshaw

Patrick L. Callahan

Alexa Dannenberg

Tristan De Boer

Bettie Ellens

Christopher Grooms

Sydney Groth

Evan Heird

Alysia Hough

Diana Peffer Johnson

Bob Kostic

Kim McNiel Smith

Malinda Peterson

Roxanne Riley Victor

Deborah Rosko

John Shull

Liliana Juracon Stephenson

Kerri VanderHoff

Katie Wibert

Cory Young