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Wow, okay. I just checked the date on my last blog post and it says March. So that means I’ve been away for like six months. Not what I’d planned when I first thought I’d start a blog. 

But anyway. At least, I’m back and can I just say that I’m so, so psyched to be back?! 

And so I thought that I’d start off by talking about the most important thing in my life: books. Well, the most important thing in my life is hands down my husband but books are a very close second. 

So ever since I started publishing books, I haven’t gotten much time to read. It’s a very common problem with authors. We never have time to read because we’re always writing and editing and plotting and chasing deadlines.

But when COVID hit and New York was the epicenter for the longest time, I realized that I’ve been doing it all wrong. Well, not ‘all’ wrong but some of the things wrong. I was burning myself out by just writing and writing and doing nothing else. I realized that I was pulling things out of myself without giving anything back. I was asking my creativity to give without returning the favor. 

And then I remembered something. 

Back when I was doing MFA in Creative Writing – the best two years of my life, by the way – one of the professors whom I really admired and was sort of intimidated by, told us the ‘secret’ to being good writers. She said if you want to be a writer, you have to read. Actually, she said that you have to read, read and read some more. Read everything and anything. Read whatever you can get your hands on. Read in your genre and outside your genre. Just read. 

I realized that in the whole craziness of publishing and making a living and all the adult things that we’re expected to do, I forgot the basic rule of being a writer. I forgot to read. 

So this year, I decided to rectify that. 

This is me, solemnly swearing, that I will read. I will take weekends off, blow off TV and walks and all the other unimportant things and do what I absolutely love: READ.

To that effect, as soon as I finished writing my upcoming release, My Darling Arrow, I took a month off. I decided that I was going back to my college days where I basically had no concerns other than homework and reading. 

And I did, you guys. 

I did. It. 

I read. 

I read so many books and I swear I made a pile of them and now I look at it every day. Nothing has given me more joy than taking some time off for myself and simply… reading. I guess it’s no surprise that I became a writer, right?

Here is the list of all the books that I read in my off time and my kinda sorta recs, if you’re into that type of a thing…

NORMAL PEOPLE by Sally Rooney – For people who love toxic relationships, broken and screwed up characters, love that hurts but always stays with you. 

FIVE CARAT SOUL by James McBride – One of the finest writers that I’ve read. For people who love short stories, stories about class and race and well, a little bit of spirituality. 

NOTHING TO SEE HERE by Kevin Wilson – For people who love sharp, morally ambiguous but hilarious female characters, darkly comic plots and things that border a little on this side of weird. 

THE GLASS HOTEL by Emily St. John Mandel – Her name is synonymous with speculative fiction so this is for people who love SF, plots that seem at once surreal and so very, very real and profound. 

VALENTINE by Elizabeth Wetmore – A great debut. For people who love westerns, plots that revolve around multiple people, in this case, all women from various ages, classes and background. And an ending that seems very life-like. 

ALL ADULTS HERE by Emma Straub – For people who love to read about family dramas, characters ranging from teenage to old age who are all struggling to figure out the meaning of life. 

AN AMERICAN MARRIAGE by Tayari Jones – An epic love triangle. For people who love literary romances, in depth character study and well, tons of angst. 

THE CLOCKMAKER’S DAUGHTER by Kate Morton – For people who love historical novels set in England, mystery and ghost stories. 

MY DARK VANESSA by Kate Elizabeth Russell – For people who love stories dealing with dark and depressive characters, abuse in the most graphic and profound sense. And who love to sink themselves into the whole atmosphere of the stories they’re reading. 

THE KNOCKOUT QUEEN by Rufi Thorpe – Perhaps, my most of all novels I read this past month. For people who love stories about high school friendships that change lives and perspectives. Again, an in-depth character study, sometimes hilarious and other times, greatly tragic. 

THINGS YOU SAVE IN A FIRE by Katherine Center – For people who love romance and women’s fiction and stories that are heart-warming and encouraging and that leave a smile on your face once you’re done. 

THE BOOK OF LONGINGS by Sue Monk Kidd – For people who love history and religion and stories that feature a very strong and inspiring female lead. Again, one of my favorites from all the books I read. 

Talking books and the art of writing are some of my favorite topics. I could go on and on about them. So if you end up reading any of those, I’d be super ecstatic to hear your thoughts. 

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Fine Print: I apologize for any grammatical errors and as always, a little too much use of the F-word. This is more a writing of passion than thought. Thanks for reading!

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I read a book last week that made me cry. 

Books do that to you, don’t they? They make you cry. They make you laugh. They make you angry or sad or joyful. They trigger you. 

The one that I read triggered me but I wasn’t expecting it to. 

There was nothing in the blurb. There was nothing in the first two hundred pages out of the three-hundred-page long book that I read. There was no indication that I would be hit so badly, that I’d sit in my reading chair and just start sobbing so much that my husband would have to abandon his work and rush to my assistance. 

I’m not going to name the book but I am going to tell you the story. There’s a point to all this, I promise. 

So we begin in a house somewhere in Pennsylvania. The house is big and lavish and it’s been there for years. It was built by some very rich people – not important – but they are dead now. What’s important is that a new family lives there, the Conroys: a father and two kids, an older sister and a brother. 

In the story, we know that the mother left years ago. No one knows where she went or why she left except that she hated living in that house. The big house that belonged to the rich never sat right with the mother who came from very humble beginnings. So one night when the sister is ten and the brother is three or four, the mother leaves and never comes back. Now years later, the kids are grown up, and they’ve grown up in a house where no one talks about the mother at all. The father doesn’t even like to mention her name. 

One day, the father brings home a woman, Andrea, and he tells the kids that he’s going to marry her. They are not happy; they have questions because everything seems so sudden, but they deal with it. They deal with having a new mother who doesn’t seem very warm, who has all these new rules for them – don’t run around the house, comb your hair, don’t wear that dress, don’t eat that, sit up straight, you don’t need a room that big so move into a smaller bedroom – but loves the house. She loves their father as well, it seems. 

Years pass and the children grow up some more. The brother begins to help the father in his business. The sister is away at college and everyone says she has a bright future. Everyone says she’ll do wonderful things.

But one day, the father dies. It happens as suddenly as his marriage to Andrea. Sister rushes back from college to handle things; the brother is lost without the father to guide him through the business. Andrea is grief-stricken as well. So it makes sense for the sister to offer that she’ll handle the business side of things. She’s studying accounting; she can keep the books while the brother learns the ropes and becomes independent. That was the plan anyway – for kids to handle the business. The only difference now is that they’ll be starting a little earlier than planned. 

As it turns out though, Andrea has already taken care of those things. Their father had a will and Andrea is the sole beneficiary. She owns everything now, including the house, and she doesn’t need anyone’s help. She sells the business and kicks out the brother – the sister lives away for college – because it’s painful for Andrea to look at someone who reminds her of her dead husband. 

So the sister takes her brother in, and they both live together in a small, cramped apartment, far away from everything they grew up around, far away from everything they called home, everything that was familiar and rightfully theirs.

That’s the core of the story – I have left out a lot of things here and there but that essentially sets the stage for what happens throughout the book. 

Now as I write this, I’m aware that the stepmother is a very obvious trigger. We discussed this in our book club; everyone hated her. She takes away the business and leaves the kids with nothing. Not to mention, she won’t even let the brother – who was a minor at the time – live in a house he grew up in. I mean, she could’ve waited until he was eighteen to kick him out, right?

It is because of the stepmother that the brother who wanted to go into his father’s business and follow his father’s footsteps is now studying to be something else, something that he has no interest in. It is because of her that he has no intention of marrying his girlfriend years later because he doesn’t trust women. He doesn’t know how to love them. 

It is because of the stepmother that the sister is obsessed with the house that should’ve been hers. She wants it back. Every few days, she drives back to the neighborhood where she grew up and parks the car in front of that big, lavish house and stares at it. Her bright future? All gone. She keeps the books of a grocery store instead of keeping the books for her father’s very lucrative business. 

But somehow that’s not what triggered me. I mean, I wasn’t a fan of the stepmother or the things she did, but she wasn’t what sent me into the depths of despair. In fact, believe it or not, the brother has the same thoughts in the story. He doesn’t hate the stepmother like the sister does or ladies at my book club did. 

The thing that I found the most triggering is the biological mother. 

Years and two-hundred pages later, the mother returns. No one was expecting her to return at this point. Not the kids, not me. Decades have passed. The kids are no longer kids. They’re middle-aged, too set in their lives, their unplanned careers, too damaged after everything.

Now we find out where the mother went and why she left, and what she’s been doing all these years. We find out that she used to be a nun or a novice before she married their father. She came from humble beginnings and thus, hated the new wealth that her husband had acquired. She hated it so much that she left the family and went to India. 

While in India, she helped the poor, and that is what she has been doing for the past however many decades. She’s been helping the poor, living in convents, doing volunteer work all over the world before settling down where it all began, in Pennsylvania where she left two young kids and her husband.

The sister is eager to forgive the mother. She feels as if years have passed and don’t have a lot of time left. She doesn’t want to spend that time holding old grudges. She wants to get to the mother all over again. She wants the mother to live with her. 

The brother doesn’t agree. He goes along with the sister’s plan of keeping the peace but inside he’s still angry. According to him a mother who leaves their children deserves no sympathy. It doesn’t matter that she’s been helping people. Because while she was doing that, no one was there to help her own flesh and blood. 

I have to say that while reading, I agreed with the brother. I agreed with him so much that his anger became my own. God, I was so angry at the mother. I was so angry that I was shaking. I was literally shaking and trying to suppress my own tears. I can’t imagine how a mother could leave her own children. More than that, I was angry at the sister. I was angry that she was so eager and ready to forgive the mother. I was angry at the lack of anger on sister’s part. 

So here’s a woman who leaves her young kids to go help the poor. Are we supposed to feel bad for her now? Are we supposed to think that wow, she’s a great woman doing charitable work and so all is forgiven?

Where’s the justice? Where are the consequences of her abandonment? How can she erase decades of sorrow and misery with just deigning to come back? Why can’t the sister see that? Why isn’t she casting stones at her like the brother wants to? Why’s the brother the only one who has some perspective? 

I can go on and on in outrage, but the bottom line is I was pissed and I wanted payback. And there’s a reason for that. 

See, over the past year, some things (and people) have happened to me that have made me really obsessed with the concept of justice. I’ve become really obsessed with the concept of consequences and karma. I’ve become obsessed with what goes around should come around. If you hurt someone, you should hurt too. If you make someone cry, you should cry too. There needs to be balance in the world. There needs to be vindication. You need to face the consequences of your actions.

But consequences, balance, cosmic justice, whatever you want to call it does not work on the schedule you’d like. It doesn’t strike when you want it to. It doesn’t strike how you want it to. 

So I’ve been working on it. I’ve been working on trying to let this magical idea of justice go. And you know what, I thought I did. I thought that after numerous journal entries, counselling sessions, crying sessions, I was over it. I thought I’d let it go because anger only hurts the angry. 

But this book brought it all back. God, did it bring it all back and in a major, major way. It’s made me realize that I’m not over it. I’m not over this obsession of mine and that’s triggering in itself. It’s triggering and scary to know that maybe I’ll forever be hurting over things that have long passed. Maybe I’ll never be over the things that have hurt me, the people who have hurt me, the things that have affected my trust in the world.

However, if you look really closely, there’s a silver lining here. 

The silver lining being that it’s okay!

Yeah, it’s okay to feel triggered every now and then. It’s okay to feel the pain as if the wound is still fresh as if you got hurt only yesterday. It’s okay really (Although, I do have to mention that this DOES NOT cover the issues that are more serious and deal with traumas with a capital T.) 

Because when you hurt, you value the things that take away your pain even more. When you cry, you laugh harder after. When you feel sad, you hold on to your happiness even tighter. You stop and you look around. You look at the things that give you comfort and you appreciate those things even more.

When my husband rushed to my side and wiped off my tears and my snot (there was a lot of it), I realized that all the justice, all the balance that I look for in life is right here. He is my justice, my balance, my miracle. He who understands me so well that his first question was: do you want some ice cream while we watch some romantic comedies?

My pain and anger and whatever issues I have make me soak in the goodness even more. It’s true what they say: you appreciate the light even more when you’ve been in the dark for a long time. 

So this post is for everyone out there, every single person who’s ever been hurt or who’s ever been in pain and who cries at books and movies and can’t figure out why they can’t let something go. I’m telling you all that it’s okay. It’s okay to feel a little too much every now and then. It’s okay to feel triggered. Let it pass through you. Let it move through your body. Because once it passes, it will lose its power. You’ll survive. And after you have survived the colors will be brighter. The people around you who help you every day will be dearer. The things you appreciate will be more magical. 

I guess that’s why we hurt in the first place. So we can feel the ecstasy of our dreams in real life.

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Fine Print: I apologize for any grammatical errors and as always, a little too much use of the F-word. This is more a writing of passion than thought. Thanks for reading!

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It was during the spring festival at college that I saw him for the first time.

He wore a red t-shirt and he was on up on the makeshift stage that they had put together for all the bands that were going to come in and perform during the fest.

He wasn’t a musician or anything though. He was a dancer. 

And well, he was dancing. 

I should mention here that I didn’t wanna spend my evening, watching a bunch of bands playing. I mean, I’m into music but I like it blasting out of my headphones while I’m in my pajamas at home. 

Besides, I was tired after a full day of classes and I wanted to go back to my dorm and relax. Relaxing to me in those days meant reading in bed with a cup of tea. These days, it means reading in bed with a glass of white wine. 

But my friends insisted that we should check out the festival before we called it a night and so I went. 

And I saw him. 

Let’s call him the red t-shirt guy – that’s what I called him for weeks because I had no idea what his name was. I had no idea why I kept looking at him, either. I mean, he was a good dancer. Phenomenal even. But so were other dancers. They were fantastic as well. 

I don’t know what I saw in him, maybe the energy, maybe the way he moved his body and made the song his own, I don’t know. I’ll never know, I guess. But I kept staring at him and staring at him. 

I remember feeling disappointed when the song ended and everybody started clapping. I wanted him back on the stage. Surprisingly (or not as surprisingly since he was such a great dancer), other people did too. They demanded an encore and there he was again, the red t-shirt guy, dancing his heart out. 

He was the star of the show that night, this dark-haired dancer. 

But before I talk more about him, I should probably talk about myself a little.

I was eighteen at the time and very happily in college. I’d dated some but I’d only had one serious boyfriend. I was studying Biotechnology and my plan was to do a PhD and cure cancer. 

Well, not really. But I did want to work in the Oncology department because it seemed like the right thing to do. A noble thing to do, to try to save lives. Until I realized I was better at writing love stories than at growing cell cultures in a petri dish.

I had a great group friends. In fact, my roommate was my best friend. She had a very serious boyfriend whom we all had a secret crush on because he was just so dreamy (they are married now, with a baby, last time I heard.) My friends and I, we were all introverts and our weekend plans always included movies, going to McDonald’s and reading romance novels. Historical romances, specifically. 

So back when I was eighteen, I had a serious love affair going with gruff and sexy dukes who debauched virginal maids with an expertise I never thought I’d find in real life (Spoiler Alert: I did find it when I met my husband at twenty-two. He’s not a duke but there’s definitely a ton of fun debauchery in our decade old relationship.)

And in my eighteen-year-old head, I knew that I was going to change the world one day. What I didn’t know was that someone would change mine first. 

The red t-shirt guy. 

It’s insane, really. The way I reacted to him. Insane and shocking and so unexpected. 

First of all, he was so far away that night that I could hardly see him. I didn’t know what he looked like exactly. I didn’t know if I could even recognize him, if I saw him in the light of the day. 

All I knew was that when I went back to my dorm, I was filled with so much energy. All my exhaustion was gone. I was hyperactive and warm and alert. My friends thought I’d gone crazy; I didn’t tell them the reason behind my sudden enthusiasm. I thought I had gone crazy. 

For days after I saw him, I did nothing. I didn’t tell anyone about what I felt, about my secret dose of adrenaline. We didn’t talk about that lone performance we saw that night. I didn’t mention the festival at all. 

Only, I’m not good at keeping secrets or hiding my feelings (the reason I don’t play poker.) So I told them.

I told them about the red t-shirt guy. I told them that I couldn’t stop thinking about him and that I just wanted to know his name. That’s all I wanted, I told them. 

I thought they’d call me crazy. They’d tell me that it was a phase and it would pass. And that I should behave more rationally.

They didn’t tell me anything of the sort. No, they were supportive. They said they’d help me find out who the guy was, and they did. One of my friends had a friend who in turn, also had a friend knew a bunch of people around the campus. And two days later, I knew who the red t-shirt guy was. 

He was a journalism major, a junior, and one the most popular guy in their department. 

Now, I had a name. I knew what his major was and so I also knew where I could find him, in what building, in what part of the very big campus. 

I know that I’d told my friends that I only wanted to know his name. Honestly, I wasn’t lying about that. I was just… curious about his name, about who he was.

But then, I’m only human, right? I mean, I had all this information about him. What to do with all that information except maybe… use it?

When I say ‘use it,’ I don’t mean that I exploited that information somehow or something. All I did was hang around the building where his classes were held, just so I could catch a glimpse of him. I wasn’t so bold as to go talk to him or approach him in any way. 

So that was my plan: stare at him from a distance and not to anything else. Except, I had a great group of friends, remember? The ones who crazily told me that they’d help me?

Yeah, they did say that and they did help me. 

This time by somehow getting his phone number for me. Not to mention, they also told that he was expecting my call. 

Wow. 

Right?

I mean, how does that even happen? How do you go from promising yourself that you’ll just stare at the guy like a creep because you’re too shy to approach him, to having his phone number in your hands with strict instructions to call him because he’s expecting your call?

It was destiny. It was fate. It was fucking universe telling me that he was the one. It was all the things that I read about in my novels. 

Fuck dukes. I had the red t-shirt guy. Hello? And he knew how to dance – it’s one of the many, many skills that I’ve never possessed so I’ve always been in awe of people who do possess it. 

Anyway, I called him. I was freaking out because I’d never done anything like this before but I did give him a call. 

Everything seemed pleasant. Kind of awkward but mostly pleasant. We chatted about things I don’t remember, and somehow in that uneventful conversation, we decided to meet. 

Needless to say, I was over the moon. I dressed up. Or my version of dress up: a little lipstick and a little mascara. That’s it. That’s all I knew back then and actually, that’s all I know now. 

I went to see him at the coffee shop he’d picked. I was so nervous that my friends – my great, great friends – went with me. Then, they all stood with me across the street from the café and helped me calm down. Because he was already there wearing a white shirt and a pair of blue jeans and I was freaking the fuck out.

But I did go inside. Yes, I somehow gathered enough courage to walk across the street and go inside the café. 

We greeted each other. I saw across from him and we ordered coffee. Again, we talked about things I don’t remember today but I’m a hundred percent sure that it was casual and pleasant and nice.

Why am I a hundred percent sure? Because the not-so-nice part came after, which I remember very distinctly.  

The not-so-nice part being telling me that he was flattered by my attentions, but he wasn’t interested. And that he was in love with someone else, and that someone else already had a boyfriend.

He said it… nicely, I think. Again, I can’t remember that part. All I remember is feeling heartbroken and completely embarrassed. 

I mean, we could’ve done this over the phone, right? We didn’t have to meet. He didn’t have to arrange this ‘coffee date’ with me. I don’t know. I just know that I would’ve loved to not look him in the eyes when he said that he knew I had a crush on him and that it was cute and flattering but he wasn’t really available. But if I wanted to give him a call to just chat, I could.

Initially, I had no plans of ever calling him or being in any sort of contact with him. The guy wasn’t interested. What more did I need to hear? But then, I did have his phone and he did tell me that I could call him if I wanted to. So like a lovesick fool who latches on to the tiny, flimsy string hope, I picked up the phone and called him.

In hindsight, that’s how it started: my tale of unrequitedness. It lasted for a year, which I’ve named ‘My Year of Madness.’

For three hundred and sixty-five days, I loved him from afar. I loved him despite knowing that he was in love with someone. 

For a year, we kept in touch. We talked on the phone. Sometimes we texted. Sometimes it was nice and pleasant like our very first conversation. But sometimes it was painful. Sometimes he’d barely pay attention to what I was saying, he’d barely participate in the awkward, stilted conversation. Only to turn around and apologize for his rudeness.

Now that I think about it, I guess I know why he was like that: hot and cold. It was because he was going through the same thing. It was his tale of unrequitedness as well. He wanted someone who hadn’t wanted him. And I know that makes for a very volatile disposition.

For a year, I held onto the hope that maybe one day things would work out. We were already kinda sorta friends. Maybe one day he’d realize that he liked me as well. One day he’d realize that the girl he was in love with wasn’t ever going to be his.

Yeah, I should’ve taken my own advice. Maybe then, I could’ve avoided all the pain and misery and anguish. 

It was one of the worst years of my life. But tt was also one of the best. I’d cry and I’d despair. Then I’d laugh and be filled with hope. I’d dream of being with him and then I’d dream of being with someone who’d love me back. I thought I’d die from the pain of it all and then I thought I’d live. 

What I didn’t think – again – was that one day, I’d write a book about it and name it THE UNREQUITED. Not to mention a blog post too. 

For the record, I’m not Layla — the heroine of my book, and he is not Thomas, the hero.

Layla is an extreme part of me though, and Thomas is an extreme part of him. What I felt for him, Layla felt ten times more of that for Thomas. I only held my hope for a year before consciously deciding to cut all ties with him. But if it were Layla, she would’ve gone on for decades. She would’ve waited for Thomas forever. 

A lover is the one who waits, remember? Or at least, that’s what my favorite writer, Roland Barthes, says.

But mostly, I’m not like Layla and he’s not like Thomas because Layla and Thomas are soulmates, or at least, they were born in my head that way.

My soulmate is sitting at his desk right now, typing away at his computer while I write this, sitting on the couch with a wine glass in hand. 

And with a smile on my face.

Funny, how life turns out, isn’t it? 

I thought I’d be a scientist in an oncology department but I write books now. I thought what I felt for that red t-shirt guy was the extent of all the love that I had to give. But four years later, I met my husband and discovered that there’s no limit to love. 

Love is elastic and ever-expanding. It grows and flourishes a little each day, every day, for the rest of our lives. Especially, if you have someone who nourishes it with you. Who cares for it and waters it like you do. 

Requited love is always stronger than the unrequited. And as I write this, I truly hope that the red t-shirt guy found the same kind of love in his life like I did in mine. 

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Fine Print: I apologize for any grammatical errors and as always, a little too much use of the F-word. This is more a writing of passion than thought. Thanks for reading!

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As a writer, I often ask myself what is reading to me.

What do I hope to gain when I open a book and flip through its pages?

To me, reading is a lot of things, including a way to escape the real life and live in someone else’s head for a bit.

But mostly, it’s about expanding my mind, expanding my senses.

I want to read a book and feel.

I want to read a book and know the things I didn’t know before. I want to learn about a phenomenon. I want to learn about other people – the kind of people that are different than me. The kind of people I wouldn’t meet if not for the book I’m reading.

And that’s what I aim to do with my books.

I want to expand the mind of my readers. I want to make them feel.

I want to make them realize that the world is vast. That the world is full of people and places and emotions that might seem unreachable, but theycanbe reached and experienced and felt in the pages of a book.

With THE UNREQUITED, my aim was to explore the pain and the passion of one-sided love. It’s the most torturous and desperate kind of love there is.

With GODS & MONSTERS, I was trying to explore how society can shape us and our life. And how love can heal even the deepest of wounds. With MEDICINE MAN, I wanted to depict the struggles of living with depression and anxiety, and the strength it takes to overcome it on a daily basis and fall in love.

With my latest, BAD BOY BLUES, I talk about one of the most rampant societal problems: bullying.

This story is my most personal and most heartfelt yet. Because a lot of my characters’ experiences are my own.

I’m not ashamed to say that I’ve been a victim of bullying. Not once but quite a few times in my life. And neither am I ashamed to admit that until recently, I’d spent my entire life being afraid of it.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I never stood up for myself. I never fought back. I always thought that if I kept my head down, did exactly what my bully told me to do, they’d leave me alone. I thought I’d find peace.

Moreover, I always thought that maybe I deserved it. That maybe what they say about me is right. I mean, they’re picking on me for a reason, right?

If they call me fat; I must be fat. If they call me a nerd; I must be spending a lot of time reading. If they call me awkward and a loser; I must be all of those things and more.

So, I should probably eat less or read less and not talk to anyone at parties.

Right?

Wrong.

It took me three decades of my life to realize that.

Three decades to realize that they are wrong. That they don’t know me. They can’t tell me what or who I am.

And it took me countless panic attacks, a million breathing exercises, therapy sessions to realize that my bully doesn’t define me. My bully doesn’t dictate my life or my decisions.

A thousand nightmares and waking up in the middle of the night, sweaty and panting, to realize that I don’t deserve to be bullied. I don’t deserve to be looked down upon. I don’t deserve their taunts, their sneers, their scare tactics.

I don’t deserve it. Period.

With that realization, came another epiphany.

Bullies are powerless. They have no power. Literally.

They can’t bully me, if I refuse to be bullied. If I refuse to back down, if I refuse to believe what they say I am, they lose their power.

After all, you can’t bully someone who refuses to be bullied, right?

Without me, my bully is nothing.

Of course, I’m not denying the fact that it’s not an easy thing: refusal to be bullied.

It’s downright terrifying.

It’s so terrifying that it comes with its own nightmares.

But you know what? That’s okay. It’s okay to be afraid.

Standing up for yourself when no one else will and doing the right thing while everyone else is busy saving their butts is never easy.

It’s not an easy thing to be your own hero.

But no one ever said that heroes are unafraid. Nope.

They areafraid but they do it anyway. And you know what that’s called? Being afraid but doing it anyway.

It’s called bravery.

So, it took me three decades to realize that I’m brave. That I don’t have to listen to my bully. I don’t have to back down.

I can stand on my own and I can stand alone.

I’m powerful. I’m strong. I’m my own hero.

BAD BOY BLUES is my homage to all those heroes out there. Who fight for themselves. Who do the right thing. Who are afraid but they don’t let the fear stop them.

In addition to that, I hope that Zach and Cleo’s story is an inspiration to those who are struggling. To those who think they are weak. To those who don’t believe in miracles and heroism, anymore.

To them, I say: you don’t have to believe in anything but yourself. You have what it takes to be your own person. You have what it takes to be your own hero.

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Fine Print: I apologize for any grammatical errors and as always, a little too much use of the F-word. This is more a writing of passion than thought. Thanks for reading!

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