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This is a collection of all the reviews The Worst Daughter Ever is receiving. This collection will be updated regularly. The Worst Daughter Ever is published by Rupa Publications and is available at bookstores worldwide via Amazon, Flipkart and local bookstores.
There are three, at the most, four people in the wide world (virtual and
otherwise) who know what a hot neurotic mess I really am. Writer Gal has
*issues* peeps – some of them have been solved and shelved away neatly, while others rear their ugly heads from time to time.
Today, the issue bits have turned me into a piping hot mess and, I figure,
it’s time to share this aspect of my life with y’all. The ugly, messy, full of
self-doubt, and epic meltdowns part.
The last two months have been crazy hard on me – personally and
professionally. Oh, not because of setbacks but because of the sheer amount of stuff that I needed to handle and take care of, on every single front. All
while battling an insane case of sinusitis which finally only cleared after I religiously did something called a nasal wash (try it, next time your nose is blocked. It is fucking magic!)
I did the final read through of The Worst Daughter Ever on the day of my grandfather’s cremation because deadlines wait for nothing.
Yep, the book where I wrote about a beloved grandparent passing on was actually put to bed on the day my beloved grandparent passed away. The sheer, heart-breaking irony of it was like fate actually laughing at my words.
*Tears were shed, peeps. Tears. Were. Shed.*
I had to see my mom suffer through almost a decade of chronic, nagging pain, plus five years of her losing weight and appetite and finally two months of intense physical therapy to emerge the strong, confident, victorious woman she always has been for me. All while literally keeping our large, grieving family together with nothing more than her steely spine and titanium knee.
I watched my father cry. Really weep copiously and I don’t think I’ll ever
recover from it
In the middle of all the personal upheavals, a super-secret extremely cool
project was started and ended in three days.
My friends and I started an amazing new venture to talk about that most
stigmatic of all topics – romance! And the bonds of community beat all else,
Another cool project was brainstormed on my way back from an epically cool event just last week in the rickshaw ride, start to finish.
Two books were released, one in a beloved series that people wait patiently
for. The second one, the one about the grieving granddaughter, is now
out. And book releases involve a kind of pumped energy I sometimes don’t really have.
Because, and this is the kicker, talking about stuff that matters to me
scares me. Makes me feel ashamed. Makes me feel small. Like I am not worthy of it.
The tasks seem never-ending and always far-fetched and that’s how they are supposed to be if we want to achieve the extraordinary and my mom has always encouraged me to do so but…
There is no earthly explanation for this, except, the more I do when my task
lists are all clear for the day – the less I feel I have done.
The less I actually am.
It’s not about comparisons, because that is a rabbit hole I try and avoid as
much as I can. But…sometimes, not always, not every day, I struggle.
I struggle with balancing responsibilities at home and at work. I struggle
with being enough. With loving myself even when I feel I’m not worthy of it, like today. I struggle with being okay with finishing tasks on my task list and not adding more to it.
I struggle with the most horrible thought a writer, this writer, can ever
have – What if the book I wrote last was the last one I’ll ever write?
I usually vent to my three-four persons who roll their eyes, give me hugs,
pat me on the back and say, woman take the day off. But, today the day seems endless and the struggle is real.
If there is one resolution I’d like to keep from this birthday, it would be to not let the struggle get me down. And to know, with every particle of my being, that I’ll be fighting fit tomorrow. Because, I always am!
Until next time,
Writer Gal Recommends is a place where…well Writer Gal Recommends books by friends and not-so friends 😀
Mixing it up with the Writer Gal Letters are short stories that I experiment with, for form, for storytelling, for exploring the darkest, most heinous side of human nature. And, because my MA lit prof once told me I could never write a short story.
Phase Four is part six of a short titled ‘Remorseless Beauty.’ I hope you enjoy it.
“Oh my god. OH MY GOD,” I shook my head in negation as Nurse Theresa explained that Ginger had been let go.
Because well, the common term was, she’d snapped. Right at her sick, beaten daughter’s bedside. She’d started screaming and had to be finally sedated. Which is where she was right now.
Sedated. In her own little room in the psych ward, where she was on suicide watch. It was so pathetic and sad. And who’d have thought something like that was hiding beneath Ginger’s exterior.
Nobody mentioned the nightly visits that Ned the Janitor was paying her. Nobody mentioned anything. It was too horrible. Too grotesque.
Like somebody’s nightmare had come true.
Delilah Appleton died three days after she was hospitalized from severe internal bleeding, multiple injuries and blunt head trauma that couldn’t be detected because she never regained consciousness.
Ginger Appleton had been restrained in a psych room until further evaluation.
After about six weeks, I went in to look at my favorite nurse. She was behind a locked door. A holding cell. Dressed in hospital greens, looking as lifeless as a corpse could look. Her eyes were wild with terror and grief. And something resembling hatred.
I looked at her, and sighed a little.
I have always been aware of my own power. The best and the worst in me. And I have always strived to do better than both. It’s not nature, it is compulsion. It’s what I was born with.
The most destructive of my tendencies, the most perfect of my behaviors, I have embraced them both and made apologies for neither. It’s not an admirable trait, but I don’t want to be admired.
To be figured out, to be understood is just one layer of how we operate. And I like my level better. The capability, the power of illusion, of being able to manipulate destinies is so much more. Ginger and her daughter were the rabbits in my hat.
Breaking her, in the end, had been so easy.
And I went out with Trev on one side of my wheelchair. And my parents on the other. My time in the hospital had been well-spent. And as I locked that picture of Ginger’s snapped eyes in my head for all time to come, I whispered to myself.
Phase Four, check.
I drove away from the hospital with my family close beside me. It seemed, after all, that I could do anything I wanted. To ruin someone, to manipulate their destiny, to be able to commit monstrous acts without a qualm or remorse, what kind of person would do that?
What reasons would there be for doing something like that?
I gave you mine.
I wonder, though, sometimes, is it enough?