Life as Amber knows it

Back in June, I began working on In the Gloaming. Originally, In the Gloaming was to be a collection of poetry and short story fiction. But while writing it, the poetry took over, and when I made the decision to pull the short stories from the collection to be used in a yet-to-be-named collection, I felt one-hundred percent that I had made the best decision. And I still do. In the Gloaming is, as of right now, one of my favorite works that I’ve released, due to the extreme honesty each poem written for it embodies. I’m thrilled every time a reader tells me I touched them with one poem or another.

But, those short story fictions? They’ve been sitting there, murmuring at me, and in the past few days? Well, you’ve heard a three-year-old when they want a popscicle, right? They’ve been shrieking, banshee-like at me, wanting to be read. I’ve quieted them down, at least temporarily, with the promise that once I finish the second-round of edits I’ve received from one of my editors and submitted the writer’s grant I’ve been slugging away at for ages, I’ll look them over, finish two or three others, send them off to editors one and two (yes, I am that OCD about getting it right!), and then release them. I’m hoping that between now and then, I’ll develop a title that fits the collection, but honestly, I have no real worries, because titles tend to do what fiction does: take off running to its own destination and waits for the author to catch up and claim it.

I can tell you, however, that this collection touches on the darker side of humanity, and shows the harder and harshest parts of life, giving glimpses into heartache, loss, and the possiblity, but no guarantee, of healing.

But those damn short stories are shrieking at me, yet again, so in an effort to shut them up before editor two jumps  my ass for not getting my grant edits done, here’s a small preview of one. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

You and I, and I.

“You and I? We’re just fucked, mentally.”

I don’t disagree with Adam’s statement. Certainly, he wouldn’t start lying to me or bullshitting me after twenty plus years of friendship.

“But I’m pretty sure we choose that, that we intentionally choose the path less taken, because it’s much harder to walk upon.”

I stare into the face of my oldest friend, and I see his eyes, the lids at half-mast from all the alcohol he has ingested over the past few hours.

 “But you? Yeah, I think you purposely look for that harder path, and then you bomb the fuck out of it with your bullshit, intending it to be harder. Because you’re addicted to the hurt. It’s all you’ve ever known, and you can’t let go of it, so you look for it. And if you can’t find it? Well, baby girl, you cause it.”

My stomach has clenched, and my heart is pounding, and as the bartender brings us another round, he glances at me, reading me. His eyes focus on my neck, and I realize it’s because most likely? He’s seeing the pulse, slamming away against the chain of the necklace I’m wearing.

 “How long are you going to continue doing this? How long are you going to live a life half lived, held hostage by this need of yours to hurt as much as possible? How long are you going to hide behind the fears you throw out there?”

I don’t answer. I can’t answer. Because if I open my mouth, I’m going to scream, and then I will break down sobbing, because he is finally doing what everyone else has done, walking away. And he is hurting me, shattering my heart, because he was the one who would never go, not even when I pushed him to do so. So I don’t say anything, my lips pressed together, two hard lines meeting one another against my teeth. I don’t say anything, I don’t blink, because he’s killing me right now, and I’ll be damned if I’ll give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s destroyed a part of my heart that was still whole and beating properly.

~Amber Jerome~Norrgard

Okay, I really should be a.) working on my writer’s grant, b.) writing a blog about my recent trip back to the east coast, and c.) working on Searching for Ellen. But the answer to a.) is that I’ve actually finished all the edits the awesome Dionne Lister has sent back to me and am waiting on more and as for b.) and c.)? I just don’t want to. Momma Amber needs a break.

Thankfully, my publisher Charity Parkerson is not only brilliant, she’s hilarious, hence this interview she posted on her website and asked other people to answer. So in an effort to blow off steam and quit banging my head against the desk in frustration, I’m so doin’ it!

Tell 3 fun facts about yourself:

1.) I modeled briefly in my early 20’s

2.) I’m right handed, but can only snap with my left hand.

Someone (who shall remain un-named for this blog post in an effort to protect the idiotic) recently commented to me about my upcoming vacation, the first I’ve taken in eight and a half years, that they can’t believe I’m “abandoning” my children for nine days to go off on my own.

My response? A very emphatic and loud, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Another person (again to be un-named to protect the moronic) recently stated that they didn’t understand why I needed a vacation, being as all I’ve been doing the past eight and a half years was staying at home with my kids, and that’s the easiest job ever.

So after my husband paid my bail money for assault…. I’m kidding of course. I didn’t assault anyone, because they were smart enough to make that comment to me on the phone.

In January, I began really making an effort to work more on my writing.  That meant handing over some household and childcare duties to my husband, a feat that to a control freak like myself, was not an easy one to do. I had to let go of my tendency to control every little thing in an effort to make sure its done properly. And in letting go of those things, of not worrying if the dishwasher had been loaded and ran, not worrying about laundry being folded, not worrying about what to make for dinner every night, I was able to find more time to write. It also meant some nights, when I’d lock my bedroom door, I’d actually have to put on headphones and listen to music in an effort to block out my children being noisy and wanting Mommy. Their father is perfectly capable of handling them just as well as I can (and he does, so massive credit to him for stepping up and taking that added measure of work on his shoulders).

The result? A weekly podcast that brings me a huge amount of joy, five books (two of which have been best-sellers), a completed writer’s grant for three different projects, and five works-in-progress to be released sometime in the next year or so. And most importantly? Some excellent friendships that I have no idea how I survived my life without before these amazing people came into my world.

I’m also very exhausted and in much need of some down time, and some time alone. Because I am never alone. All told, my upcoming trip includes a total of driving forty-eight hours from Dallas, Texas to Norristown, Pennsylvania.

Of course, my vacation isn’t strictly fun: I will be travelling to the East Coast, to visit the city I was born in, and to see where I was born. I have been working on a book for the past twelve years, an autobiographical account of being an adoptee and searching for my biological mother. And while my story is a positive one, and a story of what really makes a family and what love truly is at it’s core, writing it still brings up certain emotions that are very hard to write through.

But I get to see family, and I get to meet, finally, face-to-face, friends I’ve known for several years through social media and friends that while they’re recent wonderful additions to my life, feels like they’re my oldest friends. They’re certainly my dearest.

For the jackass who says I haven’t really worked in the past eight and a half years, and the jackass who thinks I’m abandoning my children: Feel free to guess which finger I’m holding up. I’ve busted my ass for all of my working life, since I started my first paycheck earning job at fifteen, until this present day. I might not earn a gigantic paycheck, but believe me, I’ve been working non-stop since my first child was born. I’m way past a well-earned vacation.

lots of love

~Amber

I loathe bullshit.

And I’m not talking about the game Bullshit that my friend Dionne Lister and I play on our weekly podcast. I’m talking about full-blown bullshit, in any form. The quickest way to get me to stop reading your book? Bullshit your way through writing it and don’t do the work that your readers deserve and then publish it and waste my time and money. Bullshit me in my relationship with you? We’re going to have words.

I’ll excuse bad days, because we all have those. Hell, I’ll excuse bad weeks, and offer my help in any way I can if you need it. Make a rude comment to or about me, and I’ll tell you it bothers me.  But if I look at the arc of our relationship, and all I’ve done is given when all you’ve done is take? I’m going to walk away and not look back.

I can be the kindest person you will ever meet in your life. I will stand beside and behind you, I will help you pick up the pieces, I will be a soft place for you to land when your life has fallen apart and you need somewhere safe to relearn living. If you need help, and it is within my power to give it to you, I’m going to give it freely with a smile on my face and ask you what else I can do. I won’t ask you to change, ever, and I will demand the same respect from you.

I can also be a bitch on wheels.

There is too much in the world that is negative. There have been far too many negative experiences in my life, times where I’ve had to grit my teeth and hold on tight until my physical or emotional health has balanced out. When the shit has hit the fan, and I’ve been balanced on a knife’s blade width of sanity because everything familiar and known and secure has shattered. When all that has kept me sane is someone taking five minutes to say, “Hey, I know you’re hurting, I’m here” or someone taking the reins and shouldering some of the weight before it knocked me off the edge into a place I would not be able to return from.

When things are tumultuous in my life, I myself need a safe haven. I need the people in my life to just simply be there if I need them. I need your understanderstanding that while I do love you, and I am there for you, that if the shit has hit the fan and the bottom has dropped out, I have to take care of me first, before there is no more me left. Because I can only bend and stretch so far.

For the people in my life who I have given my unconditional love to, it is with the understanding that the love I give to them is a gift and is on loan. It is also with the understanding that when I give that love to someone, it also comes with two things: respect and honesty. And I expect those two things in return. Falling under the heading of respect is my right to walk away if all you bring to my life is hurt and heartache. If you constantly berate me with negative comments and I ask you to stop and you choose to continue doing so? Guess what? I’m done, and I’m walking away, and when I reach the “done” point? That’s it. I won’t be back. Under the heading of respect, also, is the fact that you don’t have to like every decision I make in my life. Feel free to hate it. I can guarantee that I won’t like every decision you make as well. You don’t have to like it, but you owe me the courtesy of respecting the fact that I am my own person, and when I make decisions and choices in my life, its not on a whim, its with a great deal of thought behind them.

And if you’re dumb enough to give me the ultimatum of “Eat my bullshit politely or I’ll walk out of your life”, guess what? I’m going to do you one last favor and save you the trouble, I’m going to walk away from you instead.

I am who I am for many reasons: Who I am at my core due to my personality, and who I am due to everything I have faced in my life. I refuse to change, unless it is a change that is going to be positive in my life, and only then will I make the change on my terms. Accept me as who I am scars, faults and flaws included, and embrace me as I do you: perfect and beautiful for all your scars faults and flaws.

Or live without me.

~Amber

1 Corinthians 13:4-8: “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.  It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.  Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.  It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”

At twenty-three, a huge piece of my heart was stolen from me, and I have yet to get it back.

More importantly, I don’t want it back.  I’m happy that the man I gave it to still holds onto it, almost thirteen years later.

2001

David is the most beautiful person I have ever been blessed to know in my life.  His heart is huge, and rather than being golden, it is pure platinum. He gives freely, and kindly, but if you cross someone he loves? It’s best to duck and cover. And I won’t lie: David has been very blessed in the looks department: Is it his eyes that smolder and pierce while they envelope you? His strong jaw-line? His broad shoulders and slim hips? Maybe. But I believe his soul shows through in everything he does, and that is what makes him turn every head in the room. His beautiful soul is something my heart did not hold a single chance against.

David is also gay.

You thought you were reading a romantic love story, didn’t you?

I met David when I was twenty-three, and he was eighteen. Everything about David exudes a gentle type of caring that wraps around you and makes you feel better for having simply met him. He called me “Momma Amber”, a nickname I still hold to this day, and I began referring to him as my “gay husband”. He would bring me roses every now and then, for no reason other than he understood how much I love roses. We’d go dancing together. We’d go out to dinner, and have long talks about everything from books, to love, to life. He’d introduce me to his boyfriends, and then the three of us would go out to dinner together, followed by dancing. My face would light up when someone would mention his name, and his face was my heart.

When my first marriage ended, long after it should have, and my world was falling apart, David was the glue that held me together, whether as a shoulder to cry on, someone to make me laugh, or someone to be a designated driver (I was robbing the cradle with my gay husband, being five years his senior). He was my anchor in holding on to life, and the most supportive of all my friends.  When I began working two full-time jobs out of financial necessity, he sent me an email: “I know you’re not going anywhere… But God, I miss you already!”

The very sad, very painful truth that I hate to admit is that a fight within our group of friends separated David and I for ten years. Pride, anger, jealousy? You could probably use any deadly sin to describe what caused the break. And while the fight was not between David and myself, the result was still the same: Ten years with a gaping hole in my heart, that was nothing but a huge void.

Age is only a number…

I read recently that distance isn’t important when loving someone, it’s about wanting that person you love there with you when you experience something. That is probably the most honest statement I’ve read in my life. Because when things happened in my life, meeting my biological mother face-to-face for the first time, getting married again, becoming a mother, making the soul-wrenching decision to have a partial hysterectomy at age thirty-three, my mind, as well as my heart, would think of David and wish he were there with me. I would wish that I would have put my fucking pride on the shelf and not let go of someone so very dear to my heart.

Call social media a blessing or a curse, I’ve held both opinions. But thanks to Facebook, I found David again in Fall of 2011. And we let go of the bad bullshit of the past and reconnected. Unfortunately, work schedules and my life as a mother got in the way of actually seeing one another until June of 2012, when David went with me to a writer’s workshop. After the workshop, we went to lunch, and sitting next to him at the table, talking with him again face-to-face after years had passed, those years disappeared. I was a thirty-five year old mother of three, and he was now a grown man (and quite a foxy one at that) of thirty, but it was still just Momma Amber and Gay Husband. It was no different than if we had spent the previous day together. It felt like just a normal, every day event to sit down, eat a meal, and talk with him.

After that Saturday, we made a promise to do our best to spend as much time together as we could. To learn from our mistakes in the past, and to make up for the years we lost. To schedule the time in if need be; and that has had to be the case in some situations. But in others? It’s a last minute text or call saying, “Come out and see me,” or “I miss you” followed by, “Come on down!”

In late July of 2012, I released In the Gloaming a poetry collection that was, above all other things, painfully honest. In this collection, I did something I hate to do: I was very upfront and open about how I feel about a few very important friends. You can imagine how surprised I was by the response to the poem I wrote to David.  Readers wanted to know about the love affair that inspired the poem. People commented on how romantic it was, how much passion must have been felt between myself and this other person to inspire such words. And I have to chuckle, because there has never been a romantic moment between David and I, not to mention the fact that David is just not built to feel that way about me.

With You

With you

I have no name

I just quite simply am

There is nothing to define me

Yet I become so much brighter

More colorful and free

Hope begins to take over

And I can just simply be

There are no labels

I’m free to finally become

Free to breathe

Free to break

Free to heal

And free to take.

There is, however, a great deal of love between David and I. He will never make my knees weak, he will never take me in a fit of wild and lusty passion, because that’s not in him, not how he’s built. He will, however, let me cry on his shoulder when my life gets too much to bear, he will hug me as hard as he can, and he will grip my hands in his and tell me that he loves me very deeply and he wants my happiness more than anything else.

What *real* love looks like…

David has recently made the decision to move to a city three hours from the one we live in. And when he told me, I sobbed, my heart already aching for my friend no longer being a half-hours drive from me. A few nights later, we went out, and when his upcoming move came up in conversation, I looked at him and said, “I’m really dreading you leaving.” He rolled his eyes, and I put my hand on his arm, and said something I have only ever said to two people in my life, two people who mean everything to me, who I would move heaven and hell for: “As much as I want and need you in my life, I want and need your peace, your joy, and your happiness more. Even if I’m not there. Even if I don’t get to see it, even if I’m not a part of it.” He hugged me to him, and I didn’t fight the tears that came. Why hide tears from one of the few people in the world that are worthy enough to hold onto a piece of my heart, wherever they may go?

David may move three hours away. He might one day move thirty hours away. I might only get to see him once or twice a year. But loving someone completely, loving someone unconditionally? That means letting them go. And letting them go does not mean you’re no longer in their life, it just simply means that you love them enough to put their happiness above your own.

David has taught me so many things: that the margaritas at Gloria’s in Oak Lawn should really be named Stealth Bomber, that the purest form of love is often the most simple, that unless someone loves you as you are they have no real place in your life, and that time and distance do not matter when it comes to love. Because those that truly love us? It doesn’t matter how far away they are, how much time passes between seeing them one time and the next. What matters most is that the love remains. That ten weeks or ten years doesn’t matter. Love, true love, the kind that should be written about, remains through the bullshit.

David, when you read this: Thank you for the light you have brought into my life. You are one of the greatest gifts I have ever been given. I love you, you wonderful blessing. Thank you for the love and care you take with the piece of my heart you still have, thirteen years after the day I was blessed to have given you.

~Amber

So you’ve probably noticed I’ve ran a few freebies lately: First there was “4 a.m.”, followed by “James”.  And on Tuesday, September 4 through Saturday, September 8, “Jeffrey” will be free, followed by “Color of Dawn” from Wednesday September 12 through Sunday, September 16, and finally, “David”, free from Wednesday, September 19 through Sunday, September 23.

In June, at a writer’s workshop here in Dallas, I was speaking with another attendee about writing and getting read, and I said, “I’d rather be read than paid.”  Which is absolute truth. If I can engender any type of emotion with my work? That’s the best paycheck of all.

So tell your friends, and go download these short stories and books.  And I hope you enjoy them.  And if you do enjoy them? Well, I’d love a review on my work, so I can know what I’m doing right or wrong.

Lots of love,

Amber Jerome~Norrgard

Today I’m thrilled to feature Robert Zimmerman as a guest blogger on AmberJeromeNorrgard.com, after Robert was kind enough to host a guest blog of mine on his website.

My Blogging History

Blogging has taken off drastically in the last few years, and this is definitely apparent in the literary world. Book blogging is one of the biggest tools, outside of social media, for authors to use and get the word out about their books.

I entered into the world of blogging a few years ago. I think it was some time back in 2009 when I first decided to start a WordPress account. I did this as a place to share my thoughts, random or otherwise, to whoever would read them. No one did. At least no one compared to where my blog is now. I’m looking over my stats and between November 2009 (when I “began”) and December of 2001 (before I started to actually use my blog) I had a total of 311. In 2012 alone I’ve have over 10,000.

This drastic difference in numbers came from a change in attitude toward blogging. Earlier this year I started reviewing books. I was winning a few every now and then from Goodreads giveaways and figured “that’s what the giveaways are really for, why not review some.” I was posting them on a Tumblr page I set up. But that wasn’t enough. I was noticing, after I started using Twitter more often, that there was such a thing as “book blogging.” I wanted to do that. I love books. It was for me.

Through the combination of meeting and becoming friends with (mainly) Indie authors on Twitter and other book bloggers, I expanded my blog and developed my skill in reviewing. I was no longer just reviewing books either. Since I wanted to have a book blog, I started talking about anything book related I can think of.

I started enjoying this blogging world. It felt right. That’s why I kept doing it. What started as an impulse, to try out a new thing, has turned into what could be considered a full-time (non-paying) job. It’s part of my lifestyle now, and I can’t complain about any part of it.

I’ve learned to cherish many of the rewards the blog gives me. I get to interact with other avid readers and book collections all over the world while sharing my thoughts on the subjects. I get to discover many authors and books through my Authors We Love series. And the most rewarding thing I can think of is when I get a genuine thank you from an author for a review. When I can help out the author of a book I’ve loved and get recognized for it, I can’t think of anything better that could happen. It’s not an ego thing either. Even if it’s a “small-time” published author…it’s still as if someone Stephen King personally said thank you to me.

__________

About Robert Zimmermann: 

Robert is a writer. Most of the time his thoughts will grace the pages in the form of poetry, but occasionally some short pieces of fiction will show their faces. His work mainly touches on experiences that shape who he is today and are emotionally engaging but easily accessible to those not familiar with much poetry.

When Robert isn’t writing for himself, he’s writing to help others. In his blog, A Life Among The Pages, Robert posts numerous book reviews, interviews, and other book related posts to help out fellow writers in any way he can.

How qualified is Robert for all of this? Well, he holds an A.A. in Humanities and a B.A. in Creative Writing. Basically it boils down to him having a lot of downtime living at home. At least he has a cute puppy to keep him company while he’s busily at work writing his first collection of poems.

Check Robert out:

Blog: http://alifeamongthepages.wordpress.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Robert.Zimmermann.Writer

Twitter: https://twitter.com/miztrebor

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/6435657-rob-zimmermann

For Deena and Mark

Take My Hand

Time and distance do not truly matter

Not when your soul calls to me

This week I’m joined by the lovely Cinta Garcia, who was not only sweet enough to let me pick her brain and find out more about her, but to do a blog swap with me…

Tell us about your upcoming book: what inspired the story, when you began writing it, when will it be available?  My upcoming book is called “The Funny Adventures of Little Nani”, and it follows the adventures of a funny, crazy little girl who wants to be a witch. Her misuse of her magic wand will lead to all kind of absurd situations, but at the same time it will make Little Nani meet lots of extraordinary new friends. I don’t even know what the inspiration for writing these stories was. I just wrote the first story in my blog one day in the spur of the moment. I simply wanted to prove myself that I could write something different to the emotional stories I use to write. I began writing the book in February, when people started loving the stories about Little Nani and suggested me to write a book about her. When will it be available? Well, I am finding more problems than expected as far as release is concerned, but I guess that it will be available in September.

Who would your guest list include for your fantasy dinner? Jane Austen, Colin Firth (imagine him discussing with Jane Austen about his role as Mr Darcy), and Tim Burton (wouldn’t it be funny if Tim Burton makes an adaptation of any Austen book?).

 What year would you visit in a time machine and why? 2004, because I was perfectly happy living in London and my mum wasn’t ill at that time.

What is your go to movie or tv show?  I watch the many adaptations of Jane Austen’s novels that I own, or I watch Bones or a very funny Spanish TV show about a crazy block of flats where these crazy people live. It is hilarious.

When did you start writing? I started writing when I was very young. I have always wanted to be a writer. Indeed, I won a writing contest in my city when I was 8. I wrote a tale about the importance of looking after the environment.

What book exceeded your expectations?  “Dark Prairies” by Rob S. Guthrie. I knew that it was going to be good, but it turned out to be a masterpiece. I read it in just one day because I couldn’t stop reading it.

Toilet paper/ paper towels: what’s the correct way to put them on the dispenser? I am not sure about how to explain it in English, but I guess if I say “with the piece of paper to pull on top” you will understand me.  It is totally wrong to put the toilet paper with the piece you have to pull closer to the wall.

If you’re going on a long road trip, what drinks and snacks are you going to pack? Ice tea and Diet Pepsi for the drinks, and sandwiches and crisps for the snacks.

Has a fictional character you’ve written ever shown up in a dream? Not really, but I have spent lots of sleepless nights thinking about Little Nani. Does that count?

What made you start writing? I have always had a very lively imagination, and I was always making up tales and stories. One day I decided to write them down. I never thought of writing seriously or getting published since last year, when a very dear friend I met in Twitter told me that I had a natural talent on me. I started to believe in his words (that didn’t sounded too pretentious, did it? Haha), so I started writing more seriously.

What is your morning ritual? I wake up, I get up, I open my patio door, I say “Good morning, Universe!”, I have a shower, and then I start helping my dad to get ready for the day.

Do you have any writing quirks?  When I write my Little Nani stories, I hold my magic wand for extra inspiration. When I work on my Regency novella, I use my Regency writing table and writing tools. I am freaky like that.

What do you think of books turned into movies?  Normally they fail to show the true nature of the book. Most movies made from books make me angry.

If you were going to a deserted island, what three items would you take with you?  Tons of food, tons of drinks, my Kindle.

Name 3 books on your to-be-read list. “Disenchanted”, by Cat and Lynx Raven; “Obsession”, by Dawn Torrens; and “Shadows of the Realm”, by Dionne Lister.

Best thing about where you live?  The food.

What book could you read over and over? Any book by Jane Austen or Tolkien.

Who is your favorite band or musician?  Only one? Well, then I will say Bon Jovi. I have loved them since I was 6 years old 😀 Picture this: summer, 1986, a crazy 7-years-old little girl singing at the top of her voice “Livin’ on a Prayer”. Yep, that was me.

What book do you think is a necessary read?  “On Writing” by Stephen King. If you want to become a good writer, you MUST read that book. It says a lot about what being a writer is.

Cinta, thank you so much for joining us this week!  Make sure to check out Ms. Cinta on Goodreads, Twitter, her website, and “Like” on Facebook.

~Amber

On Monday, November 24, 2008, I wrote a blog post, commemorating the fact that it was my last night as a mother pregnant with one daughter with one on the cusp of turning four years old.

I didn’t write again for over two and a half years.  And it was one of the gravest mistakes of my life.

I can give you what I thought were reasons, but really were just excuses: I was tired.  I had two kids.  I was suffering from postpartum depression and anxiety. My father had a horrible fall that resulted in a several months hospital and subsequent rehabilitation stay.

To quote my favorite editor, “BULLSHIT”.

You see, what really was going on was more than just me letting go of my writing, which is one of the greatest passions in my life.  I write, because I quite simply cannot stop.  Writing is essential to my soul, as essential to me as the air that I breathe, the water I drink, the food I eat, and my children who I carried within me for nine months and love with every fiber of my being.  What really happened in those 30 months of no-writing or so, was simple: I forgot who I was at my core, and let go of it.

“You have a gift; do not waste it. Write every day even if its only the words, ‘I have nothing to write,'” Those parting words, the greatest advice I’ve ever been given, were said to me on the last day of ninth grade English class.  And I followed that advice faithfully until the birth of my second daughter.

I think that the real reason I quit writing was shame.  You see, I was ashamed of the fact that I fell so easily into the trap that so many women do when they become mothers, whether for the first time, the second, or the fifth. While motherhood will always and forever be the very most important job I’ll ever hold, and its a job title I take very seriously and am grateful for, I forgot a very simple fact: I existed before motherhood.

Before motherhood, I wore snakeskin pants and biker boots. I could drink everyone under the table and still walk a strait line. I went out dancing with friends. I’d stay up all night, writing poetry, some good, some bad, some phenomenal. I’d have all-night, fall-off-the-bed sex. I laughed loudly and often.  I didn’t just sing along with the radio, I screamed the lyrics as loudly as I could. I almost finished writing a novel about my search for my biological mother. I had my nose, tongue and naval pierced. I had six tattoos (those, I am very happy to report, are still with me). I’d watch dawn break through the clouds at Denny’s.  I worked my ass off at jobs, not because they paid well, but because I was blessed with a boss that was wonderful. I’d meet random strangers at bars, and we’d close the bar down, telling one another our stories, and then find an all night coffee bar to continue on with the intellectual intercourse. I’d go car surfing.

But when motherhood came, in all its miraculous glory, I traded who I was for the identity of “Mommy”. Loving your children passionately, loving your children more than yourself, loving your children enough to lay your life down for them: That’s the job description. But forgetting that you are still you is not.  It’s a betrayal of yourself.

For those 30 months I did not write, I put everyone ahead of myself, sometimes at the risk of my own health, both physically and spiritually. I did all the laundry, I did all the dishes, I made sure dinner was on the the table every evening. I stopped seeing friends, stopped writing, stopped seeing myself as anything other than “Mommy”. Everything I did revolved around my life as a mother.

I lost myself.

A little over a year ago, I began talking with authors on Twitter.  And a shift happened.  I began writing again. And then I began talking with even more authors on Twitter.  When I timidly mentioned I had an idea for a book, I received the same response: “Quit talking, start writing.”  And so I did. Occasionally, I’d work on my book, but mainly, I began writing more frequently in my blog, and asking other authors to look at what I had written and give me their opinion.

In October 2011, I asked my friend Barry Crowther if he would mind looking at some of my poetry to give me his opinion. His opinion? Send him more of my poetry, and let him help me get off my ass and publish it.  He also gave me the chance to guest post on his blog, not once, but twice. 

In early January of this year, Barry Crowther emailed me and told me I was ready to go.  I spent several hours, my hand hover my mouse over the publish button before I finally gained the courage.

And people bought the book.

Which led me to write to an author and tell him how very much his book had helped me through a particularly rough spot in my personal life, simply by being a much needed distraction.  And the courage I gained from people buying my book, reading it, and reviewing it positively led me to ask this writer for his opinion on my work.  Which he gave honestly.  He’s now one of my closest friends, editors, and one of the biggest boots in my ass when I’m spouting off excuses instead of writing.

I’ve published four books since “Color of Dawn” came out in January, and a total of four erotica singles. I’ve started a podcast that is the highlight of my week, every single week I do it, and I love every moment of it (except the “Days of the Week”… Someone PLEASE, I’m begging you, say that you hate them!) I’ve met new friends, and been given opportunities to be interviewed on other podcasts, guest blog, and collaborate on projects.

And I have found myself again.  At age thirty-five, I’ve found myself, and most importantly, I have found my voice.

I am Amber Jerome~Norrgard. While I may no longer drink people under the table, I go out with friends occasionally and have a few drinks. I’m the person you see in the car next to you dancing and singing along to the radio. My laugh has inspired a drinking game with the listeners of my podcast. I write furiously, daily, like an addict. I love my children passionately, and spend time with them, but I also take time that is solely for me, that has nothing to do with me as a mother. I have a group of friends who own pieces of my heart, and while they are spread out all over the world, I wouldn’t change the fact that they are in my life as fully as they are. I write erotica, and it makes me uncomfortable, and I publish it still, because I believe that its necessary to my art to push myself as far as I can. I stay up all night writing or editing my work, or assembling my work into books to be published.

I am a mother, wife, lover, friend, daughter, sister, aunt, godmother, sister in law, the “queen of the obscene”, a poet, an author.

I am all those things.  But most importantly, I am me, and I am finally home.

~Amber Jerome~Norrgard