112. Standing Back Up

Dear London Fire Snake Scorpio,

My love. I missed you and this sacred place more then I could express with words but, yet again, I am reminded that when one does the job of 10 and then knocked down – the mental recovery and step back into that type of life is painfully gradual.

It’s the last day of summer break. I have too much to do. I started my period yesterday and the drop of estrogen got me in such a heavy headache that I was not able to exist. No. Not being dramatic. The poor kids got flattened by me yesterday. The sound of footsteps and paper rustling was like spears into my head.

The guilt is enormous.

I won’t dive into it. The residue of the headache is still here and I have one long day in front of me. I was reminded lately that you survive the impossible by ignoring that you are walking on air. As long as you do not look down and put one foot in front of the other, you can make it.

For that reason, my peace is sacred at the moment. And so even as I promised you the truth and all of it, I’ll have to take a rain check on it. The state of the house, my slow recovery, my economic situation, paperwork, and every other bloody thing that is not 100% in my life right now does not exist. It’s just the air I am walking on.

So what can I tell you? That since I figured out that dual POV for audiobooks is the window that keeps me cemented to my characters views, writing is not an painstaking effort of searching for words and angles. I exploded. In the past two and a half weeks I wrote 55,000 words – half a book. The more I could tolerate being in front of the keyboard physically, the more words per day I wrote with some days reaching 6-7 thousands. Insane.

What’s even more insane is that my brain started this routine: first thing it does in the morning is not a song blasting in my ears or a never endless calculations of everything I need to do, but the weaving of the world in which my multiple series exist. It’s like an endless source of riddles. My brain loves it. Although, today, because of the migraine, it does feel like the other 7 books I have already written in my head are pushing my brain to explode from the inside, lol.

Elizabeth and Benedict’s story is set in stone in my head and because for the first time the writing flows so damn fast, I am actually considering publishing. Was researching agents the other day. It’s.. an obsession.

Because I ran so fast with words, because the book is so wonderfully complicated yet simple, because the stories of those around them are already pending with the conflicts RIGHT THERE in the first book my ADHD brain runs down those paths like gun powder lines lit. In all directions. It’s thrilling. I am alive with it.

Applied for a job yesterday. I won’t tell you much about it. Just will say that it was an unexpected submission. Over the years I am becoming more and more frustrated that I cannot find good romance to read. Idiots who never had an ounce of violence in their lives glorifying toddlers having tantrums with guns in idiotic genres of Mafia Smut. Don’t even get me started on the whole Alpha shit.

Since when does an Alpha needs to declare he is one? Sigh.

And then, we all ask “where did the good guys go”? Words, books, are blueprints for life. They teach us in a closed safe environment what can be possible, what needs to be there. And romance is the only genre that teaches humans how to connect. We can argue with the intensity of emotion or the realism, but we cannot argue the basics: you glorify criminals, the “he’s horrible to everyone but little special me” and the grey concent – and you get women sitting in their 40’s typing to men they have not met across seas, after being married for 13 years to a man they just waited to go back to being nice “just to me”.

That is not what I want to bring to the world. My series has kinks, hell ya. But each one of them has a psychological source. My series has the romantic fast pace and the first sight attraction – mainly because I felt it myself once and I wish I would be more attentive to it.

And I break rules. Isn’t that what the mighty pan is for? In Benedict, the man is unmoored, and she is a badass blue colour builder. In the rest of the series I have a 70 year old couple reconnecting. And hell yeah, there are going to be explicit sex scenes because people in their 70s are not dead and we as society need to stop telling them they are.

A gay couple. A woman with a heavy oral fixation, who is a chef who eats her emotions cause what her psychology really needs is to eat a …
Well you get the point, lol.

See? Obsession. I am on a mission and my finger just don’t stop.

Not writing for the past 2 days was true torture. And I will not be writing today. I have little brain and it all needs to go to settling my kids into school properly. It’s a lot.

I can do it.

Slowly, as things will fall into place and routines will be reestablished, I will get back to writing to you every morning. I like the idea of bringing my writing dilemmas to you. Want to know the one my brain is wrestling with now? Lol, fine. You asked for it.

At the moment I am trying to understand what exactly Alastair needs from Tessa. See, the truth that humans are trying desperately escape for some idiotic reason is that no human is an island and we have people in our lives for a reason. We love people for a reason. The wrong one would be “because they supply something in our lives” – that’s how you end up being a cook and a mother for your own damn husband. Becoming functional.

No. True love is when the presence of another is the missing piece to ignite something in you. Something that without that catalyst, you just cannot do. For Benedict, it’s to find his own path, because Liz is trailblazing her own without fail even when he himself tries to stand in her way. For Elizabeth it’s to find the immovable mountain that she cannot break, and therefore become the loudest, strongest version of herself.

Fuck that’s sexy. Tell me I am wrong, lol. I am excited about it.

For Mac it’s the discovery of greed. That “it is what it is” is not enough, that he want’s something for himself. For Rory finding a lightning rod that cannot be smothered by her care, or abuse it, but just absorb it.

These I know. But Al is different. I know what he is. I know what Tess is. I know he falls for her the moment he sees her. I just don’t understand why yet. So this morning, when I woke at 5 and the past 2.5 hours my brain was digging. Who is Alastair, what is he. How did he become that man. What does it mean about his life now. Who is Tessa.

I often say I hate puzzles. I do. Jigsaw puzzles are literally the thing I hate most in the world. It’s like hell for an ADHD brain – trying to categorize very similar shapes into categories and prioritize. But this? This is my puzzle. Al and Tess are two puzzle pieces and they FIT because I saw them together. But how? So I turn and turn and turn them some more until it will click.

See? Ridiculous. When I am not writing the stories, I am writing about the stories. Do you think I went insane? Or maybe that after 30 odd years of not being able to let this flood of worlds and people off my head I finally found the door and it is all rushing and gushing, and hopefully, eventually it will relax a little and I will have some brain for other things? My life. My kids. My community.

You.

I know somehow that you are not only “not jealous”, but you are sitting there with this semi indulgent smirk of pride and awe. I can practically see it. Maybe, maybe I am some kind of an oracle. Maybe those images I see, those scenes, of us, of Al and Tessa, Ben and Liz – those images that start it all, start every book – maybe they are real. Maybe I am just a big antenna that receives some kind of a brain wave from the air and then my imagination fills the blanks.

I don’t know.

I just know that if there is the slightest chance that this is the case, and, I mean, people have had stranger ideas about the divine – then I must write those books. I must tell these stories, about these people, to the world. Because they were transmitted to me for a reason, weren’t day.

K. You call the psychiatrist yet? lol. Sigh.
Hey mate, no one promised you a sane lover.
Just one that will love you before she knows you, and to your very last breath.

Insanely yours,
Oxy,
September 8, 2026.

Help me find him: Have you seen this man?