D.M. Patterson's Blog

I made two more breakthroughs recently on my ponderous novel, It Chose Three: The story of me watching my three sisters become legally blind from a hereditary eye disease I didn’t get.

A few posts back (How It Should Be Written) I wrote about finally realizing I need to write my story as an autobiography and not attempt to dress it as a YA Novel/picture book. I am not letting those ideas go, but I think I need to focus on getting the entire story out in all its raw beauty before I spiffy it up into poignant symbolism.

I made two more breakthroughs since then:

I am shying away from divulging how truly hurt I was and still am by this because I don’t want people to feel sorry for me or be upset about how deep this wound is. I also do not want anyone to ask me the question I ask myself all the time: Why do you feel sorry for yourself? Because I still don’t have a good answer for that. The character I am writing is me. And allowing anyone to scrutinize that is terrifying.I have decided to write a novel in verse. Funny thing … that YA novel I keep telling you about is half prose, half poetry. As if a part of me were already trying to release the emotion that can be so powerfully captured by poetry. I love that about myself. It just took several more years for the rest of me to catch up (not so thrilled about that part).

I was driving when I thought about my next steps for my novel, and this remake came to mind. This is an example of why poetry will work, and why the first obstacle isn’t going away anytime soon.

This remake of a known nursery rhyme captures how I feel in a few lines, versus writing pages and pages. It’s so sharp, it’s so brutal, the cut is so visceral, my immediate reaction was NOPE! Too much!

Three Blind Sisters

Three blind sisters, three blind sisters.

See how they run, see how they run.

They all run after a normal life,

Who cut at their eyes with an acid knife!

Did you ever see such a heartless way

A life will be altered by DNA?

Photo by David Underland on Unsplash

So, what was your reaction?

But seriously, this is how I best explain the pain … but can you also see how I’m afraid of people’s responses to that?

Yet I will hit publish on this blog, and a few of you will see it. And that means I can’t take it back.

And that also means I cannot go back.

I love Sir Terry Pratchett. If you have not had the great fortune of reading any of his works, do yourself a favor and add him to your 2026 TBR.

I particularly have a fondness for his Tiffany Aching series. I have listened to the series narrated by Stephen Briggs so many times that I have lost count. What I love about rereading books is catching new ideas, meanings, and plot devices each time.

I also seek the comfort of familiar books like a warm, weighted blanket on cold, dark days. My recent grief over my dear friend, followed by the passing of a beloved family cat, brought me right back to the powerful magic in the Tiffany Aching series.

Not the showy magic of sparkles and metamorphosed objects. Terry Pratchett’s witches roll up their sleeves and learn the most powerful magic in the universe: helping others.

I lose myself in the trials and errors of well-rounded, flawed characters who both teach and learn difficult life lessons. I allow myself to laugh at the heroically hilarious behavior of the Nac Mac Feegles.

I let the witches teach me, again and again. Because I could always use a refresher, I could always learn something new.

In Wintersmith (the third book), Granny Weatherwax takes a hot teacup in one hand and Tiffany’s hand in the other. She then warms Tiffany’s hand by siphoning the warmth from the cup. Tiffany is astonished and wishes to know how this magic is performed.

Granny explains, “It’s all about balance […]. You’ve ridden on a seesaw? One end goes up, one end goes down. But the bit in the middle […] that stays where it is. Upness and downness go right through it.” She then tells Tiffany she could learn the magic if she could “get [her] mind right.” (Chapter 2)

I’ve listened to this story multiple times. I’ve heard Granny Weatherwax explaining this method to Tiffany dozens of times. But this time I was driving on an errand and I was overwhelmed with an undertsanding and clarity that brought tears.

I have mentioned on my channels a few losses my family and I have gone through. My two miscarraiges after my daugther in 2018/2019. And then, recently, the loss of my dear friend in November. And then our sweet family cat in January.

One stark difference I have felt in our more recent losses compared to the earlier ones is my daughter’s age of understanding; and therefore, her depth of expressed grief.

I knew there would be battles of independance. I knew my important and extremely difficult role in helping her shape her selfworth. I knew there would be injuries and sickness that would worry me ragged until she recovered. I thought I had both eyes wide opened when we made the decision to be parents. And I spend a great deal of time reading as many parenting books as I can.

But I cannot say I was prepared for the unfathomable pain of my child’s grief.

(And to all concerned, we are in therapy.)

The insight Granny Weatherwax taught me as she taught Tiffany was something so simple, yet so profoundly complex.

Photo by Krišjānis Kazaks on Unsplash

Be the Middle the Upness and Downess go through.

Don’t move with the up and down.

Instead of the snowball atop the cliff gathering layers as it spirals downard; becomig heavier and harder to manage, allow the movement to move THROUGH me.

I do not need to bear it.

I need to help her bear it.

By being the solid Middle that her Upness and Downess can move through.

And I cannot do that if my own mind is not right.

The middle of the seesaw only works if it is grounded.

The seesaw only works if the middle does not move. And the middle only stays still if it is grounded.

Of course all those parenting books have said something extremely similar. You have to work on YOU before you can work on anyone else. You have to ground yourself to withstand the whirlwind that is being a parent.

Yes, I am sure that’s all been said before. But I suppose it never fully lodged itself into my overlycrowded brain.

Until now.

Until Granny Weatherwax calmly and patiently laid it all out for me – again.

And now I have the vision of being the center of a seesaw to help me.

This is not to say I am no longer caring. This is not to say I can now ignore her grief.

This is to say I now finally understand what it means to let it move through me.

It is not mine to bear. I cannot take it from her. Nor should I. I must let her learn to process and heal in the best, most healthy way possible.

To be grounded. To not move in the howling wind.

To understand in order for the seesaw to work as it is intended, it must have its Upness and Downess. It must move. It must have the up and the down and the down and the up.

To enjoy a sunny afternoon with laughter and a friend, the seesaw must work. The up and the down are free to move. The middle is grounded. The highs and lows and the squeals of laughter. The highs and lows and the possible splinter. The highs and lows and the sun lifting spirits. The highs and lows and the clouds rolling in.

I enjoy taking pictures of the sky. I’m not very clever or artsy about it, but there is something powerful and magical about remembering to look up. Of course I can barely capture the magnificence of the sky with my smart phone, but I snap away on my walks anyway.

Thursday, January 22, 2026 I took a long walk to help my building grief. The vet had told us earlier that day it was time for our sweet cat of eighteen years to be at peace. This was his sunset.

I cried and thought as I walked and, as always, looked at the sky. The sunset was beautiful.

Sunsets are a poetic way of referring to death. It sounds sweeter, more gentle; less painful for those watching. And, perhaps, more hopeful for those who are leaving us.

As the sun reaches the horizon, bursts of color stretch through the sky – reflections of what was; the ending of what is.

For William, eighteen years is a good, long life for the sweetest, most snugly kitty. The vet reassured us eighteen was a good lifespan, and he filled every second of those with purrs, snuggles, and sweetness. His life’s purpose was to eat and be snuggled – both of equal value!

His sunset came soon after the sunset of a dear friend whose lifespan was shortened by cancer. From my perspective, those skies were not full of the gentle pinks and soft blues. I still struggle to find the beauty in her passing – though the reflections of her life are full of vibrant passion.

Sometimes we cannot see the sunset behind the dark storm.

And there is the sum of my reflections for now. I am heavy with grief and do not know how well I am communicating.

Thank you for reading.

William 2007-2026

2026 is here whether or not I am ready.

(I am not)

I mentioned in my recent YouTube short that December was rough and 2025 was hard. I lost a dear friend to cancer. I think in time I will honor her on my platforms; but for now I am processing in private.

I am determined to be better about my writing, posts, and YouTube this year. I have some ideas up my sleeve. I have a renewed since of focus that is (inevitably) branching from my grief.

I listened to the unabridged A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens this year. In 1843, Dickens was inspired to write a new kind of story. He pushed for his story to be published that Christmas. I think he knew his ghosts would have an impact, but could he have grasped the idea that his story would still be popular roughly one hundred eighty years later?

What’s not to love about a beautiful redemption arc? Most versions today focus on evil turning wholesome by the scary magic of Christmas; and why wouldn’t they? It’s powerful. A man is forced to face his own past and present because his dark future and torturous afterlife is his own doing. It’s a psychiatric evaluation no mortal wishes to undergo. Yet we read the modern versions and re-create modern portrayals over and over because good triumphs in the end.

I’m so glad I listened to the original, “extended” version a few weeks ago because there’s another really poignant part at the very end that is cut out of pretty much every modern version/re-telling I’ve seen.

(If you know of a version that has this part please tell me, I’d like to watch/read it!)

The second to last paragraph of the original version reads, “Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms.”

Scrooge knew people would laugh at him. He knew because he used to be someone who would mock happiness. He mocked his nephew. He humbugged the joy of Christmas. He knew the world was just as full of people who would laugh at a good thing -especially at the beginning- as those who would support him. But he figured at least if they were laughing they look more attractive!

The paragraph ends with, “His own heart laughed, and that was quite enough for him.”

Photo by Eilis Garvey on Unsplash

Let 2026 be the year we stop caring what other people think of our passions, our hobbies, our projects.

Let 2026 be the year we say “laugh away, it looks good on you.”

Let 2026 be the year we let our own laughter in our heart be enough.

I know there’s enough going on in the world to overwhelm our passion. I am aware the news is loud with hatred and it is hard to hope. I am aware the mocking laughter of social media is deafening. I feel as though this post of hope is but a flare of a matchstick against the oppressive darkness we are facing.

But I will strike my match anyway. As fleeting as the light may be. As temporary as that warmth may be.

And I will say laugh.

Whether their laughter comes from the spirit of joy or mockery. Whether their lips turn up in spite or in praise. I’m glad I made them laugh.

I’m doing them a favor. Everyone is more attractive when they laugh!

Let your passion, strenth, joy, uniqueness, and hope be enough.

Ten years ago author CeCe Bell looked me in the eyes and told me to write my own story. At the time I was a student of Hollins University’s MFA in Children’s Literature program. One of the great advantages of my time there was meeting the incredible guests who would agree to speak, conduct workshops, and/or critique excerpts of works in progress. I will forever be grateful for that magical place.

After her speech on creating her autobiographical graphic novel El Deafo, Bell patiently sat at a table and spoke to each student lined up for her autograph and a quick chat. She could read our lips quite well, and requested we write our names on a sticky note so when she signed our books she didn’t have to worry about spelling. Genius request.

I was the last student and hurriedly asked her if I should write a graphic novel like hers about my three legally-blind sisters. I had expected something along the lines of what all students heard: If you are inspired to write it, write it! Instead she questioned me thoroughly, trying to wrap her head around this genetic disease that deteriorated three of my sisters’ visions and left me untouched.

CeCe Bell did not tell me to please write a story from their perspective. She did not encourage me to use my budding talent to speak for them. She held my gaze and said, “Write YOUR story.”

I left the building to cry into the listening summer night.

With enthusiasm I plunged into a semester designed to be small, only about five students per class with a professor determined to extricate a working draft out of us that could turn into our thesis in another semester. Six gruelling weeks of writing and rewriting and editing and critiquing the other students’ works at the same time.

I saw my future: The next New York Times Best Seller after six weeks! Of course a sibling grappling with survivor’s guilt would land me a contract.

That gusto quickly deflated as I wrote and rewrote and re-rewrote and started again the first chapter of my book.

To the point where the unflappable Claudia Mills, my darling professor whom I cherish, kindly but firmly told me to MOVE ON from the first chapter! Echoed emphatically by the unanimous exasperation of the other students.

Photo by Kunj Parekh on Unsplash

It’s been ten years.

I actually did move on. I wrote a full YA novella about what happened, including some poetry. I wrote it and let some people read it. And, bless them all, they loved it. I even submitted it ONCE. But it was (obviously) rejected. The story severely lacked je ne sais quoi.

Now, I am forty years old; still thinking about this story that needs to be written – if only for myself.

I could tell you all the obstacles I faced up to this point. What age group am I writing for? How auto-biographical do I make this? Where do I begin? Where do I end? How am I supposed to capture the struggles they had in a world where today’s technology simply did not exist?

How do I write a compelling story that so neatly falls upon Freytag’s Pyramid and captures the hearts and minds of my readers in one fell swoop?

What I have finally come to accept is simple: I cannot. Life is not a pretty pyramid; it is a jagged mountain range. There are victorious ups where the scenery is breath-taking and there are vicious depths where souls are lost. There are caves that provide warmth and caves that wander into depths better left to darkness.

I believe one day I will be able to write that picture book, that YA novel, that chapter book with all the correct beats paced perfectly to a beautiful crescendo of insight. The book professors will reference for its symbolism and refreshing commentary on the unfairness of life.

But before I get there.

Before I can map that dream story.

I must tell mine in all its jagged imperfection. I must relinquish control over my impact on my reader by substituting dramatized scenes of poignant SYMBOLISM with quiet reflections of truth.

I must remove the rose colored lens of me being the beloved protagonist thrust unblemished into a cruel black-and-white world, virtuously raging against an obviously evil enemy.

After all … hindsight is 20/20.

The other day I wrote this scene that reflects my life in a TRES ‘exhausted mother’ way (French for very because I’m poshly funny but don’t know how to add the little accent on the e). I think I have something here, but my current frustration in the world of writing is not the lack of a muse. I have far too many projects going on at once. Humble brag? Maybe, but it’s not that big of a flex to say in the context of I have a hard time finding time to sit my butt down and actually work on my projects.

Anyway.

This scene is not an exact replica of my life, but rather what I like to call Hollywoodizing my life. Not that I in ANY way have lived a life of dodging fans screaming for my autograph and fainting at the reveal of my next book cover – but in the ‘this scene is very loosely based on life but we had to add drama and make it actually interesting to watch’ kind of way.

Context for this scene: The effect of my miscarriage in 2018 ripples out to this day. In one area, my daughter still wishes she had a sibling. The miscarriage also tore my nerves to shreds. Damaged nerves give a certain spice to life I would be happy to live without, but here we are…

No title yet. Not sure if it will be chapter of something. Work in Progress WIP Scene…

I glanced at the kitchen sink full of dirty dishes, the kitchen table cluttered with worksheets, groceries, some ramdom batteries, a bowl of mints, and socks on top of a tablecloth that needed to be washed two days ago when Freyja spilled grape juice on it; I had yet to gather the fortitude to clear off said crap in order to do so. The kitchen floor sprouted crumbs like a lawn waking up in spring, and I remembered belatedly why a random towel was crumpled on the floor infront of the refrigerator. One of the cats had projectile evacuated his dinner and I needed to spray down the tiles with some chemicals that would make me feel like walking in that spot again was slightly more clean than the rest of the house.

“Tea.” I decided. “Bed time tea.”

It was nearing 8:00pm and Freyja was still watching a show with David. She should be in bed. I wanted to be in bed. My head ached. My body screamed at me, though I could hardly ever discern a clear message, if one even existed beyond, “I’m so tired it hurts.”

The show wrapped up as I poured warm water into my mug. It must have had a sibling because I heard Freyja asking David for the millionth time why she couldn’t have one.

“I don’t know,” he said with a laugh. “Ask Mommy!”

Though I could tell from his silly manner he was joking, and it had been six years since my miscarriage, the icepick to my heart was raw and still slick with warm blood.

She thundered into the kitchen and assumed correctly I had overheard their conversation. She sized me up and immediately went for the coup de grace. “Can we buy one?”

I play gasped. “In this economy?”

Freyja rolled her eyes. “Please, Mom?”

I tossed in the teabag and watch the clouds of color swirl into the hot water. “What if … now, hear me out … What … If … everyone was okay with only children?”

She stomped and opened her mouth.

“What if!” I interjected, “Everyone remembered I tried?”

Freyja deflated.

“What if!” My throat tightened. “I needed to be healthy for you?”

“But Mom-“

It was too late. I could never be too exhausted for anger.

“What if I wanted everyone to focus on YOU?”

Through the ringing in my ears I heard the couch creaking.

“What if!” I shouted over Freyja’s next attempt, “I wished people woudln’t focus on the sibling I couldn’t give you?”

The clattering of Iroh’s claws on the wood floors barely penetrated the static in my brain.

This time Freyja kept her mouth closed, but her eyes were wide as she watched me.  

“What IF,” I shouted, “YOU were enough?”

In the sharpest moments between thought and words, my mind cruely added, “And what if YOU will never be?”

Freyja’s eyes scrunched with unshed tears as her lips worked. “Enough of what?”

“Enough of a pain in the butt!”

David swooped in behind Freyja folded himself over her like a sack of potatoes.

And just like that, Freyja started to laugh. 

He scooped her up effortlessly and bounced around repeating, “Pain in the butt! Pain in the butt!”

She squealed, sending shard of glass through my brain.

Iroh scrambled to join in the fun. Growling and barking in turns.

Loud. So loud.

Noise, noise, noise!

The agony of real life clashed with the victory of mytholgy. The scene in our kitchen became an awful blend of celebration and terror as the fireworks of laughter warded off the evil intentions of what lurked within me.

Their ritual. Daddy swooping in to save the day with laughter and yelling and tickling and squeals. And noise. 

Iroh dancing around the jovial puppet; doing his part to ward off danger as any good dog should.

BOOM!

I dropped my spoon on the tiles. The explosive clatter clouded my peripheral vision as lights streaking accross my central vision.

BOOM!

I rocked backwards unsteadily.

“Pain in the butt!” Freyja squealed as Iroh howled his part.

BOOM!

A surviving sliver of conciousness kept my weak arms from attempting to pick up the mug.

Iroh plowed into the back of my legs as he jumped forward and backward at the large, ritutatlistic marionnette in front of him.

My knees slammed into the cabinet. The yell I attempted got caught in my tight chest and throat and came out more of a growl.

The fireworks did their job.

The dance was nearing an end.

Isn’t good always supposed to defeat evil?

I ran for the stairs.

Defeated.

So far I have put on two writing workshops at a local book shop, and it has been really fun! My friend Brandon let me know about Turn The Page Bookshop moving to the Williamsburg Outlets, and I had to check them out. One day, I was brave enough to ask Ralph (the owner) if I could put on writing workshops.

I was beyond anxious to even ask let alone move forward with actually doing one, but with the support and encouragement from my husband, friends, and family I did an editing workshop. I would love to see all authors embrace editing as an exciting and wonderful part of their journey.

The second workshop I did was about character development. Once again I had amazing support. And this time, I remembered to take a few pictures. It was right before Halloween and I played off the saying Kill Your Darlings. Sometimes your character is not right for your project, no matter what you do.

The past two workshops were two hours. The first hour I gave a PowerPoint presentation of information on the subject. The second hour those in attendance worked on either their work in proress or started something new.

I like this setup because it allows time to work on your project right away. I want people to be able to get excited about writing and editing and character development, etc, and then feel the exhilaration that comes from working on a creative project.

Brandon and Jason working on Character Development

These workshops have encouraged me to sharpen my own writing skills and knowledge. I research and plan out my presentations, which has in turn inspired me on a few of my own projects.

Which lead me to the idea of my next discourse. Note, this one isn’t a workshop. This next one will be a one hour session of me providing tips for laying a firm foundation for beginner writers. What’s amazing about these tips, though, is anyone who has been on the writing journey for some time can still benefit from this session. I am being reminded of this as I put these presentations together.

This time, I am going to set up a video camera and have a link for those who cannot physically make to the bookshop. Be sure to purchase a ticket to reserve your slot either online or in person.

Hope to see you there!

Trigger warning, this is about miscarriage and grief.

You can listen to me read this on my YouTube channel.

I grip my head to keep it from spinning off. Loud noises buffet against my ears, incomprehensible as anything singular, but a culmination of ringing, pounding, and screaming. The moment of acceptance must come, but I stand in the reality that was a moment ago and grip my head tighter as though to remove the barrage of new information raming itself against me, forcing itself into my mind and heart like an inky black ice pick. My throat refuses to move the liquid forming in my sinuses down, and nearly prevents air to move as well. I must inhale, a ragged gasp that allows the cruel ice to rip down my throat and fill my lungs with searing cold. Loud. So loud the pounding, but my hands are shaking now and losing their grip on my ears.

There are words forming in that chaos ramming itself against me.

My knees send signals momentarily louder than the ruckus that enter my brain as a normal sensation it is willing to accept. Pain at the sudden impact on the ground. More pain signals slice through the noise from my palms this time; thrown out in pure self-conscious protection of my nose before it, too, met the ground. Is the ground trembling now with the weight of these words?

Some animal instinct in me begs my body for more air and I begin to add my own ragged noise to the density around me. My lungs, nearly frozen through, protest bringing in anything more from the outside, but I am betrayed by that instinct, and more air cuts and drags itself down my swollen throat to pound through my body. I convulse and wretch, my stomach having now begun to protest any digestion of the chaos.

Photo by Carles Rabada on Unsplash

When will it end? I cannot take anymore. I will not.

But my guard is weakening. The shrieks of splintering ice cracking and ramming, slashing and searing as it finds its way into me are louder and louder as its shards cut into me, down me, over and over until I am shivering uncontrollably from the lack of warmth around and inside me. Until the pitch of its darkness has spread so thoroughly and completely my mind is of blackness and I cannot comprehend anything but the words that are now so clear, so concise in contrast to the maelstrom around me. Each repetition a heavy layer of unfeeling cold seeking to suffocate any remaining warmth from my body. I can now only lay in weak submission as the words pierce my existence.

“There is no heartbeat.”

This is a writing response to Ursula K. Le Guin’s Steering the Craft: A 21st-Century Guide to Sailing the Sea of Story. “In a paragraph or so, describe an action, or a person feeling strong emotion – joy, fear, grief. Try to make the rhythm and movement of the sentences embody or represent the physical reality you’re writing about.” (pg 9)

I chose to write about how engulfed my body was by the initial disbelief of my miscarriage.

For those who have not seen my latest YouTube video, I have started a new challenge for you. I am excited to see where this goes. I thought it would be fun to challenge you to submit prompt and/or exercise responses to me, and I will then share them in a future YouTube video.

I’ve started doing workshops at a local bookshop (Turn the Page Bookshop) and it has inspired me to get back into craft books and continue sharpening my writing tools. I believe there is always room for growth when it comes to writing and editing.

My next workshop is 19 Oct 3:00-5:00 on character development. You can learn more about it here, and sign up if you can make it! I began reading The Craft of Character: how to create deep and engaging characters your audience will never forget By: Mark Boutros for this upcoming presentation. It’s an excellent dive into a really tough subject, and I highly recommend it.

The following prompt is from Boutros’s book: Explain your story concept using the phrase “It’s a story about [your character] who …”

Photo by Kajetan Sumila on Unsplash

Boutros writes on page 14 “The reason you should always have “It’s a story about someone who…” in your mind is to place an early building block down that is designed to focus more on the character’s beginnings in your story and illustrate that there is a journey to go on.”

Boutros uses the example on page 18: “The Princes Bride is a story about a swash-buckling hero who teams up with a giant and a revenge-seeking swordsman in order to save the woman he loves from marrying an evil prince”

Submission Guidelines:

DUE: 31 OCTOBER!

Prompt: Describe in 2-3 sentences the concept of your book starting with the phrase, “It’s a story about [your character] who…”
Email: dmpwrites@gmail.com
Subject line: Character Prompt 1
Note: Do not send attachments or links. These will be deleted as spam.
Content: Family friendly

I will assume you give permission for me to read your submissions in future YouTube videos unless you specifically state in your email not to.

Hope to see you submission soon!

I am thrilled to do an editing workshop at the Turn The Page Bookshop in the Williamsburg Outlet Malls on Saturday the 14. I will first explore the ins and outs of editing your work and encourage you to embrace the editing journey. Please bring an excerpt of your project to work on after my presentation.

Huge thank you to Turn the Page Bookshop for this amazing opportunity!

Please check out this link to learn more and sign up for your slot Hope to see you there!