Thursday, February 27, 2014

Excerpt time!

How about an excerpt from my latest release, THE ART OF BEING INDIFFERENT, a contemporary YA on sale at Amazon for less than the cost of a latte!

"I walked into the library and sighed. The next hour of my life was going to suck. Hard. First off, I was freaking out my dad would choose today to come watch practice early. Second, I had to hang out with Posey, and that alone made me want to bang my head against a wall.

She was already waiting for me, hunched over an iPod with her hair hanging all over the place. I don’t think I’d ever seen her face without it being obscured by that stupid hair. I didn’t even know if she had a whole face. Maybe she was shy, or something. Maybe she resembled that dude on Batman who’d had half his face obliterated by an accident. That would explain was her bitchiness.

My guess was the latter.

“You’re late.”

Her voice, husky and low in a way that would’ve been sexy on any female other than Posey, tugged me out of my thoughts. Shrugging, I sauntered to her table and tossed my backpack down with a thud. It echoed through the library, making the librarian glare at me over the top of her glasses.

“Sorry Mrs. T,” I said, ducking into my chair.

Posey didn’t look at me. She just kept staring at the screen on her iPod like it was the Holy Grail or something. “Sorry to her, but not to me?” She scoffed. “Figures.”

Well, weren’t we off to a great start? I sighed and rubbed my eyes. “Why would I be sorry to you?”
Her head moved slightly and she glowered at me through her bangs. “You were three minutes late.”

Snorting, I tugged a notebook out of my backpack. “Sorry.”

“My time is important too, you know.” Posey opened the Lit book and flipped through the pages to a section of The Taming of the Shrew. 

Ironic? I thought so. 

“I have no doubt of that,” I said, snickering. I tried to cover my laughter up with a cough, but failed miserably. “I’m sure your social calendar is full night and day.” I made air quotes to accentuate my words, and Posey sucked in a sharp breath.

“Your sarcasm is wasted on me,” she snapped.

I looked at her and smiled lazily. I’d won over many a teacher with that smile, and more than a handful of sophomore and junior girls. “Doubtful.”

“Ugh.” She flipped another page, tearing it on the corner. “You make me sick.”

“Do I, Emo Girl?” Plucking her pencil off the table, I started twirling it on my knuckles, a skill I’d perfected while daydreaming my way through Kingston’s class last year. “I think you like it when I’m a dickhead. It feeds to your dark, depressed side. I know your type.” I raised my voice to a high-pitched whine. “I hate my life. I hate the world. Death is the only adventure. Am I right?”

Posey ducked her head again. I could see the red of her cheeks through the strands of black hair. “You are such a dick,” she hissed down at her book. “You don’t even try to hide it. I can’t believe people like you even have friends.”

I smirked. “Whatever. You wouldn’t know what it’s like.”

“You think you’ve got everything figured out, don’t you?” Her head popped up and she glared right at me. “You think you’re so great.”

Well, color me surprised. She had a whole face. And it wasn’t half bad, either. Heart shaped super white skin, red lips without any of that gloss crap on them, and those arctic blue eyes shooting daggers at me. If she pulled the mess of hair out of her face once in a while, and maybe smiled a bit, she might actually be… pretty?

Shuddering, I dropped the pencil. What the hell was wrong with me? Posey was ugly, and rude and combative, and socially… just wrong.

“I know I’ve got it figured out.” The librarian passed our table, pressing her finger to her lips, so I dropped my voice even lower. “And I know I’m great.”

She tucked her hair behind her ears, and leaned closer to me. “If you’re so great, then why are you here? Why do you need some insignificant peon like me to tutor you? Why would you lower yourself to sit at the same table as me or even be seen with me? If you’ve got it all figured out, why didn’t you just drop your last name with Mr. Kingston to get your sorry butt out of trouble? Why didn’t you just have your dad call the school to get you an A in Lit? We all know he could do it.”

My smile dropped. “You don’t know my dad.”

She sneered. “I’ve been in this hell hole town long enough to know your dad’s got his thumb on everyone. I’m sure Kingston’s no exception.”

I looked out the library window. “Don’t you have some Shakespeare to talk about? You’re wasting my time.”

“No, Drew,” she spat. “You’re wasting my time. I can’t stand people like you. Or people like your dad, for that matter.”

My molars ground together. This was probably the most I’d ever heard Posey speak, and I wasn’t prepared for her to be so perceptive. She always seemed so disconnected. So sullen and pissy. I didn’t think she cared about anything going on around her, much less give a damn what was going on around this town.

Embarrassment washed over me, and I fought the urge to sink down in my chair. I hated the fact that my dad ran this town like his own personal game of chess. I hated the fact that when people heard his name, they either crapped their pants out of fear or fell all over themselves to accommodate him because he’s some sort of small town superstar. He didn’t deserve either. He was a bully with a platinum card."

Click here to grab your copy of THE ART OF BEING INDIFFERENT today!

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Did you score a free copy...

Of The Art of Being Indifferent?

If so, do me a solid, and leave an honest review either HERE (Goodreads) or HERE (Amazon)...

Thank you so much!! I hope you all enjoyed The Art of Being Indifferent, it was very sweet and emotional for me to write. After losing our daughter this summer, it has been rough sorting through all of my emotions about adoption and the foster care system, etc. Writing Posey and Drew's story was sort of cathartic for me. (Want to know what it's about? Click HERE.)

If you didn't manage to score The Art of Being Indifferent for free, never fear! Buy a copy on Amazon for just $2.99 today, then email me at I'll send you a FREE ecopy of my novella, Bittersweet, for you to enjoy...or to share with a friend. Click HERE to buy a copy today!

So many deals, so many giveaways, so little time!

Thanks for all the support, guys! Hope you enjoy Posey and Drew's story!

Tuesday, February 18, 2014

On authors behaving badly....

I read books by all sorts of authors, self pubs and traditional pub, some by authors and publishers that I like, others by authors and publishers that I can't stand. I read unknowns and famous people. I read small books and big ones. I read cheap books and expensive ones. I'm an equal opportunity reader.

And despite all of my personal feelings about that particular author (sometimes I know them--or know OF them. And sometimes I know the publishers--or know OF them) I work very hard to give honest reviews. I review almost all the books I read, and I am always honest about my experience with that book....even when I know it might come back to bite me in the butt. Even when I feel like a disgruntled author or publisher is going to jump out of the bushes and whack me in the knee, a'la Nancy Kerrigan ("Whyyyyy? Whhhhhyyyyyyy????")

Sometimes it is hard for me to keep my personal feelings towards people at bay. I've been sabotaged by more fellow authors (and mistreated by a publisher or two) than I care to admit, and there have been times when fellow authors have been downright cruel, turning into cyber-bullies because I didn't say or do what they wanted me to do. Believe me, the world of writing/publishing is far more cut throat than one would assume. In fact, I often tell my husband it is like swimming in a shark tank while on one's period. How's that for a mental image??

You would think we would support each other more. You would think we'd realize there is success and money to be made for all of us, not just the one of us who is willing to drown everyone else in the shark tank.....

But alas. Here we are. In the shark tank. Pass the kotex.

It would be so easy to tank a book in one of my reviews, simply because that author has screwed with my social media presence, or insulted me somehow. Or give one star ratings to all the books from a publisher who made me feel like I was unworthy to touch the hem of their robes. Believe me, if I did, I would feel very justified with my decision to do so. Or...I would for a while...before the guilt set in.

But alas, I don't. I read the books, and if I like what I've read, I say so. If I don't, I say so (as politely as possible.) I'm honest, even when it kills me to be. Even when that particular author (or publisher) makes me want to bang my head against a wall, or run my knuckles over a cheese grater.....

Sometimes they've written an annoyingly great book! It happens. There are times when I read a book by an author that drives me crazy (ahem--are you listening, John Green??) and I am left reeling because it was just so damn good. So what do I do? Do I ignore them? Skip the review and go stare at my laptop longingly, because I wasn't brilliant enough to think of that storyline??

*sigh* No.

I give them their dues. After all, they worked hard. Right? Writing a book is in no way easy. I know, I've written 9 of them. It's basically like pouring your soul onto your laptop, then editing it until your eyes are about to fall out, then pouring over graphic art until you're ready to scream, then publishing it and letting the population of the world pour salt over your open wounds--which are a'plenty. Yeah. Not so much fun. But hey, you do what you're meant to do. I'm meant to write. So pass the salt.

There is a common misconception that authors MUST give fellow authors light, fluffy, happy reviews covered in sprinkles and sunshine. Because if we don't, we're unsupportive to our own kind. We are tyrants who poop on the successes of other authors. It is jealousy in it's PRIME. Right?? If I don't like a book, it MUST be jealousy talking??

This is not the case. Honest reviews are just that: honest reviews. They are not (and they should never be) attacks against other authors, and they should never be a way to stick it to a fellow author who ticked you off once upon a time ago. They should be considered a compliment...that author took their hard earned money to purchase your work. That author took their precious time to read your work. That's a big deal, ya'll. Recognize the sacrifice that took. If I hate you, and want to punch you in the face, but gave you two or three of my hard earned bucks to read your book...that's the highest compliment there is. I'm poor. I need my money. Be happy I shared it with you.

In that same vein, reviews should never be falsified to support a book. If you don't connect with a book, or it was horrible, or it offended you, or it made you want to kick a puppy in the face--don't lie. That's dishonest, and doing that author as much of a disservice as tanking them on purpose. Reviews are subjective, and should be taken with a grain of salt. Tanking a fellow author or publisher, and encouraging your entourage to do the same, simply because they aren't your cup of tea is silly, childish behavior that I try really hard not to participate in, and I hope all of my fellow authors will consider doing the same.

Lets just let each other do our jobs, earn a living, and have fun doing it. Just because someone isn't your favorite person in the world, doesn't mean you have license to screw with them. That silliness is best reserved for playgrounds and B-list actors on Twitter.


Grab a copy of The Art of Being Indifferent for free!

Then when you're done reading it...leave me an honest review on Goodreads or Amazon!

Feedback from readers is like sprinkle cupcakes. True story.


Thursday, February 13, 2014

Two books for one!

Grab a copy of THE ART OF BEING INDIFFERENT today...then send proof to

And I'll send a free eCopy of BABY & BUMP (my bestseller to date) for you to enjoy or to share with a friend!

Hooray for free books!! :)

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

Have you grabbed your copy of...

The Art of Being Indifferent yet?

Posey's not the kind of girl who has a lot of friends. After bouncing from foster home to foster home she's only formed an attachment to her iPod, and the music that takes her away from the ugliness that surrounds her.
Drew Baxter's got life on a string, or so everyone thinks. Son of the town mayor, swim team champion, and the hottest guy on campus. Little does everyone know that life at Drew's home is dark, dangerous, and only getting worse.

When partnered together in a tutoring assignment from hell, Posey and Drew are surprised to find how much they have in common. Despite their need to keep what's going on under the surface a secret from the world, it becomes clear they know each other better than anyone else in the world can. Now Posey and Drew have to find a way to exist in a town that wants to keep them apart, and in a circle of classmates that wants them to stop blurring the social lines.

Above all, Drew and Posey need to escape the madness of their abusive parents, before they drag them down forever.

Monday, February 10, 2014

Update: The Hair Crisis

So lots of you read the blog post I wrote about my hair crisis. Some of you responded with kindness, understanding, and support. Some of you did not.

Part of me was offended, the other part of me just closed my laptop and walked away for a while. Have any of you seen the musical, Wicked? You know that one song Elphaba sings, No Good Deed? Yeah. That's sort of how I felt.

In response, I'd like to post an update.

Like I said before, I'm not looking for sympathy or coddling. I know that my life could be ten thousand times worse, and I am grateful for the good life I have. However, when one of my blog readers wrote in explaining that she, too, had hair loss after weight loss, and that she, too, felt devastated and sad, it made me feel really good.

I'm not alone. I'm not the only woman who doesn't want to march around with Muppet hair and bald spots. And making me want to cover my follicle issues with a wig doesn't make me selfish or vain. It makes me human. It felt good to be validated.

So, back to the update. Here is what's happening to my hair:

Yeah. Not so cute. I'm just glad that it's not permanent. In 6 months to a year, this will be a non issue, but until then....oh holy Hannah. Embarrassing.

Here is what I've done about it:

I ordered this one per my husband's request. It looks terrible. Like a middle aged Ariel the Mermaid. Which, in and of itself, is very cool. But the look? Not so much. I look pretty bad.

However, I liked pretending to be Bret Michaels.

I really like this one. It's brown and layered and curly. It's got some red in it, too. It's a keeper.

It's sort of big, but like my last post said, I likes me some big hair. Hello, product of the 80's and 90's.

In the right light, it's definitely got some red. I likey the red. I'm all about red hair, and have been for 25 years. It's a sickness.

Here's the wig that looks the closest to my natural hair. Though my hair isn't naturally blonde, I have had blonde several times. Plus, this cut is to die for. I rock it. Hard.

I've got one more wig coming in the mail that I am excited about. I'll post pics as soon as it arrives. It's a dark brown bob. Very Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction, without the OD and needle in the chest.

The long red one will go back soon. It was a bad choice (No offense, honey.) I wanted three wigs because I like being able to change my look whenever I choose, and because I've found some incredible, thoughtful, & supportive wig specialists in my city who sell synthetic wigs for absolutely reasonable prices, and provide excellent customer service. I'm excited to spend the next several months sporting my new looks, and talking more about this frustrating (but completely tolerable) side effect of extreme weight loss.

Want to know what's super cool? I wore a tight shirt with horizontal stripes today, and I didn't look hideous. And when I did my time on the treadmill this afternoon, I didn't want to die. Score 314 for weight loss surgery. Bam. Boom.

Live! Live! Live!

Hip, hip, hooray!!!

The Art of Being Indifferent went live today (over 12 hours early--that Amazon, I can't figure out the timing on it. Maybe by my 10th self pub, I'll get it down.) I'm beyond ecstatic to share it with you all!

Posey's not the kind of girl who has a lot of friends. After bouncing from foster home to foster home she's only formed an attachment to her iPod, and the music that takes her away from the ugliness that surrounds her.

Drew Baxter's got life on a string, or so everyone thinks. Son of the town mayor, swim team champion, and the hottest guy on campus. Little does everyone know that life at Drew's home is dark, dangerous, and only getting worse.

When partnered together in a tutoring assignment from hell, Posey and Drew are surprised to find how much they have in common. Despite their need to keep what's going on under the surface a secret from the world, it becomes clear they know each other better than anyone else in the world can. Now Posey and Drew have to find a way to exist in a town that wants to keep them apart, and in a circle of classmates that wants them to stop blurring the social lines.

Above all, Drew and Posey need to escape the madness of their abusive parents, before they drag them down forever.

Grab YOUR copy of The Art of Being Indifferent HERE!!

(THE ART OF BEING INDIFFERENT is appropriate for readers 14+. This book provides an lightly censored view into the foster care system & the families within, there is mild language, and age-appropriate kissing. Here's hoping adults AND kids will read it--and maybe talk about it after they're done.)

Thursday, February 6, 2014

How do I feel about losing my hair?

So..............I'm sort of in the dumps this week.

It's not for reasons that are remotely serious, life or death,  or even that big of a deal. I have friends who are facing much more serious things like possible cancer, death, job issues, divorce, and bankruptcy. I do not have it that bad. In fact, all in all, I've got it pretty darn good right now. I'm healthier than I've been in well over a decade. My yummy husband is alive and well, and has a good job, my children are all healthy & happy, I have an incredible faith base and church family, and I have a nice little house that keeps us warm with a fluffy white dumb dog to enjoy. All in all, I am a very blessed woman.

I just felt the need to prelude this blog post with how aware I am that there are people in the world who have it much, much worse than I. And that my woes pale in comparison.

That being said...

I'm having a crisis.

As most of my loyal friends & readers know, I had weight loss surgery a few weeks ago. Almost four, to be exact. (Want to read more about my journey? Check it out HERE and HERE.) I've already lost over 50 pounds, and have another 58 to go, but I'm already noticing some nice improvements in my health and activity level. I'm very grateful that I did this...even if it means a lifetime of work to continue & maintain my progress.

In researching my weight loss surgery options (in a last minute change, I went for the gastric sleeve procedure,) I was informed that one of the side effects of this surgery could possibly be hair loss. At the time (last summer) I said I didn't care. I felt like making a permanent change to my health and improving my quality of life was grossly more important than having lovely locks.

I know, I know........this from the woman who takes her hair very seriously. *sigh* I couldn't help it. I wanted the surgery so bad.

Plus, I really did think I would be exempt from such a rotten side effect. After all, I change my hair color (drastically) at least 3 to 4 times a year. I go from blonde, to black, then to red, then back to blonde. It's an addiction. (Well, to be more specific: I couldn't seem to get control of my weight, so what could I control? My bodacious hair.)

So anyhooo...apparently I'm not exempt. I should have known. When I had my fourth child, I wound up losing some hair in the front of my head. When I had a surgery a few years ago, I started shedding like our big white fluffy dog in the summertime from the anesthesia. And I've truly been abusing my hair for a decade--coloring, bleaching, heat styling, chopping it off, growing it out, etc. If my hair wasn't ticked off enough already, add in major abdominal surgery with full anesthesia, hard core intravenous narcotics, and five solid weeks of only liquids in my system...and well, my hair just plain hates me now.

I was in denial for a while. When I would shower, there would be huge amounts of loose hair in the drain. When I blow dried my hair at night, it would look as if I threw a handful of confetti in the air, but it was actually my hair. One side of my head started to look shorter when I was styling my hair, because I was losing more on one side than the other. (Why? I don't know. Because karma is a biznatch.) I tried to cover it up with headbands, scarves, and huge...huge hair. Seriously last week at church, it was a planet unto itself. I was embarrassed because my kids kept saying (as we traveled down the road in my husband's truck) "I can't see where we're going! Mom, can you move your hair over?"

Yeah. I grew up in the 80's and came of age in the early 90's. I know how to do big hair really well. I could win awards. True story.

And then...on Sunday night, it happened. I was laying on my bed, nursing a sore tummy (note to self: never eat a slice of salame three weeks after bariatric surgery. You'll wish you'd died. This I promise you.) and when I sat looked like a shedding cat had laid on my pillow. A fat, red-headed cat with glorious highlights.

But it was actually me.

*sigh* It was time to face the facts. I knew it could happen. I have friends who had the surgery and wound up with very thin hair that I was able to see the scalp through, and I even have a lovely girlfriend who wound up wearing a wig for about a year until her hair thickened back up. I'd jokingly told my husband and friends that if I lost my hair, I was going to buy a long, little mermaid wig to wear all the time...just because that's how I roll. If I do something, I don't do it halfway. It's b*lls to the wall, baby.

Except that I am now against that wall........with very, very bad hair. It was shorter on the left side than the right. It was frizzed and broken on the ends from years of coloring/bleaching/heat styling. It was so thin in some areas that if I didn't backcomb it into utter and bewildered submission, you could see my pasty white scalp through it. And showers? *shudder* They were like those horror movies where the bloody and ailing character is huddled in the corner, with dirty water pouring over their bodies, and hair  clumping in the drain....

Ok. Maybe not that bad. But that's what it felt like. I'm just sayin'.

In pursuing weight loss surgery, which, in case you've never heard this, is hella expensive, I made a commitment to my husband. I promised I was going to temporarily break up with the OTHER love of my life, my talented hairdresser, Melanie, in an effort to save money, and get my surgery paid off as quickly as possible. (Amongst some other money-saving plans that involve putting out as many books as I can manage in 2014, as well as making my own baby wipes and dryer sheets. Ugh. Don't ask.)

So I found myself with thin, brittle, fried hair that was a shameful color of purplish red (thanks to a late night trip to the Revlon hair color aisle at Target, induced by a particularly mournful shower episode I refer to as "that one night.") and it seemed like every time I brushed my hair, moved my head, or shampoo'd my locks, more fell out. I don't have bald patches yet. But my scalp is now visible in spots, and it's so thin and staticky (I call it "Muppet Hair") that styling it falls short of my large-hair expectations. I've taken to wearing a red bandana over my head like some sort of pseudo hippie, except that I also wear glasses, so I look like a hipster/farmer. Not a good look for me.

I cried. And talked it over with my husband and a couple of friends (Thanks, Rachael and Amelia!) And then I cried some more. Then I looked at wigs online. Then I cried some more.

All in all, I've cried a lot lately. Which is sort of lame, because--let me be the first one to state the obvious--it's hair. Nobody is sick. Nobody is dying. Nobody is hurt or homeless. In the grand scheme of things, this is not the end of the world. If I have an eternal perspective, which I really try to have, this is a non-issue. A year from now, this will be something I will laugh about having been so obsessed over.

And my husband? Yeesh. He thinks I'm insane. Rightfully so. I mean, the guy himself is bald, so hair loss is sort of par for the course for my nerd. Watching me sob over hair just annoyed him. Because he is so used to fixing things when they're broken. And he can't fix this for me. If it were up to him, I'd walk around with my fried Muppet hair, and smile proudly. Cuz that's what he would do. However, I'm not him. I'm Brooke Moss, a talented author and follically challenged increasingly fragile woman.

It took him a while to "get it." And the more I explored how emotional I was feeling about looking like a deranged meth head from the neck up, the more I realized that half of my emotions weren't even about the stupid hair. They were about the way I was used to handling stress like this. Before losing all this weight, when I was sad, what did I do? I ate. When I was happy? I ate. When I was mad? I ate. When I was thinking or pondering? I ate.

All of my emotions are almost immediately followed up by a snack or meal of some sort. Most of my emotions are handled with some good old fashioned honesty, some hard work or prayer, and then quickly followed up by a PBJ sammie and some chips. Or some cheese and crackers. Then a sweet of some kind, because what meal isn't followed up with a dessert? I mean, come on. Are we animals or refined humans??

Whew. That escalated quickly. Back to normal now.

Now a days, when I have an emotion, I have to turn to something else. Writing, walking on the treadmill, housework, talking to a friend, or surfing Pinterest until my eyes cross. I can snack, but the amounts my new stomach will hold are so puny that I look down at the leftovers and feel like I've betrayed my entire family legacy by not finishing that whole container of baby food. (Yeah. Baby food. Do you see how low I've stooped??) So the emotions that come from losing the ONE thing about my looks I've ever felt in control of were just kicking around in my head...all alone. No cheese and bread for it to lay down on. No blanket of ranch dressing or dark chocolate. Just emotions. Tough ones, at that.

1st Corinthians, 11:15 states "...but if a woman has long hair, it is her glory? For her hair is given to her for a covering."

The term "crowning glory" is used to describe a woman's hair all the time. I realize that all of my feminist friends probably want to punch me in the throat for perpetuating stereotypes, but it's true. A woman (well, most women) consider their hair kind of a big deal. Whether they're like me and they dye it and cut it and curl it and abuse it into beautiful submission...or whether they let it grow to their butts and they've never touched dye to it, and the mere idea of doing so is repugnant. Unless she has a shaved head (not for health reasons,) she cares. So much of a woman's identity is wrapped up in her hair, her style, her "look", that when she changes it drastically--or it is taken away because she did something totally self indulgent, like get fat surgery... it makes her feel like a piece of herself is lost. 

Yeah. That's where I'm at.

I know my husband loves me and is attracted to me no matter what. He loves my ever-changing body, and never ceases to support this journey I'm on. My kids are just the same. Totally on board. Totally supportive. I could just let the deranged Muppet look reign (yes, even with the hideous purplish red color from a box) and they would probably not bat an eye. They love me. And for that, I love them right back.

However, when I am around other people. Friends, acquaintances, neighbors, people at the store, people in my kid's schools...I feel horribly, cripplingly self conscious. I know, I know, I know. I shouldn't. But I do. So much so that I'm avoiding going places where I could run into someone I know. But not just for selfish reasons. I mean, I don't want people to think I've become a meth head, but I also don't want people to see that I've lost 50+ pounds, and now my hair is a horrible mess and thin and falling out, and HOLY CRAP, BROOKE'S GOT CANCER!!!!

No. No, no, no. Brooke does not (Thank God) have cancer. I had fat surgery. And my body hates being under anesthesia and hates being on the malnourishment diet. Therefore, it is teaching me a lesson through my hair follicles. 

My husband and I decided last night to buy a couple of wigs to get me over the hump. He still doesn't understand why I can't just buck up and deal, but he can see that I am struggling to get to know the "new me." The me who doesn't eat all the time, or identify everything with a food. The me who has to feel things instead of stuffing them all down beneath a padding of gravy and french bread. The me who just had major surgery and still feels weak even though I've got this new body that wants to get up and go so badly that I feel twitchy.

The me who simply doesn't know how to exist unless I'm hiding behind outlandish clothes, loud jokes, and wacky-but-utterly-awesome hair. 

I feel naked these days. I don't like naked.

We decided to order two wigs, both synthetic because we're on a massive budget, and in an effort to throw my hubby a bone (and see what he'd go for) I let him pick one of them. I picked a very sleek, dark brown bob, shorter in the back, longer in the front, with straight bangs. My husband picked a long, flowing red number that is very glamorous and vixen-like. (Just for the record, my husband has said for 8 years that he likes my short hair, and that any style I have is beautiful. Well, I call BS. Because the second he had the chance, he picked porn star hair out for me. Love you, honey, but I see through the facade now.)

The wigs should arrive soon. One may take longer than the other, as it's coming farther. But overall, I should have some new--albeit fake--locks very soon. I've got wig caps, a couple of wig stands, and shampoo for them, too. I'll probably wear them whenever I leave the house, which will be often, as I just applied for a job at my children's school as a substitute recess supervisor. (You see? Trying to make that extra money. It's all about the benjamin. Isn't that what the kids say?)

To say I'm nervous as heck would be a colossal understatement. I am worried sick for so many reasons. First, what if it comes off while I'm out somewhere, and I wind up mortifying myself? What if it goes crooked and I look like a drunk drag queen, and don't realize it??

Next, what if I wear it somewhere and someone I know (but haven't seen in a long time) sees me and assumes that I'm sick or something? I don't want to get sympathy cards in the mail, or anything. I'm good. Super good. My hair is sick. Big difference. 

Next, what if they think I'm sick, then find out that I'm not, then they think I'm a total attention whore, because I didn't just walk around with busted up Muppet hair? I swear to Oprah Winfrey, if I get accused of seeking sympathy and attention by one more person, I am getting a rifle and googling the nearest clock tower....

Next, what if someone I know laughs at me? I know a lot of incredible people. Most of which wouldn't dare make fun of me. However, I also know a lot of people like myself, who can't often resist an opportunity to make a good joke. Usually, I wouldn't dare ask them to reign in their humor for my sake. I mean, hey. A good joke is a good joke. But when it's at my expense over something that has caused this much melodrama in my life? *shudder* I really don't want to get made fun of for this. If I had my way, I wouldn't be going through this. 

(Fancy wigs, or not, I didn't expect it to suck this hard.) 

Next, what if I look like such a moron that even my husband and children hate it? That would kill me. I enjoy embarrassing my family on purpose, but not for crap I have no control over. *whimper*

I started the prep work today. I went to Great Clips (which, under normal circumstances, I would never get my hair cut there, I would go to my beloved Melanie, but these aren't normal circumstances. And I'm broke. Holla at the po girl. Woot, woot. Yeah. I'm that broke.) and I got what is left of my rats nest of a head of hair chopped off. Super short. Like, Oliver Twist short. Think... one step up from Rosemary's Baby short. Yeah. I did it. Now, normally, the former Brooke would have rocked that hair from here to next month, but with all the thinness happening, it's painfully flat, semi-translucent, and...and....Muppet-y. Yuck. I look like Animal. If he were a middle aged mother of four. *sigh*

This way, when I get the wigs, I can wear them over my natural hair more easily. And (hopefully) when my hair starts growing back in, it will all be the same length, or close enough that it will be like starting over again.

I'm ready to get my wigs in the mail and start wearing them. I decided that being public with my struggle might inspire other women. Being open and honest about my surgery (amongst a crap-ton of criticism that said I needed to learn how to "not" post everything on Facebook, and keep some things more private) inspired a couple of my friends to explore weight loss surgery for themselves, so maybe my honesty is less about attention-whoring (can you tell I've heard that a few times over the last few months?) and more about inspiring and encouraging people struggling with the same things as me.

Or, at the very least, maybe someone will just grab my hand and say, "You look fine. And I would handle this the same way that you are."

Wouldn't that be something? Validation is an incredible thing. I forget how good it feels sometimes. It's nice to know that I'm not a horrible, selfish, vain woman for freaking out over hair loss. There are women in the world who are bigger and stronger than I am. Who can face perpetual bad hair with a "who gives a poop" attitude. But I am not one of them.

This former fat girl is struggling enough finding her place in a world after 20 years of hiding behind her big, bold outer layer. Losing my hair is just the last chink in my armor before I crumpled.

I guess everyone has a cracking point. This is one of mine.

I promise to post pictures as soon as I get the wigs, and figure out how to use them properly. I'll probably want to shrink into the shadows until I feel comfortable in them. If ever. But that's okay. After a lifetime of being silly and making people laugh and notice me for my bold hair and out there personality, it might feel good to take a backseat for a while. It might give my ultra-shy husband a nice break, too. (But don't tell him I said so.)

Just promise me this: if you see me in a store somewhere, don't look at me funny or ask if I have cancer. I'll probably burst into tears and head for the gelato aisle. Then I'll throw up, because my new stomach doesn't like gelato. Then I'll get puke in my new hair. And criminy, I don't want to wash vomit out of my new wig!!!!

Enough rambling. I'm alive. I'm happy. I'm healthier than I have been in years. It could be so much worse right now...

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Guess what I'm working on?

Layla's story! Hooray! I've started work on the 2nd book in the Fairfield Series....

Are you guys as excited as I am?? I'll post updates as I work on it...

Also, be sure to mark your calendars, TUESDAY FEBRUARY 11th, because The Art of Being Indifferent drops, and remember: book 3 in the This & That Series, Then & Now, is in edits now!

Hooray! So many great things coming in Brooke Moss land......

Monday, February 3, 2014

Release date! Release date!

Hooray! The Art of Being Indifferent is ready! Woot, woot!

Mark your will debut on TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 11th! Just in time for Valentine's Day!