CHANTELL MONIQUE ROMANCE

Take a leap of faith.

Seize the day.

Be bold and mighty forces will come to your aid.

Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you’ve always imagined.

Above is a list of motivational sayings meant to inspire us to live our best lives. Heartfelt, they empower us until it’s time to actually leap, seize, be bold or go confidently.

What these phrases fail to mention, is what’s on the other side of the leap. What comes after seizing the day? In a way, they remind me of 60 second videos that showcase weight loss or a beautiful, yet complicated make-up look, making us forget that it takes work to get those results.

The work. The struggle. The grind. The hustle. It’s the underground dirty work that no one wants to talk about because it’s not glamorous. To be clear, those who’ve done the work don’t mind sharing what they did to achieve success, it’s usually those asking who don’t want to hear about the fight.

Well, I’m addressing the work mainly as a way to unpack my emotional reaction to this part of my creative process. If it helps someone else, great, if not, thanks for letting me share.

I can’t pinpoint when I decided I was going to be a romance writer or when I started my manuscript. Either way, my first draft is complete. Saturday, I went to the library to print off my 488-page manuscript. With a copy editor deadline looming, I had to get the story on paper so that I could begin my own editing process before sending it off.

While waiting for it to print, I heard one of the librarians say, “This is someone’s monumental effort.” I shrugged off the comment until I rounded the corner and saw all 488 pages of my manuscript sitting on the counter. I wasn’t excited. In fact, I freaked out. Suddenly, my “leap” had become real instead of a cute catchphrase. Of course, I should’ve been proud of my effort, but I wasn’t. I was very, very scared. 

My fear died down then morphed into anxiety as I began to shape the novel with my content editor. This person’s job is to identify areas of the manuscript that need clarity, color, and dimension. This ranges from story structure and flow to paragraphs or lines of dialogue.

The first day of feedback, I was like, “Fuck. This. Shit.”

The second day of feedback, I was like, “No, really. Fuck. This. Shit.”

Writing is an interesting form of artistic expression because the writer spends a significant time alone in their head. We experience doubts, fears, and worries as we figure out how to push through in order to create something worth reading.

But writing isn’t a solo endeavor because after hours, days, weeks, and months alone, we have to share the work in order to make it better. A doctor breaks the bone and sets it so that it heals correctly. Working with editors is the same thing–they have to break the story, ideas, characters, dialogue, and description so that it can be its best self.

Breaking bones isn’t fun, and neither is having your work edited.

I thought I was prepared for this process, but I wasn’t. While I didn’t expect someone to say my work was perfect, I wasn’t ready for my editor to scrunch her face, tilt her head and say things like:

I don’t get this. I don’t understand what you’re doing here.

This line doesn’t fit.

This description isn’t adequate.

This scene doesn’t align with that scene. 

Would this character really say that?

Every time we met, I grew more anxious. In my mind, I thought, “What now? Where have I fucked up? What’s not good enough?” That thinking led me to defend my choices because my work, my heart was being threatened. Essentially, I was being judged. Critiqued. But truthfully, I wasn’t the one being judged. The work was. This led me to wonder, how do I separate myself from my work so that someone can break it to make it better? 

I followed my instincts and talked to my editor. I explained that after spending months alone with a project, it’s difficult to hear someone show up and highlight all the ways I didn’t get it right. That it’s hard to hear someone say that they don’t understand why a line is present or why a scene doesn’t end a certain way. 

Instead of sitting across from me trying to figure out why a scene or line is shitty, I asked them to just tell me, “Chantell, this line isn’t hittin’ and we’ve gotta figure out a way to make it slap.” Before they accepted the request, they made it known that my discomfort with feedback makes editing hard for them as well.

No shit. 

That’s why I’m communicating. Trying to figure out why I’m triggered by critiques. Trying to figure out why they’re so painful. Trying to figure out how to not make my editor uncomfortable. I’m fucking trying. Why am I trying so hard? Because I’m a writer and I won’t give up. I won’t shy away from the difficulty. I won’t run. I won’t back down. Instead, I have to trust the process.

It’s vital that my work is broken so that it can be its best self. Moreover, it’s vital that I separate myself from my work so that as it’s broken, I remain whole. 

This takes humility. Communication. Patience. Grace. Trust. 

Out of my comfort zone, I must be willing to face the discomfort in order to grow. See, that’s something the motivational slogans fail to mention. So, here are my revisions:

Take a leap of faith but don’t look down.

Seize the day and be prepared for some shit. But it’s okay, you got this.

Be bold and mighty forces will come to your aid–the forces may not look like how you imagined so be open.

Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you’ve always imagined. Also, your confidence will waiver, and inevitably you’ll get lost, but don’t quit. Eventually, you’ll get there.

After all is said and done, a writer fights through the writing process, and self-doubt. They work with an editor and find ways to separate themselves so that the work can evolve. Then, after all of that, they publish it, and share it with the world. That’s the part that used to scare me the most: what would people say about my work? 

Who would lambast me on Twitter and why? Who would pop off on my Black characters or why the Faeries in my book don’t align with someone else’s imagination? But the editing process has taught me that some people break work to help it grow while others break it because they can. I’ve decided that I’ll always write books I want to read and that I can’t and won’t make everyone happy. There’s a motivational quote that I do like because it speaks to the realness of putting yourself out there.

“It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself in a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat.”  -Theodore Roosevelt

https://www.trcp.org/2011/01/18/it-is-not-the-critic-who-counts/

To put that in 2022 language, it means: who cares what people have to say? They’re not the ones out there. They’re not trying, failing, and trying again. No, they’re sitting behind a screen talking shit about those who are bold enough to put themselves out there.

We’re living in a day where everyone has an opinion. And I believe that if we take on what other people have to say, we’ll never make it to the arena. We’ll never move outside of our comfort zone, into the discomfort of doing something new.

Changing our lives, rethinking our values, putting ourselves out there is scary. But how we handle the fear, the setbacks, and the trials are what separates us from the doers and the shit-talkers.

Be a doer.

Drake said, “Better late than never, but never late is better.”

I’m 41 and while people over 55 probably see me as young, I feel old. This is evident when I think about becoming a romance writer. Sometimes, I feel like I’m too late and that the dream doesn’t suit my reality. This feeling usually ebbs and flows, depending on the day. Some days, I confidently pursue my dream then out of nowhere, I’m smacked with the debilitating feeling that I’ve missed my chance–that the world is faster and wiser and I can’t keep up. Pivot. Create a fresh set of life experiences. Live the life I’ve always imagined.

Then I think about the years I spent working towards consistent and sustainable mental health and realize that had I pursued my dream on someone else’s timeline, I would’ve missed out on the internal growth that means more than any external success. But I go back and forth on this–on one hand, I’m grateful for my mental health and on the other, I feel like I’m too late to reimagine my life. Believe me, I know how it must sound but it doesn’t make it any less true. I’m finding that the challenge of executing a life-pivot hinges on self-acceptance and the ability to stay in my lane, ignoring what other people are doing.

Sounds good BUT how do I stay in my lane and ignore those speeding past, arriving at their destinations before I see my own exit? How do I remain positive about doing what I love, trusting that my gift will make room for me? How do I move past the fear of trying to break into a saturated market, creating a voice that will cut through the noise? How do I write my romance novel without comparing myself to those who have come before me?

These questions take turns popping up throughout my day. They find their way into my subconscious, eating away at my self-assurance, creating moments of self-doubt. But when I offer myself some perspective, I realize that I don’t know of anyone who doesn’t fear living their truth. Who doesn’t fear following their heart into the unknown. Who isn’t anxious about pursuing the thing that makes sense.

“Better late than never, but never late is better.” We’re. Never. Late. No matter when we decide to move toward our dreams. Timelines are bullshit and journeys are unique to who we are. Yay to the person who had their shit figured out at 25. And Yay to the person who had their shit figured out at 35, 45 or 75.

George Eliot said, “It’s never too late to be who you might have been.” This quote is a gentle reminder that if you’re still alive, you have time to do whatever the fuck you want. Even if that means becoming a romance writer at 41-years-old. Offer yourself some grace. You’re not too late. If you listen to and trust your heart, then you are and will always be right on time.

In 8th grade, I was placed in Regular English. 

The class was disruptive, packed with rowdy students unwilling to listen to our young teacher. I was very shy and subject to bullying at times; I didn’t perform well in class because I was desperate to remain invisible so they wouldn’t bother me. At progress report time, my mom asked why I was underperforming, and I told her my class was full of kids who didn’t listen to the teacher. During the first quarter parent-teacher conference, my mom brought it up to my teacher and advocated for me to be put in another class.

“The only other class I teach is Honors English,” Mr. O’Malley told her.

“She can handle Honors English,” my mom replied. 

“Hmm. Well, if she raises her grade to a B, I’ll get her in.”

My mom looked at me and asked, “Can you do that?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

I raised my grade and was promptly moved to Honors English. 

When I got there, we were assigned a book report presentation. I don’t remember what book I presented but I do remember my friend presenting the book Dawn by V. C. Andrews. Enthralled by the drama and romance she described, I borrowed the book from the library and have been reading romance novels ever since.

Another key moment from that year was when my teacher told us to find someone interesting to write a short story about over spring break. I was thrilled by the assignment but a little disappointed because most of my friends were going to Disney World or seeing family somewhere outside of Indiana, but my mom and I weren’t traveling during break. As the end of break drew near, I needed a story, and I didn’t have a character, so I invented one. He was a loner, going about his day—invisible, and inconsequential.

One day, we crowded around Mr. O’Malley’s desk, begging him to tell us what we earned on the short story. Finally, he agreed. He wrote the grade down, showed the student then scribble it out.

When he got to me, he said, “Oh, yeah. You wrote about the loner. It was good.”

Then he wrote down my grade and showed me. I earned an “A”—the highest mark I had ever received for a creative story. I was beyond proud of myself. As we walked out of the classroom, I told my friend, Sarah who immediately downplayed my accomplishment, making me feel small, like what I had done meant nothing.

Two things happened in that moment—I fell in love with creative writing, and I internalized my friend’s snotty comment, never taking writing seriously. Like reading, it was a hobby—a way of escape, but I could never be good at it because Sarah, from 8th grade, made me feel like shit for getting an “A” on my first short story.

Fast forward 28 years and here I am on the other side of 40. I checked all of the boxes: high school, college, graduate school, and a job. I battled severe depression. I cried over feeling like I didn’t have a reason for being here. That I didn’t have a gift or purpose. But through it all, I took an active role in my healing and expansion, which led me back to 8th grade. 

The other night, I thought about the story of that loner. Until then, I hadn’t thought about 8th grade, working to get into Honors English or my short story in years. Like opening an old photo album, the dust-covered memory returned, vivid and powerful. I remember throwing my heart into that assignment. Then I thought about how it felt earning the “A” and how it felt when someone dismissed it as nothing. At 13, I didn’t understand that I had a shitty friend. I didn’t realize that I, the little Black girl who fought to get into Honors English, could actually become an author.

Throughout my healing journey, all of the bullshit has fallen away to reveal my most authentic self. For my Clueless fans, there’s a scene where Tai compliments the stickers on Travis’s skateboard. He says, “Oh you like ‘em? I was thinking it was too cluttered, you know. I wanna wipe all this out and just concentrate on one main decorative statement. Like uh, Marvin the Martian, right there.” That’s how I feel about my life—I’ve been given the chance to wipe away all the clutter of inferiority, doubt, trauma, good choices, bad choices, pain, and heartbreak to focus on one main decorative statement: writing.

That’s why my site has evolved, again. It has become the landing page for Chantell Monique the romance author. 

Life is short, fragile and precious. We’re surrounded by a significant amount of loss, and we push past it without stopping to consider whether we should remain on the same path of least resistance. 2022 is almost here and I can’t enter another year saying life’s short only to do nothing to create the life I actually want.

So, yes, I’m a romance writer and all of my time will be spent on my first novel. I’d like to blog but to be honest, friends, I can’t keep writing about my life—it’s time I start living it. If you haven’t done so already, I encourage you to declutter your emotional baggage, so that you can focus on one main decorative statement in your life. Until then, take care, be safe and go watch Clueless.

Sincerely,

Part 2 of “Friendship. Divine Love and Lessons Learned.”

It’s amazing what our minds and bodies do to protect us from harm. If you’ve ever been in an accident–minor or major, then you know that when it occurs, our bodies jerk into protection-mode. It’s not until the next day or days after that we realize we’ve been through an event.

That’s what happened to me regarding my last post. When I wrote it, I was still in shock and able to clearly articulate what happened and how I was feeling at the time. Days later, it seemed the reality of it slapped me in the face. I’m telling you this because I want to be transparent about my journey. I don’t want you to think I’ve got it all figured because I don’t. And I also don’t want you to think that spiritual growth is easy because it definitely is not–which is why most people don’t do it and I don’t blame them.

After I posted what happened between my friend and I, I began to feel a lump of dread in my chest. No matter how much I slept or journaled, it wouldn’t disappear. Moreover, as the days wore on, I began to feel sad and depressed. I knew it had something to do with what transpired but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what, especially since I had wrapped up my thoughts and feelings so nicely in my last post. Clearly I was fine–right?

Wrong. Something was very wrong.

Clarity about the situation came in waves–the first being the realization that I wasn’t a victim. Yes, rejecting me even though I didn’t make an offer was insensitive, but he did it for a reason and I needed to understand why. His honesty served as a growth trigger that led me to examine my own behavior and hidden motives I held within my subconscious. Unpacking that box and being honest with myself made it all abundantly clear. The truth was, I loved him from a wounded place. I was afraid I was unlovable; I hated being single and I was desperately afraid I’d never find my person. While my platonic love was real, those wounds and hidden motives of not wanting to be alone caused it to be tainted. 

I just got a relatively large tattoo. My artist covered it with this bandage called second skin to help expedite the healing process. After six days, I began to smell something a little off with my tatt. I thought it was my shirt but after I showered and changed shirts it was still there. That’s when I chose to peel off the second skin to clean my tattoo, which was basically a wound. After, I never smelled the weird smell again. That’s how I’d describe my love for him–something was a little off in my healing that caused a weird smell or behaviors. It wasn’t until I peeled back what was going on with me that I realized my wounds needed cleaning and air so they could finish the healing process.

I was so ashamed of what I did–unconscious or not. When I peeled back my friendship and care, underneath was a wounded inner child desperate to be chosen. Even though neither of us could see her, she was there, impacting our friendship. As I sat with that understanding, I cried. I cried for her, for the guilt and shame I felt–for it all. Then I did the difficult thing and offered myself some grace and compassion. I had to release the guilt because I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I was sad but I was also gentle with myself–something that was new for me. 

Here’s an excerpt from my journal entry about my moment of awareness:

Truth is. The situation was way more complex and layered. Multiple things were going on at the same time. Different things were being worked on. I’m through it and now wondering was it worth it. Only because all I feel is loss. Loss of my warm, delusional bubble that kept me buzzing around someone, desperate for their attention, convincing myself that I was being the bigger person. When in fact, I wasn’t seeing clearly. And sometimes, friends, we just don’t see shit clearly. We see through the lens of our wounding–where we are in that moment. It’s funny how we can miss something that wasn’t serving us.

It’s not until true clarity comes that we’re shocked silent by the harshness of the light.

Then we’re asked to offer ourselves some compassion because in the end, we didn’t see. How can we blame ourselves when we didn’t see the truth? How can we blame the wounded version of ourselves that made decisions based on their hurt? We can’t. We have to accept all of ourselves and love us through the pain, shame and disappointment.

The next difficult thing I did was email my friend, explaining that I was happy he said something; that clearly I was unaware of what was going on underneath and that deep down I wanted my person, the one I could be my warm, loving self with and that I needed some time away from our friendship to clear what was going on with me. I needed–need time to sort myself out. To continue healing and nurturing myself and to decide whether I can have a platonic friend of the opposite sex at this point in my life. I didn’t want to walk away from him but I couldn’t stay. The truth was–is I want my person and perhaps a platonic friendship isn’t serving me right now; it’s too close to what I want but not quite enough. And I don’t want to settle for not enough.

To be honest, walking away from him was harder than breaking up with my ex. At least I had him to talk to and hang out with–a placeholder for the real thing. Without him I’d be alone…again. But friends, that’s when the awareness of self-worth finally dawned on me. I didn’t want the energy of just enough in my life. I was–am worth more than that. Through the pain, I chose myself. I chose what served my highest good because I was worthy of it. 

As soon as I emailed him my realization, the lump of dread in my chest disappeared. My wounds were cleaned and I was healed. I felt like I closed the door to a long, difficult past and am now standing in front of a bright, sprawling future. I don’t know where I’m headed but I do know that I have healing, wisdom and love with me wherever I go.

I was hesitant to continue this story, sharing all of my experience because I didn’t want you, dear reader, to think that this walk of spiritual growth is impossible. It’s not. It may be difficult at times and fraught with pain but the freedom of healing is worth it. At least to me. If you have the opportunity to expand, to grow and heal, I encourage you to take it. Trust me, Source and its Divine Love will support you every step of the way.

I love you so very much.

Thank you for reading,

Chantell Monique

Copyright 2021. Do not repost without permission.

I believe Divine Love allows; it accepts us for who we are, giving us space to evolve. I also believe it’s important that we offer this love to ourselves before others. This is something I’ve been trying to put into practice; therefore, not only have I offered Divine Love to myself, I work to offer it to those I care about. What I didn’t account for was how it could be perceived by others. If you read my “Favorite White Boy of All” post a few weeks back, then you know I have a Cute White Man that I call my friend. A friendship I value and am grateful for because it allowed me to practice how to offer Divine Love to someone without demanding something in return.

When I met him, he was trying to get over a bad break up; I was already in a relationship so our friendship wasn’t built on the possibility of romance. The closer we became, I began to worry that I’d repeat the cycle of crushing on someone who didn’t feel the same way. Meanwhile, Source was teaching me the transformative power of Divine Love and I knew I loved him because I just did. Thing is, it wasn’t romantic. It was just there–kind of like how Source loved me. I didn’t want anything in return; I just felt compelled to love him, but I was terrified that it would turn romantic and I’d be crushed in the end like so many times before. I had a choice: I could stop being his friend in fear that I’d get hurt or I could trust Souce to keep me safe and love him with all my heart because why not. I chose to trust Source and love him. 

Recently, he and I were FaceTiming because he’s out of the country for work. During the conversation he kept coughing, and since we’re in Covid-times I asked, “What’s that cough about?”

He replied, “Oh, it’s a side effect from the high blood pressure medicine I’m on.”

Cue the record scratch.

“What? What high blood pressure medicine? When did you get on that?”

“About three weeks ago. My BP’s through the roof so the doctor prescribed it.”

He’s 43. I was shocked by how casual he was about the whole thing. I immediately went into loving-friend mode. I thought it was ridiculous that his doctor would prescribe medicine before trying to get his BP down naturally, like offering some sort of 60 day get-your-shit-together-before-I-put-you-on-meds type of trial. I eat plant-based and it helped lower my BP so I suggested that and the obvious: he should take a break from his high-stress job. He didn’t really wanna hear me so I changed the subject but I couldn’t get it off my mind.

After we hung up, I Googled “How to lower blood pressure without medication” and all these lists popped up. The next day I emailed him. Before I sent him my list of things he could try, I prefaced the letter with how much I loved and cared about him. I thought if I made it clear that the email was from a place of love that maybe he’d try some of my (ok, Mayo Clinics’s) suggestions.

After I explained that I loved and cared for him, I hit him with the list. I included some real suggestions like eating better and working out and I added a few of my own for grins and giggles. Like talk to your plant, play more guitar, and sleep-in–stuff like that. At the end of the letter I let him know that I cared for him and if he chose to disregard the whole list it would be okay because I loved and supported him.

He responded thanking me for my suggestions and explained how he knew he needed to change his lifestyle and how difficult it was going to be. Awesome, great! Then he addressed my love for him. He said that love came with romantic hopes and asked me outright if I had romantic feelings for him. That was fine but he didn’t stop there, he proceeded to tell me that he, under no circumstances, had any romantic feelings for me and that–

Yeah, I couldn’t keep reading because what the entire fuck?!

I’m going to be honest, friends. I felt sick to my stomach. It was like getting a rejection letter from a job I didn’t apply for. Like, damn, it’s like that? I didn’t even apply for the job! Tears stung my eyes as I politely responded, telling him that I didn’t have romantic feelings for him and that I didn’t want anything from him but to be well. After that, I grabbed my keys and got in my car. I drove and drove, crying and screaming out to Source.

“Why did you do this to me? See, I told you I’d get hurt in the end. Just like all the other times. I don’t even want him romantically, but here I am, getting fucking rejected!”

I couldn’t stop images of my past from flashing before my eyes. Like a movie montage, I saw rejection and hurt; fear that I was too fat, and Black to be loved; I saw my constantly broken heart and lots of tears. Old feelings of unworthiness and not enoughness washed over me. It was awful. So very awful.

Thankfully, the next day my feelings of humiliation receded. I felt around my heart for broken pieces, but there weren’t any. And that morning as I journaled, I realized I wasn’t devastated. Hurt, yes. Shocked and disappointed, of course. But shattered? No. Source kept me safe as I chose to love someone with my whole heart, wanting nothing in return. 

You know, I can’t say I never entertained a romantic thought about my friend, but after a while I realized Divine Love was way more important to our friendship than romantic longing. I really enjoyed being a loving friend to him. I had a blast talking to him, buying gifts, sending random dad-jokes or getting him to read a romance novel. It was refreshing to be my warm, loving self around him. 

I never intended for my love to be perceived as romantic or threatening. My intention was to be his friend and as I did that, I felt compelled to love him. Sometimes people are put in our lives when we need cheering up or a gentle reminder that we are seen, appreciated and valued. I chose to be that person for him because why not. Perhaps I should’ve asked him first. Either way, I didn’t want anything in return because I trusted Source to love and keep me safe. I didn’t need him to love me because I was already loved. Maybe that’s something I should’ve articulated to him in the beginning. I don’t know.

I’m not sure how or if we’ll move forward in our friendship. While I love him, I definitely can’t look him in the eyes without feeling humiliated. I mean, I’m still human, and rejection, even if no offer was made, still sucks. I guess we’ll see how it goes but I’ll say this: I don’t regret being a loving friend. I don’t regret trusting Source with my heart and I’m hopeful for a future where Divine Love from me will be seen as special instead of a threat.

All my love,

Chantell Monique

P.S. I removed the “Favorite White Boy of All” post because I’m humiliated. I wrote that piece thinking I’d found a great friend–one that saw me and my love for what it was. I can’t say that today. I’ll try to be stronger next time and allow this blog to reflect the ups and downs of my life. Until then it has been permanently removed.

Copyright 2021. Do not repost without permission.