Hair iron

A friend posted this on Facebook the other day. If I knew who the author was, I’d give them a huge high five.


I used to travel on that Pity Train. It was as much a part of my life as breathing.

At work I dealt with people who resented having to sit through my sales presentation to get the free thing they’d come for. At night I’d complain on Facebook about how miserable my life was.

People started avoiding me.

My kids and my friends just didn’t want to hear the complaints any more. If I hated my job, I needed to do something about it. I’d stayed on because my husband and I worked together and there aren’t many jobs that let us do that. I also stayed out of fear.

What if I couldn’t find another job? What if we ended up homeless, hungry?

Yeah, I have an active imagination. I’m a writer.

Whoa. I’m a writer. And what exactly had I done about that lately? Nothing. I was depressed, anxious, and resentful because I wasn’t doing what I was called to do.

I’d heard about self-publishing but ignored it because it felt like a sell out. The glory was in New York, right? But now I had friends who were selling their books online and making money. Real money. Not the $11 royalty checks I’d been getting from my “real” publisher, but four and five thousand dollar a month paychecks.

I could ride the Pity Train forever, but I would lose the love and respect of people I cared about.

I could whine that I was too old to learn Indie publishing, too old to learn formatting, too old to learn to upload books, promote, use Twitter. Or I could decide that no one was in charge of my life but me.

 width=I could put on my Big Girl Panties and deal with it, one step at a time. I could learn what I needed to know to get to where I wanted to be.

The train whistle blew. The Pity Train was ready for another trip. But those Big Girl Panties reminded me I’m not a passenger on that Pity Train any more and I let it leave without me this time.

I don’t need medication to get rid of the depression.

It left when I found a purpose. I don’t need a psychiatrist to tell me it was my parents’ fault and I should embrace my pain. I no longer feel the urge to whine about how unfair life is. Along with the anger and frustration, all that left on the Pity Train.

Six months later, I’m in charge of my life.

I’m writing again and loving it. I’m on four Amazon best seller lists.

And I’m making more in a month than my husband and I combined used to make in six months.

Pity Train? What Pity Train? I have a drawer full of Big Girl Panties to keep me going.


Get a grip, young mums of today

A woman’s right to perve

Dear God, bring me back as Brooke

 width=*Tori Scott is a best-selling Indie published author who loves all things romantic. She lives in Texas with her husband Tony and a Blue Heeler appropriately named Blue. She shares bits and pieces of her PUjourney on her blog.




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