Revising a Dream--Why I can't be America's Next Best Celler

The funny thing about life is that it changes.

Nothing is given, especially not good health. Just when things are rolling along fine, the world spins and turns over, often in the space of a single heartbeat. Sometimes those changes are good. Other times, not so much. Often, there's no way to tell whether the changes that have rocked our worlds are positive ones until the dust settles.

Let's just say some major dust is settling in mine and my family's lives right now.

My oldest son has severe autism, and I'm truly ok with that, as long as he's a healthy, happy human being. But right now he's not happy or healthy. Not anymore. David developed regressive catatonia last fall, losing his abilty to speak, read, write and interact with others. When he inexplicably snapped out of it, he seemed fine, at first. Turns out, he brought something new into the mix--schizophrenia. My formerly, placid, laughing, albeit severely impacted child, turned into a screaming, headbanging, often hallucinating teenager who was determined to exorcise whatever inner torment drove him to such fits with his own fists. During his episodes he's gone through doors, windows, walls, and anyone who dares to stand in his way.

We thought for a few brief weeks that we were over the worst of it. We thought wrong. He adapts to medication regimes in three week cycles. Then his world goes to hell again. His strength during his rages is superhuman. No, this isn't an exaggeration. We're averaging a concussion a month. He can't go on like this. Neither can we.

As his mom, I can't stand by and watch him throw himself through a window. Not intervening to protect him is not an option. But those interventions usually wind up with my getting hurt. Sometimes badly. So we've made a tough choice, to do everything in our power to increase our son's level of care to 24/7 in hopes this level of intensive consistency will help calm his misery so that he can make it through the hell that has become his puberty alive.

Getting him there will occupy ever spare moment of my time over the next month--and then some. This will be a hard and heartbreaking transition for all of us.

I'm not sure this is the right choice for my son, but I do know that for now, it is the only one we haven't tried. I'm going into this phase of his life armed with a lot of hope. I have to believe on the other side of these frenetic teenage years I'll see my handsome, laughing boy again. That is the image I'm holding in my mind as I wipe the egg from my face and apologize to my readers, fans, Stan Soper of textnovel and Alicia Condon of Dorchester Publishing for this unexpected, last minute decision to withdraw my manuscript, Muse Struck, from America's Next Best Celler contest.

All of these changes, combined with a prior obligation to deliver the last manuscript in the Three Kinds of Wicked series to my current publisher will prohibit me from continuing on as a contestant. I simply can't in good faith give this contest the energy, enthusiasm, and promotion it deserves while throwing my child and a publisher who has been so very good to me under the bus.

I'm pretty sure the editors at Dorchester wouldn't want me to. They're pretty amazing people. :)

Please trust me when I say that there's nothing else I can do. Thank you. For all the vote tarting fun, the laughter, the comraderie, the editing suggestions and the support. Mostly, for the friendships and contacts that will last forever. For that, I've already won this contest a thousand times over. That is plenty enough to sustain me through the difficult days ahead.

I wish each and every one of you the very best of luck. Any one of you will do Dorchester proud.

Liane