I look around me and see bodies everywhere.
I'm not referring to the series, Walking Dead.
I'm talking about those torn apart in relationship battles, personal and professional.
What has puzzled me,
were the large numbers of intelligent people begging for the zombies to bite them.
I have, at least, a partial answer.
Desperation.
Not a good place to make decisions from.
Desperation brings desperate action.
There are endless reasons we become desperate so I won't go there.
We're dealing with being that wounded person
flailing in the woods screaming for help.
It's like ringing the dinner bell for the zombies.
Stand back, baby, and let the feasting begin.
You're on the menu.
Imagine that you're bleeding
and are sure you'll never make it back to camp on your own.
There are zombies out there, you know it, but help is there too.
You haven't seen any walkers, so you holler your guts out.
That's when some cute guy shows up sporting a grin.
He promises you safety, love, a contract.
He loves you or your work, maybe both.
Red flags.
Did you miss that besides the smile, he also smelled bad?
His arm dangled funny from his shoulder.
You did miss it and fell into his arms.
And he devoured you.
Great, you groan, as he gluts himself on your love, money or your talent.
You could weep and say poor me.
But that's pointless.
He's just chomped your ear and is chewing briskly salivating over eating the other one.
Yeah, yeah. So I let myself be eaten by the monsters.
Now what?
I've given this some thought.
First, if you feel desperate--recognize it.
We can't fix what we refuse to acknowledge.
If we know we're hanging by a thread,
best to not draw attention by screaming in zombie infested woods.
Trust me, they are out there.
Next, stop beating yourself up.
It never was about you, your love or your writing.
Zombies only care about their next meal and you just happened to be easy pickens.
Save yourself.
Get the hell out of the woods.
Drag your damaged self out if you must,
or rely on the people you know you can trust to help.
Those who've proven themselves in the past.
When we're wounded is not the time to enter into new relationships of any kind.
I've seen writers desperate for publication
sign with a publisher they didn't take time to check out.
This would be the dude with bad breath and the funny hanging arm.
Wake up!
Stop.
Take time to know what you're getting into.
If they push and tell you the offer won't last.
Run! It's a zombie.
Those that care about you or desire a real working relationship
will honor your need to ask other people questions.
This is where the trusted friends come in.
Talk to them.
If five people who love you say, stay out of those woods, you're bleeding,
believe them.
Most of the carnage happens, because we don't recognize our wounds.
We stubbornly tell everyone we're fine and plod on out to meet our fate.
Oh, our friends see the danger and warn us,
but they can't keep us from being consumed,
not if we're determined to play with monsters.
The walkers don't have the cure.
Chances are, other zombies caused the damage.
In the end, healing our wounds takes time and effort.
There's no short cut.
And until you're no longer desperate, stay out of the woods.
