Beth Curry | Updates

Another plot twist incoming

Beth Curry — Fri, 3 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Stay tuned!

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Life…

Beth Curry — Tue, 16 Sep 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Content Warning: This post discusses dementia, end-of-life choices, and MAID.

Robert Munsch’s recent decision has opened a public conversation I’ve been having in private for years. His courage to speak about autonomy at the end of life struck me deeply, because it echoes what I’ve witnessed up close.

In Chapter 24 of All These Beautiful Things, I wrote about two very different experiences. Years ago, I watched someone I loved choose MAID during a cancer battle. Seeing that changed everything I thought I believed. What was once abstract and theoretical became real and profoundly compassionate. Their choice gave them dignity and gave those who loved them the gift of a peaceful, intentional goodbye.

But my mom’s journey with dementia has been cruelly different. In rare moments of lucidity, she has looked at me and said, “This isn’t living.” She understood enough to know she didn’t want to continue this way, yet she no longer had the consistent cognitive capacity the law requires to make that choice. By the time the reality she feared most had arrived, the possibility of acting on her wishes had slipped away.

That is the heartbreak of dementia. The law protects vulnerable people — and those safeguards absolutely matter — but it can also create a different kind of cruelty when autonomy disappears before the decision can be honored. For caregivers, that contradiction lives in the same space as folding laundry, answering the same questions for the hundredth time, or sitting beside a loved one through another night of restlessness and grief. Knowing what your loved one would want, yet being unable to help, is its own kind of suffering.

What I’ve learned, painfully and slowly, is that presence matters. When I stop trying to redirect or reassure and instead simply say, “I hear you. I understand,” something shifts. In that raw honesty, my mom feels seen. Relief washes over her face. Even when we can’t change her circumstances, we can face them together without pretense.

Robert Munsch’s decision reminded me that courage can look like choosing. And sometimes, when choice has faded, courage looks like bearing witness with love.

If you are walking a similar path, know this: you don’t need perfect answers. You don’t need to fix everything. Sometimes the greatest gift is simply to sit, to listen, and to hold space for the truth of someone you love.

#AllTheseBeautifulThings #RobertMunsch #DementiaAwareness #EndOfLifeChoices #MAID #CaregiverLife #CaregiverSupport #CompassionateCare #Autonomy #GriefAndLove #HoldingSpace

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CK

Beth Curry — Wed, 10 Sep 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Heartbroken today hearing about Charlie Kirk’s death.

Someone very close to me was a personal friend of his, and watching him grieve this loss is devastating. When the people you love hurt, you hurt too.

What’s equally heartbreaking is seeing people online celebrating this. A father of two was murdered, and some are cheering. That level of hatred is something I can’t understand.

I’ve been writing about my journey from trauma-induced silence to finding my voice - how I spent decades afraid to speak up about anything that mattered. Today, after seeing what happened to Charlie, I’m wondering if I had it right all along. Maybe it really is too dangerous to ever speak out.

As a survivor of violent crime myself, I know this isn’t about the weapon - it’s about the person behind it. It’s about a culture that’s decided some voices don’t deserve to exist.

My heart breaks for his children most of all. Their father died for using his voice, and now they have to grow up in a world where that’s the price of speaking your truth.

Even from outside America, this is shocking. When we start murdering people for their beliefs, we’ve lost something fundamental about what it means to be human.

You can grieve someone’s death while maintaining your own beliefs. You can recognize that violence is wrong without having to agree with every word the victim ever said. That’s just basic decency.

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I Am Living A Double Life

Beth Curry — Sun, 7 Sep 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I am living a double life. There. I said it.

Maybe triple, or quadruple but honestly, who’s counting at this point? The thing is, I’m not ashamed of it anymore. In fact, I think we all do this, whether we admit it or not. Social media has just made us all more aware of how much we curate different versions of ourselves for different audiences. But I’ve learned something. Compartmentalization isn’t deception. It’s survival, and sometimes, it’s freedom.

I didn’t start out planning to live this way. Life taught me that vulnerability could be dangerous, that certain parts of myself were safer kept tucked away. Bad experiences have a way of becoming teachers, showing you exactly who you can trust with which pieces of yourself.

When I was younger, I thought authenticity meant being completely open with everyone. That naivety cost me, big time. I learned the hard way that not everyone deserves access to every part of who you are. Some people will use your vulnerabilities against you. Others simply aren’t equipped to handle certain aspects of your personality or interests.

So yes, trauma played a role in shaping how I navigate relationships now. But I’ve stopped seeing that as purely negative. Those difficult experiences taught me something valuable: self-preservation isn’t selfish, it’s pretty darn smart!

Take my work life. I’ve been dabbling in forensic stuff again lately, reconnecting with the circle of colleagues I started with years ago. It’s fascinating work, and I like helping. I feel useful when I do the mundane things nobody else wants to do.

At the same time, I’m still coaching clients through their weight loss and health journeys. That requires an entirely different energy, a different way of being present. The empathy and patience needed for someone struggling with their relationship with food and their body is worlds away from the analytical detachment required for forensic work.

And then there’s the writing. I used to write fiction, but it stopped feeling authentic to who I am. Now I’ve pivoted into something more personal. Not quite memoir, but a kind of super personalized self-help and practical guidance style of writing. It comes from someone who has lived through things, studied human behavior extensively, and learned hard-won lessons about how we actually work as people. This type of writing demands a different version of myself. One that can balance vulnerability with wisdom, and personal experience with broader insights.

These aren’t three different people pretending to be me. They’re three different aspects of who I am, each one genuine, each one thriving in its appropriate context.

Working on “The Other Side of Quiet” has had me reflecting deeply on all of this, on what made me who I am and how I choose to keep growing. The process forced me to examine not just my own patterns, but how society has dictated what’s “acceptable” when it comes to how we live.

There’s this unspoken rule that if you don’t share every detail of your life, you’re being dishonest. That if you don’t follow the prescribed order, you know the one…. get married to one person, have kids by a certain age, buy a house, climb the traditional career ladder…. you’re doing it wrong. If you rent instead of own, if your relationship doesn’t fit “conventional molds”, if your timeline doesn’t match everyone else’s expectations, you’re somehow failing at life.

It’s such bullshit. This rigid script society pushes isn’t just limiting, it’s suffocating. There are parts of my life that not everyone has seen or knows about, and some never will. Not because I’m hiding something shameful, but because we should be free to be complex, multifaceted human beings without having to perform our entire existence for public consumption.

The judgment that comes when you don’t fit the prescribed boxes is absurd. Why should my worth be determined by whether I own property or rent? Why should my relationship status define my success or who I am as a person? Why should anyone else’s timeline dictate how I live my life?

What really gets to me is watching people go back to the same people and situations that held them back, even after years of growth and distance. They’ll make progress, gain clarity, establish boundaries, and then somehow get pulled back into old dynamics that diminish them. It’s like watching someone voluntarily walk back into a cage they’d finally escaped.

I’m grateful that the introspection and accountability that came with writing what I’m currently working on has helped me see this pattern clearly enough to avoid it. When you’ve done the hard work of examining your own behaviors and choices, like really examining them and not just surface-level acknowledgment, you develop a protective instinct against regression.

My personal life reflects this same compartmentalized wisdom. I have a close circle now, but it’s really two halves that don’t necessarily overlap. Each half serves different needs and brings out different aspects of who I am.

I’ve ended friendships I once believed would be forever. Relationships that had become toxic, draining, or simply incompatible with who I was becoming. I used to feel guilty about this, like I was giving up too easily. Now I see it as healthy boundary-setting.

On the flip side, I’ve maintained and deepened relationships I thought were destined to stay in the past. Someone from my past who I once thought I’d lost forever has become something I never could have imagined. Much deeper, so much more meaningful, and way more essential than what we had before. It’s proof that sometimes the most profound relationships are the ones that can survive transformation, status, distance, and time.

When I started studying human behavior more seriously, I realized this compartmentalization isn’t some crazy and modern dysfunction, it’s actually ancient wisdom. Our ancestors understood that different situations called for different aspects of personality. Identity was fluid, contextual. You could be brave in one setting and vulnerable in another without anyone questioning your authenticity.

Somewhere along the way, we got this idea that being “real” means being exactly the same in every context. But that’s not human nature at all. That’s just bad social (media?) philosophy mixed with society’s obsession with putting people in neat, predictable boxes.

What I’ve discovered is that compartmentalization can actually be a form of generosity. By not burdening every relationship with every aspect of who I am, I’m allowing each connection to be what it needs to be without the weight of expectations it can’t possibly meet.

My forensic gang doesn’t need to pretend to have interest in my clients’ personal breakthroughs. My coaching clients don’t need to understand the intricacies of evidence analysis. My editor doesn’t need to hear about my crazy love life. My writing process doesn’t need to be fully understood by everyone in my world.

This isn’t about hiding. It’s about honoring the specific gifts each relationship offers and the particular needs each context serves.

Perhaps the most profound shift in my thinking has been around trust. I used to see it as all-or-nothing. Either I trusted someone completely or I didn’t trust them at all. Now I understand that trust exists on a spectrum, and different people can be trusted with different things.

I can trust my editor with my writing but not with my romantic problems (there aren't any anyway 😛). I can trust my trainer with motivation but not with professional confidences. I can trust my family or best friends with unconditional love but not necessarily with understanding all my life choices.

This graduated approach to trust isn’t cynical, it’s realistic. It acknowledges that people have different strengths, different capacities, different levels of interest in various aspects of life.

The more I study human behavior, the more convinced I become that we’re all beautifully, necessarily complex. The idea that authenticity requires complete transparency in all relationships is not just unrealistic, it’s actually counterproductive to genuine connection.

Some of my deepest relationships are with people who’ve never met certain other important people in my life, who don’t know about certain interests I have, who’ve never seen particular sides of my personality. That doesn’t make these relationships less authentic. If anything, it makes them more focused, more intentional.

I’m not apologizing for living what others might call a double life. I’m done pretending that human beings are simple enough to be fully known by any one person or fully expressed in any single context. I’m done following society’s script about what my life should look like and when. And most importantly, I know some people will make up their own stories about me, and that’s fine. Their opinions don’t belong to me.

Instead, I’m embracing the multiplicity. The forensic specialist and the health coach and the writer aren’t separate people, they’re facets of one complex human being who’s learned to honor different aspects of herself in different settings. The relationships that have evolved in unexpected ways, the boundaries I’ve set, the unconventional path I’ve chosen…. these aren’t failures to conform, they’re successes at being authentically myself.

This isn’t fragmentation. It’s integration done wisely, with boundaries that protect rather than divide, with compartments that organize rather than isolate. Writing “All These Beautiful Things” taught me this lesson in a pretty profound way, as I learned about my own mother’s life, I discovered all these pieces that made up who she was, some things I never even knew. It made me realize that we all contain these hidden depths, these various chapters and aspects that don’t always intersect but are all equally real and valid.

It’s the freedom to be complex, to grow, to change, to exist outside the suffocating boxes society tries to put us in.

Maybe the real authenticity isn’t about being the same everywhere or following everyone else’s timeline, maybe it’s about being genuinely yourself wherever you are, recognizing that “yourself” is vast enough to contain multitudes, flexible enough to adapt to different needs, and brave enough to reject the narrow definitions others try to impose.

The double life isn’t deception. It’s depth. It’s freedom. We all need more of it. Fear planted the seed. Defiance and frustration rose like armor. Pride and gratitude bloomed. Longing keeps the heart tender. And liberation? Always, it points home.

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Grief Changed the Way I Love

Beth Curry — Mon, 1 Sep 2025 00:00:00 +0000

It took almost two years of soul searching, counseling, questioning new behaviors, and deep introspection (and no, introspection isn’t the same as soul searching, though I used to think it was) to arrive at a conclusion that changed everything I thought I knew about loss.

When my dad died, I lost more than a parent. I lost my buddy, my quiet hero, and the steady anchor who made me feel safe in a world that often felt unpredictable. Even as an adult, he was still showing up for me in ways that mattered. Just a couple of months before he passed, he was offering to step in and help with something that would have made a colossal difference in my life. That’s who he was… solid, dependable, ready to catch me if I fell. The help still happened because of him, but the piece that was him was missing from it.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that he was also carrying something intangible for me: my sense of security. When he was gone, that security went with him, leaving me scrambling in ways I couldn’t even name.

There’s actual psychology behind this phenomenon, and with all my background in every possible form of psychology, you’d think I would have connected these dots a lot faster than I did. But grief has a way of clouding even the clearest clinical understanding. It’s only recently that I’ve been able to name this particular loss for what it was.

The death of a parent doesn’t just leave us grieving the person, it can shake the very ground we’ve been standing on our entire lives. Psychologists talk about how parents often serve as our “attachment figures,” a source of safety and stability that allows us to explore the world knowing someone has our back. When that figure is gone, even in adulthood, our nervous system can respond as though the world itself has become fundamentally unsafe.

For me, this manifested as being stuck in a perpetual state of fight-or-flight. My body was on high alert, always braced for the next blow, the next loss, the next thing that would shatter what little stability I had left. And layered on top of that emotional chaos was a new, crushing responsibility: helping to care for my mother, who lives with dementia. I was grieving one parent while slowly losing another, and the ground under my feet felt like it had completely crumbled away.

Living in that hypervigilant state for months has fundamentally reshaped me. It’s altered not just my sense of safety, but also my beliefs about life, love, and human connection. I began to realize that when one source of security disappears, we instinctively look for new ones, sometimes in places we never expected to find them.

For me, that meant weaving security back into my life in unexpected ways. Part of it comes from my marriage, where my husband’s support has been a steady force through the chaos. But part of it has also come from other relationships… love that doesn’t always fit neat societal definitions, but still provides genuine strength and belonging. What I’ve learned is that love doesn’t have to follow a single script or traditional template to be real, meaningful, or profoundly healing.

The hardest truth I’ve had to swallow is realizing that no one person can give me exactly what my dad gave me. That particular kind of security, the kind that feels unshakable, unconditional, and eternal, was unique to him and our relationship. It was built over decades of him consistently showing up, not once judging me or my choices (especially the bad ones), and of him being the person I could count on when everything else fell apart.

But losing him has pushed me to rebuild my sense of safety in entirely new ways, and the process has been both heartbreaking and surprisingly revelatory.

Security now comes from community rather than a single person. It comes from love in all its unexpected shapes and forms. It comes from learning how to trust myself in ways I never had to before, when I knew he was there as my ultimate backup plan. It’s not the same as what I lost, it’s messier, a heck of a lot more complex, requiring more conscious effort to maintain. But maybe that’s exactly the point.

Grief doesn’t just take things away from us, though that’s the part we feel most acutely. It also reshapes us, pushing us to grow in directions we never imagined we’d need to explore. Sometimes it even gives back something we didn’t even know we had lost along the way… a deeper capacity for empathy, a more nuanced understanding of what it means to be human, a recognition of our own resilience.

I’ve discovered that security can be found in unexpected places: in the friend who texts to check on you without being asked, in the way your body learns to breathe deeply again after months of shallow panic, in moments of laughter that surprise you by breaking through the grief like sunlight through storm clouds. It’s in the relationships that deepened because loss taught you what really matters, and in the new connections that formed because vulnerability opened doors you didn’t even know existed.

Losing a parent isn’t just about saying goodbye to someone you love. It’s about learning to live without the safety net you didn’t even realize was holding you up until it was gone. For me, it’s been about finding new ways to stand on my own, new ways to love without the desperate grip of someone terrified of losing again, and new ways to feel safe in a world that will always be really, devastatingly uncertain.

The person I am now loves differently than the person I was before. I love with more awareness of how precious and fragile connection is. I love with less assumption that someone will always be there tomorrow. I love without a damn care of what anyone else might think about it. But I also love with more gratitude for what exists right now, in this moment, and with a deeper appreciation for all the different forms love can take.

If you’ve lost someone who carried your sense of security, you’re not alone in feeling like the world has become fundamentally different. It may take time, longer than you expect, longer than feels fair, but security can be rebuilt. Sometimes in ways that surprise you, sometimes in ways that change you entirely, and sometimes in ways that end up being stronger and more intentional than what came before.

The love we build after loss isn’t a replacement for what we’ve lost. It’s something entirely new, informed by grief but not defined by it, shaped by our need to feel safe again but not limited by fear. It’s love that acknowledges the reality of impermanence while still choosing to invest fully in the connections that matter.

If I’m being honest, it feels rather hippie-dippy… that carefree and open kind of living and loving that comes without any fear. Grief taught me that love is both more fragile and more resilient than I had ever imagined, and if any good came trudging through it, it’s that.

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Stop Asking If I Used AI. Kthx

Beth Curry — Tue, 5 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Let’s get something straight.

I am a published author. A very broke published author, mind you, but published nonetheless. Over the past year, I’ve spent five figures—yes, that’s five figures with a dollar sign in front—to become published.

Classes. Courses. ISBNs. Editors. Licensing. Copyrights. Copywriters. Audiobook producers. Audio engineers. Graphic designers. Cover artists. Launch events. Ads that don’t work. Ads that might work. Ads that promise to work but actually just drain your soul. You name it, I’ve paid for it. I’ve supported other humans. I’ve learned that writing is a very expensive hobby.

All this for the distinct privilege of making literal single-digit dollars in royalties. Sometimes pennies if I dare click that “expanded distribution” box. (Never again!)

And yet, every time I share my work, someone feels the need to squint at me and ask:

“Did you use AI to write this?”

Excuse me while I internally scream into the void.

It’s insulting. Not just to me—but to every author, artist, and creator out there who has poured their savings, sanity, and questionable dietary habits into creating something from scratch. I could’ve saved tens of thousands of dollars and probably a few therapy bills if I had just let a bot do it for me. But no. I actually enjoy writing. I enjoy the process, the pain, the caffeine-fueled 3 AM editing sessions where I argue with myself over whether a semicolon adds "the right vibe."

Yet here we are, living in an age where if you use an em dash—like this—people assume a robot wrote it.

Stop assuming AI wrote something because:

It uses em dashes.
It repeats a word for emphasis. Emphasis.
It repeats, period.
It has a structured outline (you know, like every writing course teaches).
It doesn’t use “and” before the last item in a list because—gasp—Oxford commas are a stylistic choice. Sometimes.
The dialogue tags are “said” and not “chortled menacingly.”
It has proper grammar.
Or worse, it doesn't.
There's a metaphor that makes sense.
There's a metaphor that doesn't make sense.
There are too many metaphors.
The chapter titles are minimalist.
The chapter titles are overly poetic.

We, as writers, have literally been taught to use these tools. We’re told to write in rhythm, to use repetition for impact, to break rules when necessary, to format dialogue like a pro, to kill adverbs (RIP), to use white space, to embrace the em dash revolution. Good writers have been honing these techniques for decades, but suddenly, when we apply them, it’s “AI wrote this, didn’t it?”

You want to see where AI is actually saturating the market and suffocating real talent? Go look up coloring books on Amazon. Go on. I’ll wait. Spoiler alert: You’ll find an avalanche of AI-generated mandalas, sketchy line art, and “Activity Book for Kids Ages 4-8” where the activities are literally broken. That’s AI doing its thing unchecked. That’s where the market is being flooded.

But your friend who writes heartfelt novels? That poet who slaved over every line break? The indie author who’s out here hawking their book like a street magician with a folding table and a dream? Stop interrogating them like they’re harboring Skynet in their laptop.

Writers—real writers—are being punished for having learned the craft well. We’re getting the side-eye for being good at what we do, or because maybe you don’t actually understand something. Imagine telling a chef their food is "too perfectly seasoned" and asking if they used a spice AI.

AI isn’t the enemy. Ignorance is.

So next time you read something beautiful, don’t ask “Was this AI?” Instead, try this radical idea: compliment the artist.

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Announcement

Beth Curry — Fri, 1 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Plot twist: I’m not actually a fiction writer.

I thought I was. I wrote multiple novels. I created tragic characters, gave them complicated pasts, and sprinkled trauma on them like I was seasoning a roast. But then I finished my first nonfiction book and had an uncomfortable realization:

I don’t actually like making stuff up.

Every time I sat down to write fiction, I’d accidentally turn it into a therapy session. I’d be two chapters into a suspense plot, and suddenly someone’s inner child was getting validated and learning about the vagus nerve.

It got weird.

Apparently, I’m not great at creating fictional chaos. Real-life chaos? Nailed it. But inventing it from scratch? Exhausting.

I don’t want to create chaos for fake people. I want to help real ones crawl out of it. Using actual science, psychology, trauma work, and the unfortunate amount of life experience I never asked for but now get to monetize.

Also: I was never really in fiction. I was squatting there. I started writing it during a grief spiral and fiction was the emotional Airbnb I booked when life imploded. But now? I want to live in my own house. With working plumbing and less metaphorical mold.

So it’s time for a pivot. (Read that again, but like Ross Geller) I’m writing nonfiction now. Real stuff. Helpful stuff. The kind of stuff you Google at 2am when you’re spiraling but pretending you’re just “researching.”

And the fiction? It’s not going in the shredder. I’m turning it into bite-sized projects I’ll release independently. Like tapas but with murder and emotional baggage.

Going forward, expect content about trauma, healing, psychology, cold cases, writing, and probably some random thoughts about life at almost-50. Because apparently, this is when people figure out what they actually want to do when they grow up.

If it ever sounds like I’m losing my mind, don’t worry, I already did. I’m handling it well. 😏

Thanks for sticking around while I fumbled my way into doing what I was actually supposed to be doing. Took me a while, but here we are. Slightly disheveled, but with purpose.

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My Writing Is Evolving, and So Are My Cringe Reflexes

Beth Curry — Fri, 27 Jun 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Once upon a time, because of course it starts like that, I wrote a lot. As a kid, I filled notebooks like I was trying to beat some mythical word count boss battle. Every story was packed with drama, secrets, and characters who whispered to the wind for no reason other than it sounded deep. If a character cried, it was a single tear slipping down one cheek. If they laughed, it was a laugh that “didn’t reach their eyes”.

Yes. I was that girl.

Then life did what life does. Curveballs. Loss. Taxes. I wandered away from creativity like a side character in a Hallmark movie who gave up painting and started a corporate HR job. But after my dad died, I found my way back. Not because it was poetic. Because it was necessary. Writing became my life raft, and I clung to it like Rose on the door in Titanic.

(See what I did there? We’re already neck-deep in metaphors. Buckle up.)

At that time, I poured myself into my stories. And I mean poured. No teaspoon of emotion. Full industrial bucket. The writing was raw, emotional, and often resembled a slow-motion montage set to sad indie music. Every scene had baggage. Every sentence begged for a hug. At the time, I thought I was crafting moving, soul-stirring prose. In hindsight, some of it reads like a thesaurus went through a breakup and decided to write a novel.

(See what I did there again? That’s me mocking a metaphor… using a metaphor. Welcome to my personal paradox.)

Fast-forward to when I decided to take writing seriously. I shared my work, opened myself up to critique, and, like any overachieving, mildly obsessive creative, I signed up for all the writing courses. Immersive prose? Yes. Scene structure? You bet. “Kill Your Darlings” weekend intensive? Say goodbye to emotionally overwrought Susan with her “emerald pools for eyes” and “voice like a forgotten lullaby.”

(Yeah. I used to write like that. You have my permission to cringe.)

The immersive writing course was the one that really got me. I LOVED it. Wanted to marry it, honestly. I dove in so hard I practically drowned in adjectives. I packed scenes with so much sensory detail that you could taste the air, smell the furniture, and feel the emotional subtext of a houseplant.

(You caught that one, right? I'm literally dragging immersive prose while still doing immersive prose. Don’t worry, the irony isn’t lost on me.)

But here's the thing: when you sprint in one direction, you don't always realize you’re sprinting through wet cement.

(Another metaphor. It's a sickness.)

Looking back, my early immersive writing makes me wince so hard I may need jaw physiotherapy. At the time, I thought I was elevating the work. Really, I was just dressing it up in five layers of velvet curtains and then wondering why no one could see the plot.

And don’t even get me started on clichés.

Hearts? Pounded.

Storms? Raged… both weather and internal.

Eyes? Locked.

Time? Stood still.

Someone was always “shattering like glass,” which is ironic because that kind of imagery should've been thrown in the recycling bin.

(I mean... see what I did there again? Self-roast with a simile. I can’t stop.)

But in between the cringe and the chaos, something cool happened: I started writing nonfiction. And somehow, that helped everything click. Nonfiction made me sit down, shut up, and say the thing. No swirling emotional winds. Just truth. Honest, clear, sometimes funny, sometimes painful truth. And writing like that—clean, uncluttered, to the bone—has actually helped me go back to fiction and un-glitter bomb my prose.

Now, I still use immersive techniques. But with a leash. And supervision. Like a toddler with a glitter pen. I’m learning restraint. I’m learning that clarity doesn’t kill creativity. That you don’t have to describe someone’s silence as “heavier than a grandmother’s guilt” to make a point.

(Yep. I wrote that once. Yep. I regret it. And yep, that’s another metaphor dunked in guilt. I’m incorrigible.)

These days, I cringe less, but still often. I still have beta readers and editors who lovingly call me out when I start going full “fog hung like despair” on page two. (Real note from a friend: “Beth. Please. Let the fog just be fog.”) They’ve helped me rein it in. They’ve helped me be better. They’ve also helped me laugh at myself along the way, which might be the most valuable writing tool I’ve got.

So if you’ve been part of this weird, wonderful, metaphor-riddled journey, thank you. For the feedback, the encouragement, and the gentle roastings. You’ve helped me grow. You’ve helped me evolve.

And for the record? I still love a good metaphor. I just try not to use fifteen in a row like I’m auditioning for a perfume ad written by an angsty poet.

(Okay but now I want to write that just for fun.)

I’m still refining. I always will be. But these days, I’m writing with more clarity, more honesty, and slightly fewer tragic breezes. And I owe a lot of that to nonfiction, patient writing friends, and the growth that comes from seeing your past work and thinking, “Well, at least I know better now.”

Also, I promise: no more laughter that doesn’t reach anyone’s eyes. If my characters laugh now, they mean it.

Right now, I’m neck-deep in Caregiver-ish, my most personal, unpolished, and unfiltered work yet. It’s nonfiction, it’s raw, it’s funny (on purpose, I swear), and it’s forcing me to be brave in a whole new way. No poetic fog. No emotionally burdened weather systems. Just the messy, exhausting, beautiful truth of showing up for the people you love, even when you're running on fumes and coffee that tastes like regret.

(One last one)

Stay tuned. It’s coming. And this time, I’m letting the fog be fog.

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From Inspiration to Page: A Pantser's Journey (with an Unexpected Mentor)

Beth Curry — Mon, 23 Dec 2024 00:00:00 +0000

Earlier this year, I took a masterclass with Harlan Coben – yes, that Harlan Coben. Along with a couple of writer friends, I spent time absorbing wisdom from a master of suspense himself. This experience has profoundly shaped my approach to my biggest and most daring novel yet, scheduled for release next year.

As a pantser – a writer who discovers the story while writing rather than plotting extensively beforehand – writing without an extensive outline comes naturally. The story unfolds organically on the page, often surprising me as much as it will eventually surprise readers. This approach to writing means discovering the nuances of character and plot during the writing process rather than mapping everything out beforehand.

Being a pantser doesn't mean writing without any structure – it simply means discovering that structure as we go. I've found myself gravitating toward the Three Act Structure, a framework flexible enough to accommodate my organic writing style while ensuring the story maintains its shape. Act One sets the stage and introduces the inciting incident, Act Two develops the conflict and raises the stakes, and Act Three brings everything to a satisfying resolution. This structure has given me a solid foundation while still allowing for the spontaneity that makes writing exciting.

While the Three Act Structure forms my foundation, other storytelling frameworks like Save the Cat and The Hero's Journey offer valuable insights too. Save the Cat, with its fifteen specific beats, provides useful checkpoints for ensuring the story stays on track. The Hero's Journey, with its seventeen-stage cycle, offers a deeper understanding of character transformation and the archetypal elements that resonate across all forms of storytelling.

As I progress with my current project, I plan to share glimpses into my creative process. You'll see the evolution of scenes from rough concepts to polished prose, and how a pantser navigates the delicate balance between creative freedom and narrative structure. I'll even share those midnight inspirations that wake me up demanding to be written – something that happens to even the most experienced writers.

What excites me most about this project is how it pushes me beyond my previous boundaries. By sharing this journey, I hope to demonstrate that there's no single "right" way to write a novel. Whether you're a fellow pantser, a meticulous plotter, or somewhere in between, what matters most is finding the approach that brings your story to life.

Stay tuned for more updates as this adventure unfolds. I'll be sharing regular insights into my process, including how I weave together character arcs, maintain tension, and eventually transform a collection of scenes and ideas into a cohesive narrative. This novel represents my most ambitious and daring project to date, a synthesis of natural instinct and learned craft – and I can't wait to share it with you.

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Early Writing

Beth Curry — Sat, 23 Nov 2024 00:00:00 +0000

I found it again a few weeks ago – words scrawled in black magic marker on the back of this old comp card from 1992. The kind of marker we used to sniff, chasing cheap highs to escape cheaper realities. The words hit harder than any chemical ever could:

"Fat girls don't model. That's what they say.

Seventeen. Size 16. Or 20 if the agency didn't care. Depends on the wardrobe.

The makeup artist's hands shake when he contours my face. Like fat might be contagious. So "boooooteeefull" says the thick accent from the hair guy named Gigi.

Why was this Carl guy taking me to Sam The Record Man? He's a creep.

High school was worse. Bad Brandon made me leave. For my own good. Just as well. He was the evil but there were still the others. The cafeteria was a battlefield. Lockers left bruises. Girls made a game of counting my calories at lunch. Mocking my clothes. They didn't make much for my size back then.

So I left. Even though I have him.

Midnight binges fill the empty spaces. Cookie crumbs in bed. Ice cream for dinner. No one watches me eat now.

But.

Pointed toes. Straight spine. Head high.

The camera loves angles they say. Even fat ones. Even mine.

Walk. Turn. Walk. Breathe.

They watch. The same ones who said I couldn't. Would never. Should not.

Fat girls don't model.

But here I am.

Walking."

Reading these words now, thirty-two years later, I'm struck by how much pain lived between those lines. I was broken by others, then finished the job myself. What that seventeen-year-old girl didn't know was that the worst was yet to come. The years that followed would carve deeper wounds, test stronger limits.

But here's what else she didn't know: she was stronger than all of it.

I showed them. All of them. The makeup artists with their shaking hands, the cruel girls counting calories, the Brandons of the world who thought they were doing me favors by breaking my heart. I showed myself too – the girl who thought midnight binges could fill the emptiness, who accepted crumbs of kindness because she thought she deserved no more.

I took my power back. One decision at a time, one pound at a time, one degree at a time. I got an education. I hustled. I lost a couple hundred pounds. But more importantly, I gained something priceless: self-respect. I learned to carefully curate who I allow into my space, understanding that the company we keep shapes the lives we lead.

That girl who wrote on the back of a comp card with a magic marker – she was already walking. Already defying. Already proving them wrong. She just didn't know yet that she was taking the first steps of a much longer journey.

I am no longer giving up on myself. That's the real transformation – not the lost weight, not the degrees, not the career success. It's the unwavering commitment to my own worth, the refusal to let anyone else define my possibilities.

They said what I couldn’t do. I showed them who I am.

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When Monday Really Mondays

Beth Curry — Mon, 18 Nov 2024 00:00:00 +0000

You know those Mondays that don't just Monday – they MONDAY? The ones that swagger in like they've been planning your demise all weekend? Yeah, today's one of those.

Picture this: It's bright and early, that first sip of coffee hasn't even hit your bloodstream, and there it is – that email. The one about your manuscript's formatting being wonky, because of course it is. And not just any manuscript – we're talking about your December release, the one currently making rounds through review circles. The timing, as always with these things, is impeccable.

There's something uniquely maddening about technical issues that refuse to be solved. Nine hours of staring at screens, collaborating with a small army of helpful souls both in person and remotely, and still that formatting issue sits there, smug as a cat who just knocked your favorite mug off the counter. Your hair tells the story – a wild testament to the number of times your hands have run through it in frustration.

We've all been there, haven't we? Those days when technology seems to have a personal vendetta against our success. When simple tasks morph into complicated puzzles, and solutions slip through our fingers like digital sand. The kind of day that makes you want to throw your computer out the window (but you don't, because you're a responsible adult... mostly).

Thank goodness for Christmas trees and their calming pine scent – nature's own stress relief in a corner of your room. And bless those Christmas tunes, quietly reminding you that somewhere, beyond this formatting nightmare, joy still exists. They're the thin tinsel line between keeping it together and going full Office Space on your hardware.

The truth about these Moandays is that they're universal. Whether it's a rebellious ebook file, a crashed presentation, or a coffee maker that chooses today of all days to give up the ghost, we've all faced those moments when the universe seems to be testing our patience with a pop quiz we didn't study for.

But here's the thing about Mondays that Monday hard – they end. Eventually, solutions appear, problems get solved (or at least postponed until Tuesday), and we emerge on the other side, perhaps a bit frazzled, but still standing. Sometimes victory looks like fixing the problem; other times, it's just making it through the day without breaking anything (except that stubborn file, of course).

So here's to all of us dealing with our own versions of formatting hell today. To the ones whose hair looks like they've been through a wind tunnel of stress. To everyone being kept sane by the small comforts – be it Christmas trees, music, or that third cup of coffee.

Remember: Tomorrow is Tuesday. And if nothing else, at least it's not Monday anymore.

P.S. If anyone out there is a formatting wizard who speaks fluent ebook, my DMs are open. Asking for a friend. That friend is me. Help.

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The Reality Behind Audible Royalties: Why It Hurts Authors and Why Your Support Means Everything

Beth Curry — Thu, 24 Oct 2024 00:00:00 +0000

If you're in the creative industry—or follow it closely—you’ve probably heard about the ongoing mess known as "Audiblegate." If not, here’s the short version: Audible, the audiobook giant owned by Amazon, has been engaging in shady practices that leave authors with abysmal royalty rates, even worse than what we were already dealing with in the book world. Colleen Cross’s insightful piece breaks down how Audible profits at the expense of authors, and honestly, it’s frustrating to the core. I wanted to share some personal thoughts, especially because this hits very close to home for me.

Writing Isn't a Get-Rich-Quick Scheme

Let’s clear something up: I’ve never gone into writing with dreams of getting rich. If you’ve followed me for a while, you probably already know that. Yes, I want my books to succeed, but the reality is, royalties on books are abysmal—whether you're an indie author or signed with a major publishing house. The difference isn’t in the payouts; it’s just in who’s controlling the money.

Now, with Audiblegate in the picture, it’s even more disheartening. People have asked me to make audiobooks, and I want to give my readers—my supporters—what they want. So, I’ve gone ahead and released Fault Lines as an audiobook, and I’m excited to say that This Must Be The Place will also be released as one. But I’ll be honest: beyond these projects, I don’t have plans to release anything else in audiobook format anytime soon. Why? Because financially, it doesn’t make sense. The system is broken. I’ve had to go into the hole just to get these audiobooks out there, and it’s tough to justify doing that again.

How Creatives Are Left Behind

What’s really frustrating is how creators across the board—authors, musicians, artists—are being undervalued and ripped off. We’re expected to create out of "passion," as if passion alone pays the bills. Meanwhile, companies like Audible take the bulk of the earnings, leaving creators with crumbs. This isn’t Hollywood, where writers are portrayed as living luxurious, cash-filled lives. In reality, the vast majority of us are working hard just to make ends meet.

For every big-name author you see, there are countless others (like me) working tirelessly behind the scenes, not for fame or fortune, but for the love of the craft. And trust me, we’re not swimming in money.

Why Your Support Means Everything

So, why keep going if it’s this bad? The answer is simple: because of you. If you’ve ever bought one of my books, listened to my audiobook, written me a review, shared my work, or even recommended me to a friend, I want you to know how much it means. I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating: my gratitude is real. If you’ve ever doubted that, let me assure you—it couldn’t be more genuine. Your support is what keeps me going, especially in a world where the system often works against creatives.

Audiblegate and the wider issue of how creatives are treated highlights just how important your support is. When you invest in my work, you remind me that what I do matters. Even when companies like Audible don’t seem to think so, you do, and that’s everything to me.

We Deserve Better

At the end of the day, we all need to start calling out companies that profit off the backs of creatives while leaving us with next to nothing. It shouldn’t be acceptable for artists, authors, and creators to barely get by while corporations rake in the profits. Change might be slow, but in the meantime, many of us are left struggling.

But here’s what I know: I’m not in this for the money, and your support will always mean more to me than anything a big company can offer. So, if you’ve ever bought one of my books, listened to an audiobook, left a review, or simply cheered me on, know how deeply I appreciate it. You’re the reason I’m able to keep doing what I love, even when the system tries to make it impossible.

Thanks for sticking with me and for always having my back.

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Wake Up Micah!

Beth Curry — Sun, 13 Oct 2024 00:00:00 +0000

In case you haven’t heard, Fault Lines is out today. 😂

For those who know me, you're probably aware that I've been through some stuff in life. Weirdly enough, getting this book out there ranks right up there with some of the toughest things I've done. Go figure.

Anyway, this is just a quick appreciation post for all of you who've posted on your walls about the book yesterday and today, and even before. I see you, and it means a lot. Seriously.

And to everyone who's had my back through this whole crazy process – you're the real MVPs. You're the reason I keep going, even when I'm ready to throw in the towel.

I'm not great at the mushy stuff, but I want you to know I won't forget who was there for me during this journey. You know who you are.

Love you guys!

(I’ll update when Audible/iTunes releases, very soon)

Kindle: https://www.amazon.ca/Fault-Lines-Beth-Curry-ebook/dp/B0D9DQ353L

Paperback: https://www.amazon.ca/Fault-Lines-Beth-Curry/dp/0981112153

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Paperback and Kindle releases

Beth Curry — Mon, 15 Jul 2024 00:00:00 +0000

Fault Lines will be released in both paperback and Kindle editions. Kindle pre-orders available now. Audiobooks coming soon.

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Fault Lines Book Release

Beth Curry — Sat, 12 Oct 2024 00:00:00 +0000

Toasting to "Fault Lines" tonight. 🥂

Not a bad way to celebrate Beth’s first full length novel.

Grab a Paper back or Kindle copy at Amazon tomorrow (Audible soon!).

https://www.amazon.ca/Fault-Lines-Beth-Curry-ebook/dp/B0D9DQ353L

Check out those perfect hi-hats!

Cake: Simply Sweet Cupcakes by Amanda
Drinks: Megalomaniac Wines, Top Shelf Distillers

#FaultLinesBook #BookNight #WakeUpMicah #BookReleaseParty #SimplySweetCupcakes #MegalomaniacWinery #TopShelfDistillers

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Coffee, Catching Up, and Conversations

Beth Curry — Sat, 28 Sep 2024 00:00:00 +0000

Today, I had a coffee visit with a friend I hadn’t seen in a long while. You know the kind of meet-up where you think you’re going to dive into life updates and all the things you’ve missed since you last saw each other? Well, we barely got to any of that because he was way more interested in talking about my writing. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the interest, but man, he had so many questions. Some of my answers seemed to stump him a bit, and honestly, even made me stop and think.

He asked about the success I’ve had, the support I’ve been getting, and how it all feels. So, I told him the truth: the support has come from some unexpected places. It’s funny, isn’t it? You expect the people closest to you to rally behind you the hardest, but that’s not always the case. Sometimes, it’s people you barely know or have never met who end up being your biggest cheerleaders. We got into how some folks are reluctant to follow or share stuff on social media, while others are loud and proud about their support.

And, as we do, we got all psychological about it. I told him that on the surface, I get it. I’m a new writer and an indie writer at that, which is already two strikes against me. I’m not polished enough yet (at least that’s how it feels sometimes), and my style isn’t for everyone. People have their reasons for not following or sharing, just like I have mine for following and sharing things. He’s the kind of friend who has and will buy every one of my books, even if they aren’t really his thing, and I’m grateful for that. But I reminded him that not everyone will do that just because they know me—and that’s okay.

Why I’m Grateful for the Support I Get

Here’s the thing: I understand why people don’t always shout about my work from the rooftops, and that’s why I’m extra appreciative of those who do. The ones who share my posts, leave reviews, and talk about my books to their friends? They mean the world to me. I even try to invest back into those people, I have monthly contests for $100 in exchange for reviews (I do not pay for reviews), offering freebies when I can, giving a shout-out, or just supporting their projects in return. They’re like my “street team,” spreading the word in ways I could never do alone.

I think part of the reason I understand all this goes back to the psychological stuff we talked about over coffee. People are selective about what they attach their names to. And writing is so personal. It’s hard for me to ask people to support me because I know how subjective taste is. My dark fiction, thrillers, psychological twists, and paranormal mysteries might not be everyone’s cup of tea—and that’s totally fine.

When Frustration Hits, I Keep Going

But I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t get frustrating sometimes. It’s easy to get discouraged when it feels like you’re shouting into the void or when your posts get a fraction of the engagement you’d hoped for. But the thing is, I’ll never give up. I write for so many reasons—because I love it, because I need to, and because I have stories inside me I want to put on paper. Whether it’s a psychological thriller, a dark mystery, or a twisty, atmospheric ride that keeps people talking, I know that the right readers will find me.

It’s a tough road, sure. Indie writers face all kinds of obstacles. But every little bit of support means something. I’ve got two books coming out soon that I’m excited about: Fault Lines is a psychological medical mystery, and This Must Be the Place is a supernatural psychological thriller, with a strong focus on the paranormal. I’m hoping they’ll resonate with people, and maybe they’ll get shared more than I expect. But even if they don’t make massive waves, I’ll keep going. That’s just what I do.

A Final Thought on Connection

At the end of the day, writing is about connection. I’m lucky to have people who connect with my work, who share it, and who stick by me even if it’s not “their thing.” And for those who haven’t jumped on the train yet, I get it. But for anyone curious, there’s always room to hop on board. If you’re into stories that’ll mess with your head in the best way possible—well, I think we’ll get along just fine.

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Isn’t Life Strange…

Beth Curry — Tue, 17 Sep 2024 00:00:00 +0000

When I saw this tree today, I had to take a picture…

Look at that old thing, standing there like it's seen it all. Its trunk is twisted and gnarled, telling stories of every storm it's weathered. Kind of reminds me of how we humans get a bit battered by life, but keep on growing anyway.

You can almost picture those roots, digging deep and holding on when the winds try to knock it over. That's a lot like how we lean on our friends and family when times get tough, right? They keep us grounded when everything else feels shaky.

And see how it's stretching up towards the light, finding ways around the other trees? That's pure survival instinct there. We do the same thing, always trying to push forward and make the best of what we've got.

That rough bark? It's like the thick skin we develop over time. Life throws its punches, and we learn to roll with them. But underneath, there's still something soft and alive, always ready to put out new leaves when spring comes around.

In the end, this tree isn't just surviving - it's thriving. All those challenges have made it what it is today. And isn't that the truth for us too? Our toughest times often shape us into who we're meant to be, if we can just hang in there and keep growing.

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The Story Behind The Stories

Beth Curry — Sun, 15 Sep 2024 00:00:00 +0000

There's a pretty wild story behind my books, "Autopsy of the Mind and Dissection of the Soul." Most of those out-there short stories? They all started with little seeds from my mom.

Back in 2023, our visits took on this surreal quality. Mom's dementia had started blurring the lines between reality and imagination, and she'd drop these incredible little tidbits or outlandish ideas. Sometimes she'd swear these snippets actually happened, other times she'd say they were dreams. Honestly, I don't think even she could tell the difference anymore.

I'd take those tiny seeds and run with them. A fragment of a weird dream she mentioned might spark a whole story in my mind. Or she'd toss out some bonkers idea, and I'd expand on it, weaving in my own experiences to flesh it out into something completely new.

It was like this crazy collaborative process, you know? Mom would provide these sparks of wild inspiration, and I'd fan them into full-blown stories. As a writer, it was both heartbreaking and weirdly exhilarating.

Looking back, I'm so grateful I captured all of this when I did. Mom's not quite the same idea factory these days. Those vivid snippets don't come as often. It's like we bottled lightning together, and now it's all there in "Autopsy of the Mind and Dissection of the Soul."

So if you're reading my books and thinking, "Where does this stuff come from?" - now you know. It's a mash-up of my mom's incredible, unfiltered imagination and my own creative expansion. Evidence of the strange journeys our minds can take us on, and the unexpected gifts that can come even in tough times.

Mom, thanks for being the most amazing, accidental muse a writer could ask for. Your wild ideas live on, remixed and reimagined.

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A Year of Grief, Healing, and Writing: Remembering My Dad

Beth Curry — Fri, 13 Sep 2024 00:00:00 +0000

Today marks one year since my sweet daddy passed away. While official records show tomorrow as the date, I know in my heart that he left us on the morning of September 13th. I went on my own forensically driven mission when what the OPP was telling me wasn’t adding up. They didn’t really have any reason to investigate officially, so I did.

As I sit here, reflecting on the tumultuous year that has passed, I'm struck by how much has changed and how the process of writing has become my unexpected lifeline.

My father was my mother's caregiver, tending to her needs as dementia slowly claimed her memories. On that day, she spent hours with him, unaware that he had slipped away. It wasn't until late that night that something within her stirred, prompting her to call 911. The police knocking on my door at 3:13 AM on September 14th changed everything.

What followed was a whirlwind of activity - police investigations, medical examiners, funeral arrangements, phone calls, and the daunting task of finding appropriate care for my mother. The waitlists for long-term care homes in our province seemed insurmountable, but we kept on. After three challenging moves, we finally found a suitable place for her.

Amidst the chaos of packing up 52 years of memories, selling their house, and navigating the maze of insurance claims and government paperwork, my grief lurked beneath the surface. It wasn't until December that the full weight of my loss truly hit me.

But still, in those quiet moments starting in mid September, when the silence became unbearable, I found solace in an unexpected place - writing. What began as a distraction evolved into a powerful tool for healing. As I've shared in recent podcasts, interviews, and conversations with readers, this creative outlet has been nothing short of cathartic.

Looking back, I wish I had discovered the therapeutic power of writing when I was 18, grappling with an intensely traumatic period in my life. The repercussions of those unprocessed emotions have lingered for years. Yet, remarkably, I'm finding that my current writing practice is helping me heal those old wounds too.

This journey of grief and healing has taught me the incredible resilience of the human spirit. It has shown me that even in our darkest moments, we can find light - sometimes in the most unexpected places. For me, that light came through the power of words, through the stories I've told and the emotions I've poured onto the page.

To those who are struggling with loss, trauma, or any form of emotional pain, I encourage you to explore creative outlets. Whether it's writing, painting, music, or any form of self-expression, you might find, as I did, that art has the power to heal, to comfort, and to help us make sense of the senseless.

As I honor my father's memory today, I'm grateful for the lessons he taught me in life and the unexpected gift his passing has given me - the rediscovery of my passion for writing. In every word I write, in every story I tell, a part of him lives on.

Dad, wherever you are, thank you. Your love continues to guide me, even in your absence.

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Ink, Stones, and Unexpected Messengers

Beth Curry — Wed, 4 Sep 2024 00:00:00 +0000

I hadn't written in decades. Life and other work got in the way, and somewhere along the line, I convinced myself I had nothing worth saying anyway. The pen stayed down, and that was that.

Then my dad died.

Grief does weird things to a person. For me, it made words start bubbling up again. Not great words, mind you. Just a torrent of thoughts and feelings I needed to get out of my head and onto paper. So I started writing again, after all those years.

Dad wasn't some literary genius but he was my biggest fan. He was also just my dad, who believed in me more than I did most of the time. Maybe that's why losing him kickstarted something.

This writing spree turned into my first book. It's not polished and perfected. Hell, it's probably not even good by most standards. But it's real. Short stories that came out as a coping mechanism. I wanted to edit it to near perfection. My editor said I shouldn’t and that I wouldn’t regret not doing that. So I didn't.

I dedicated the book to Dad (and a few others). It felt right, given that these raw, unfiltered words came directly from dealing with his loss.

I didn’t know if I'd keep writing or if this was a one-off thing. But breaking that decades-long silence? Putting those messy thoughts out there? It's done something. It's helping me process. Maybe it's just noise. Either way, it's there now, a weird little legacy born from loss.

And I sought to improve so many workshops and classes later I have many things in the works. Writing feels different now. I’m not writing out of grief, I’m writing because I want to. There isn’t much money in writing books, and I may never become a best seller, but that isn’t why I do it. I do it because I like it. And maybe others do too.

Dad would probably get a kick out of it. Not because of the writing itself, but because I finally did something he always thought I could do - speak up, in my own way.

I went to "see" Dad, to tell him all about it. On my way back, a bunny crossed my path. If you know, you know. Sometimes, the universe winks at you in the strangest ways.

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