When I first let people know that I was writing a bit of a Bad Witch memoir and that it would have an element of exposé, I got plenty of requests not to “tell.”
But let me share a little piece of a story.
Once, I sat on a porch with six other Witches. We all got a little tipsy. One got a little drunk and a little feisty and started making veiled mischievous threats toward me. Once I’d had enough of her prodding, I simply said, “I’ll tell.” The prodding stopped. Cold.
But, as soon as I left the porch that night, a torrent of lies poured out of that woman’s mouth from which I have yet, three years later, to recover. I lost two dear friends, a burgeoning coven, my own flesh-and-blood family, my peace of mind, and my faith in humanity. I could have lost much more.
But I could have lost much less. If only I had told.
I respect silence. I hold it sacred. But with some Witches, silence means nothing. With some Witches, silence means weakness. In my new book, I tell you all about my trials with these kinds of Witches. (Without every breaking silence – it’s a real tightrope!) These Witch trials have a happier ending than most. In the end, your heroine, The Bad Witch, ends up surrounded by perfect love and perfect trust and the loveliest bunch of Witches in the South. As it should be.