A few months ago I wrote and put together my first poetry chapbook. I sent the manuscript off and 9 hours later it was picked up for publication.

It is called “Everyone In Your Dream Is You” and is available for purchase online! (Or, for those of you in Toronto, you can grab a copy from Knife Fork Book in Kensington Market. Although I don’t think they have copies yet. I don’t even have copies yet.)

I’ll be doing a reading on March 9th. I have until March 9th to practice how to say words right. I no talk good when scared.

ANyway. Wow. FEels good to finally share that with you! Thank you for all the support you’ve given me along the way. U my day 1s. I have to go write an essay now it’s due tmrw. Ttyl ❤



A Poem, I Guess


I wish I was a black wolf that could turn into mist.

I wish I was running through the woods and into the lake.

I wish I was diving, blue back to blue.

And everyone would poke their heads out and say comeback!

And everyone would be so mad.

And I would run and I would run and I would not understand them anyway.

I would just be a wolf in the woods.

Gone to mist.



My IT tattoo & shirt

I love Stephen King. I am always talking about Stephen King. I am notorious for being a Stephen King fan. I have an ‘IT’ tattoo. I have an ‘IT’ t-shirt. I could go on, but you get the picture: I adore Steve King.

And he is finally, after years, coming to my city. 

I get to see the King himself, in the flesh, and I do not have the words to capture my elation.

Being Your Own Agent

If you’re what literary journals consider an “emerging writer” then chances are you’re also your own agent. You have to be on the prowl for publication opportunities. You scan dozens of web pages, looking for submission calls (and clicking away when there’s a submission fee).

You read archives dated back to 2005, asking yourself if you fit the publication’s “tone”.

You wait months for a reply.

You get rejected.

You wonder why you try.

And isn’t that what it comes down to? Do you still believe in you?

You don’t. You do.

It doesn’t matter.

You write.

And as long as you write, there’s something to submit.

And as long as you submit, there’s a chance for publication.


big dreams

The things that discourage me also encourage me. Great art is a cathartic beauty. I find myself at the last page of a novel and no longer know what to do with my hands. With myself. I want to lie down for a while, maybe forever. I never want to write again. How can I? How can I when this, this, exists?

How can I not try?

Poisoned— Again!

My arm is weaker than usual. It keeps slipping off the laptop keyboard. Have I been drugged? Quick. Think. What did I consume last? Media. Of course. Social media.

I seem to have a talent for being poisoned. First my sister. Now the media? Who— what, can I trust?

The owner of a convenience store once let me off the hook for ten cents. I can trust him.

The sky is black. So black it is almost dark.

Signing off for now.