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.


Change (a quick update)

I was wrong and I was sorry. I had to leave for a while. But I’m back now. I read my old posts and was shocked by how far I’ve come in a few months time. I’m embarrassed by some of the things I’ve said, embarrassed by my tone- which is good: it means I’m growing.

It’s tempting to delete everything I’ve ever posted on this site, to hide my past self from present company, but growth is important to document.

I said I’d be better, didn’t I? I said I’d change. And I did. And I’m not done yet.

You’re a Paradox, Harry!

You can’t go back in time because that would create a paradox. It self-contradicts. It cancels out. Except, isn’t life itself a paradox? If death inevitably swallows us all (for the sake of simplicity we will leave religion out of this), how can I even be conscious at this moment? When I die, and I will, my thoughts will vanish. My five year old self only exists because I am here to remember her.

If I live on to ninety, but not ninety-one, then ninety year old me and my ninety year old dreams are non-existent. And if all these years eventually collapse into one blurry memory that flickers and dims out of existence, then I am not here. I am already dead.

Existence is a paradox. So are people.

People are predictable. They are easy to read. You learn a bit about someone from the things they say, even more from what they don’t. They’ll tell you one thing but their smile is slanted. They’ll smile at you but their gaze is razor sharp.

Except they’re also complicated. I am an introvert as well as an extrovert. I have anxiety but I love public speaking. I am quite the cynic but I believe in magic. I like coffee and tea. I like cats and dogs. I am A but also B. I am Me.

Humanity is a rubix cube writers cannot put down.

Writers are nothing but people-watchers (who were given a pair of funky shades at birth so they see the world in an odd way). They notice every detail, and when they find that each detail contradicts the previous, their wonky little brains shudders and jerks and spits it all out in coded form. Humanity in metaphors. The truth through fiction.

That’s why they say books are humanity in print. Each author captures and presents the world from their eyes. Stephen King wrote that fiction is the truth within the lie. It really is.