Tag Archives: words

because I did a thing, this thing!

Lookie what came in the mail today!

And because I added a 1K scene (yeahp, a funeral, super sadness!), and my mss. is now over 57K, and I am a good and law abiding person, I get to go do this!


a thing about which I am super excited! You can see the blurb is by Stephen King. I don’t even understand a world in which Cronenberg needs a blurb, but then my Viggo appears on the back-flap advance praise list, so yanno.




in which we are hooping.

it’s at that point where I mean to continue on, but I’m lost and somewhat puzzled. I think I need a carrier pigeon in this novel – and it’s either the love interest, or the haunted house. I want the house to have occurred, I want the trauma of that event to have already happened, or so I think, so the characters think. I don’t know if it’s right, after 19 thousand words I’m questioning all of it. 19K isn’t even the middle muddle. If I’m in the middle muddle already, then I am hooped.

Truly and well hooped! signature2

when i was small

i read books. I read so many books I came home one day and told my mom I needed to move to a new school because there was nothing left to read in the library. I was in elementary, so under 12.

I remember, when I first started writing seriously, going around and looking at all of my books because I thought I didn’t read speculative fiction.

“I read books!” I said, but there they were. Stories of vampires and witches and ghosts and I realized I’d been reading mystical, magical pages all along.

I found myself, in the last two months or so, missing books. Missing them in the way of paper, and the dusty smell of them, I missed looking at them, and organizing them and holding them in my hands. I went to the bookstore today, on this first day of this year, and although I didn’t buy everything I wanted, I added 3 books to my library and knowing they are there, standing tall on their spines, makes me so happy.

It’s engaged, it’s missing. It’s wanting to hold on and have an adventure you never would have had otherwise.

My bookish tumbler is here “So I have You“. Thank Cormac for that.

they say jealousy is as deep as the grave

{listening: johnny hollow, die for love}

in truth, my whole book, the whole of Ellis, Underground, is written to Johnny Hollow or nothing at all.

Images of soot powder dancing girls as soft as mandala sand flutter lacy fans

and somewhere

a butterfly

fells a leaning tower.

I found that in chapter 4. I have no idea what it means except I know exactly what it means. That doesn’t mean it belongs. Doesn’t mean it shouldn’t go somewhere else. On the OWW, I’m told not to try so hard. They mean it in the nicest way (it’s a story I’ve heard before) and I want to tell them: there is no other way I know how to form words. That I could write a thousand things about a butterfly wing but am unable to say this: He went to the store to buy milk.

Instead, if I were to say such a thing about going for milk, I would say:

“Outside, rain. Fat, heavy drops and the holes in his socks let the cold in, skin to leather and damp, rubbed straight through to blisters and he limps in response. Ahead, neon-shimmer, blue to yellow, a letter missing and the slurpee machine has never been fixed and it has always been broken and he buys soda instead, sick-sweet and cold and it makes his teeth hurt and his tongue fuzzy and sometimes leaves him with a peculiar pain right between the eyes. But today it’s milk. Ordered, demanded, a phone call in the middle of the afternoon that was all accusing. All, you must go and you have failed and yes, just get the 2%”

That took me 1.5 minutes to write. It’s how many brain works. In ribbons. In bows. The other way takes me hours. A million sundays to pull all the meat off the bone and only keep the good stuff. I think it’s all good stuff.

I drank cupcake wine, and played Amnesia: Dark Descent and listened to Johnny Hollow and wrote 1, 428 words which is the most I’ve written at one time since as far back as I can remember. Part of today was made up of lemons. This is how we make lemonade.

I’m so hollow

so weirdly, or not, while crafting and listening to David Usher, my friend Sjack asked me about James Blunt and I confessed that “Goodbye my Lover” makes me cry. EVERY TIME.

Granted, so does “Being Boring”, for different reasons that are also the same.

So imagine my surprise when I take a wandery trip through my short story folder an find a story called “So Hollow”, about, I think, a trio of gargoyles walking through a house and just experiencing the ghost of it and the family that grew up there.

I wrote it in 2006, and I wasn’t even sure it was mine except the cadence was right and I used the phrase “only blood falls in perfect circles”, which might be a big lie because I got that from CSI, and things are not always True on CSI but I found it well written and so I stole it, which makes me A Plagerist but whatever, if it’s true then I’m a-okay.

Glae has never seen her own reflection, but on the night before her sisters soared to their spot on Rue Garland, Anae told her what she looked like.

Such sharp teeth, her first sister had said, and her second, Linae had nodded. The third, Tirae, had mumbled, sharpest of the lot, as her tongue rolled from between her lips.

It’s a bit dreary and a bit sad and a bit like forgetting.

I suppose that’s why I’m fond of it, this rediscovered thing.