Some newly published fiction: In addition to my novel prequel on Wattpad or Inkitt, short story “Fleeting Delights” has been published by Sheepshead Review. You can also find what is perhaps my most controversial story to date, “All About Asses,” online from Every Day Fiction. Don’t judge too harshly until you consider the ending that all humans share…
If you want to experience every emotion in the space of a minute, just sign up to Twitter. It’s a place where writers can be abused, men can be accused, and a President can spread lies faster than any time in history. The #WritingCommunity on Twitter, though, is also a place for writers to find a support network… and one of the most supportive friends I’ve found is author Michele Sagan, who’s just been agented for her thriller, The Lies He Tells.
And it only took her twenty years. Continue reading
The best mornings used to be the ones when the lorikeets would visit. They’d paint my balcony rail with their plumage, giving the mural of landscape behind them a purpose. With the lorikeets visiting, blue water and swaying foliage would become something steadier: a background they could dive-bomb and ascend. Trees would become the pedestals for their prizewinning beauty. Continue reading
There is something in everyone’s basement.
The basement is a place where accumulations of treasures coat themselves with enough dust to make them seem immaterial—dispassionate and discolored. Technology that you were going to repair decades ago has gone obsolete alongside boxes of unsorted photos. Exercise benches languish; spare parts oxidize into the air. The smell over there catches your attention, but for another few weeks might be mild enough to ignore. That’s what the place is for, after all: ignoring.
It’s just a basement. It’s where you ignore colors and treasures.
It’s where you ignore your passions.
As the temperature rises to the point of causing slow insanity in the town where I live, people often ask me if I wish I’d stayed in a cooler climate. Sometimes I have to think about it, but my answer is always ‘no.’
It was her dance with this northern land that had kept him here.
He would have sought warmer climates if just for himself, but could not imagine life without her delight over the glittering flakes and various snow-beings: men, angels, and bunnies. She would advance each day into the spiritual winter, then return to him with stories that overflowed him, for that evening, with perfect understanding.
He could not imagine her dance without the winter as her partner. Continue reading
Remember Kimberly? She was the girl who moved to the beat of that other drum. While her adopted brother from Harlem was asking everyone what they were talkin’ ’bout, Kimberly was attending private school, deciding whether to go on ski trips with boys, and even grappling (for twenty-two minutes) with Bulimia.
Kimberly was also my very first crush.
I’m not convinced that I can entirely credit my crush to the lovely Dana Plato, who quietly played Kimberly behind her much louder costar. It was more that I had grown up just enough to notice the first age-appropriate girl who appeared on my TV screen. Nevertheless, there are some ‘firsts’ a boy never forgets—his first big TV, his first belly-laugh, and his first crush—so Kimberly lives on, to this day, in my affections.
The Girl Who Played Kimberly did rob me of something, though. She robbed me of the illusion that notoriety brings everlasting success. Continue reading
I apologize if you’ve seen this already. I posted it yesterday as a guest-post on Cow Pasture Chronicles. It’s another attempt to express what has been troubling me about the friction between creativity and social media, and so important to me that I decided I need it here, too. I hope Sheila doesn’t mind.
The ocean is constantly changing.
It churns millions of gallons between continents every year, and each cupful of water on one beach could well have visited another. Enslaved to tidal forces even greater than itself, movement and change are essential to the ocean; they keep the life underneath it thriving, and sculpt the land between it. A still ocean, one imagines, would surely herald a dying world.
Of course, the ocean isn’t all that changes. Timber wheels evolve into rockets so powerful that they break the force of the very gravity holding that ocean here, so that we can watch a privileged few explore the distant force of those tides. Literature changes, from just a few men being watched playing women on a small wooden stage, to women directing masterpieces that are watched on screens worldwide. And communication changes, too, perhaps most of all; a single letter that was once an act of true devotion is now a daily expectation, to be read and discarded with a swipe.
All the while, the ocean keeps churning Continue reading