S.E. Reichert's Blog, page 10

Habit vs. Muse

If you’re a writer or a creative of any kind you’ve known the sweet kiss of a muse. Sometimes it comes skipping through your bathroom, mid shower, and smacks you in the back of your shampoo-frothed head with a bat. Sometimes it tickles your ear, an errant breeze, while you’re outside waiting for your dog to be done with their business. Sometimes it meanders through the crosswalk, wearing clown shoes and a rubber duck hat while you’re waiting for the light to change. Whatever and whenever it hits you, its like the lighting of a match inside of your cold little cavern of a brain and its…brilliant.

With any luck, you’ve stashed pens and paper, notebooks, post-its, cocktail napkins and chocolate pudding in odd and disconnected places to jot down what it’s trying to tell you. Or I guess you could use your phone (old person eye roll). The point is, the muse is a beautiful part of what it means to be creative.

The trouble is…It doesn’t really exist.

A moment of silence for my former, favorite imaginary friend.

You see…”creatives” don’t have more encounters with “the muse” because we’re slightly unhinged and floppy in the gray matter (I mean, we might be, but that has very little to do with inspiration, and probably more to do with preferring to be in a state of la-la land over the past and current hellscapes).

We become ‘amused’ because we spend time building good habits pertaining to our art. Ideas are like seedlings, habits are the fertile soil. If you’re not building up healthy and rich (worthwhile not monetary) habits, there will be fewer little ideas sprouting up.

So what are these habits, Sarah?

Well, for one, you have to write.

Duhhhh…. Okay, I know that’s a easy pitch. But it’s really not that simple. So many of us simply won’t sit down until we feel inspired. Or we PROCRASTINATE with every other conceivable chore and ‘have-to’ before we sit down to write. Or we may sit down, but we stare at the cursor blinking or distract ourselves with ‘research’. Decide the baseboards need dusting, or the dog needs its ears cleaned. There are a billion ways we avoid it. I do too. And constantly I ask myself why.

*Side Quest* It’s because of fear. Usually. Fear that what I write will be shit. Fear that it will be really good and I’ll fall in love with it and lose myself for months and no one else will love it as much. Fear that what I write won’t lead anywhere. Fear that I’ll mess up my grammar, my POV, my plotline, my characters, my punctuation. Fear that it won’t be good enough. Fear that I won’t be good enough. Even with books out. Even with publications and awards. That old fear is a nasty briar patch to the rose garden of my work.

But habits are nothing to fear. At best they’re comforting, at worst, they’re droll. You can set something as simple as…

I will write for twenty minutes five times a day. Or I will sit my ass in my chair everyday at 5:30am and write for two hours straight. Or I will finish one poem a day. I will write three flash fictions every afternoon, or two ten-minute plays a day.

And then you sit the fuck down. And you write.

Its just that easy and its just that hard. But thats all it is.

And sometimes you will write shit. Sometimes you’re going to spend a whole day or afternoon or month on a project that just doesn’t work out. Sometimes it will be too raw or hurtful to share. Sometimes your POV will be atrocious and you’ll ellipses your blog to death…

But here’s your consolation prize to all of that:

Ahem…NO writing is bad. In every word, sentence, scrapped character or ridiculous poem, there is a certain fluency. A repetition. A practice. Bruce Lee didn’t fear the man who knew 10,000 different kicks, he feared the man who had practiced the same kick 10000 times. Because practice leads to progress…and closer to perfection (though who really wants that bullshit, it’s boring.)

Habit will sustain you, even when the muse has left to find some other crosswalk or doggy doo pile to traipse around. And with those designated times (habit) you will train your brain to settle in and do the work when its time. And that work creates fields. Rich and good fields, that you’re tilling and watering, and sprinkling shit on. And things grow there. Things you didn’t even know were laying dormant. Ideas, new directions, new thoughts, new characters, new combinations of words, or exciting adventures. The lushness of a garden well tended.

So here’s my advice. Don’t sit around waiting for some finicky tart in clown shoes to lead you to the next great idea. Sit your ass in the chair, open your notebook or laptop and start writing. Lead yourself to your next great idea, by doing the work. It’ll be a lot more enjoyable than you think.

Courting the Lion: An Excerpt and Call for Thoughts

Gentle Readers:

I’m so in love with my new couple and I’m beginning edits on their story. I just wanted to share this scene with you. I hope you enjoy. And while I appreciate any feedback, keep in mind that I do not debate religious or ‘moral’ issues, with trolls on line.

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Thomas sat opposite of him and put his hands between his knees. Richard took his books from the satchel, donned his glasses and began to read.

“Are we not going to discuss the matter?”

“Are you going to discuss, or are you going to yell at me?” Richard said, over the top of his spectacles. The carriage started to amble through town, the hoofbeats and city noise keeping their conversation private. The blinds were open and Thomas looked out at the cobbled streets and bright doorways as they passed.

“Last night was—”

“Beautiful.” Richard said.

“A sin—”

“Thomas, I cannot—” Richard huffed, took off his glasses, tapped them on his knee and sat forward. “I cannot undo the years of abuse and hurt you have suffered. Not in a day of riding boats or carriages, and certainly not when we arrive at the source of it. I can only assure you that you are not alone. You are not the first man or woman to fall for one of their own. It is not something that we chose. Any more than our hair color or our height.”

“But the bible—”

“Has been interpreted and reinterpreted by hundreds of men in power who sought to repopulate the earth with the poor and pious as to remain in power.”

Thomas was silent. “Richard—”

“They do this with fear. Not for the love of a god, but the fear of his retribution. And it keeps us all subjugate. Do you honestly believe a God would make you, perfect as you are, and mistakenly lead you to sin? That love, in all its fantastical and natural forms could be wrong?”

“I do not know.”

“You are a learned man. Think on it.” Richard said, put his glasses back on and began to read. The carriage jostled and swayed as they left the smoother cobble stone streets of Chippenham and tracked on to the dirt road. Richard tried to focus on his book, poetry…a love sonnet, that could have been meant for man or woman, or anything in between. He’d said the word love to the duke. And the duke had not said anything in return.

It was silly to be in love after a week. But Richard had known Thomas for so much longer. Hadn’t he wished he could meet a man like that in his own time? When there wasn’t a chasm of hurt to travel across to reach him. Love was not love when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove….

“It is an ever-fixed mark,” Richard whispered and stared out the window. Thomas sat, arm still crossed over his chest, eyes on the road that stretched out behind them, the rolling green fields. The stillness and the sway of a journey taking him back home to the expectations of his family.

Thomas let the swaying settle his mind. Richard could not change the years of abuse. But he could offer him a safe place. Thomas had been a great many things in his life. Rich, strong, kept and shaped. But never safe. He looked up, Richard was still staring out of the window, biting his bottom lip and thinking over whatever verse he’d just read. A warrior body, a scholar mind. Damn, if he didn’t love the man. He wanted to know more. He wanted to spend years learning what made Richard Shaw such an enigmatic mystery. He would not get to know him in silence. Or from so far away.

“Make space,” Thomas grumbled and came to Richard’s side of the carriage.

“My lord?” Richard began but the duke gently nudged him to the side and sat down, swinging his legs up on the seat and laying his head in Richard’s lap. Richard lifted his arms in surprise and looked down at the scowl on Thomas’ face.

“Well?” Thomas asked.

“What is it you expect of me?” Richard asked, his throat bobbing with a hard swallow.

“Read to me, Doctor of Books.” Thomas whispered, folded his hands across his stomach and closed his eyes. Richard smiled, the weight and warmth of Thomas’ head on his thigh bringing such a beautiful sense of ease. He began, soft, even and intoning the rich language of a man who knew the power of words. His hand fell to where Thomas’ were folded and he caressed the duke’s fingers. Soon, his own hands and eyelids felt heavy and he took of his glasses. Thomas was asleep, curled into his stomach. He gently caressed his forehead, brushed the dark blonde hair away from his eyes and leaned his head back on the cushion. He tried to think through it, be logical…breathe deeply and let go of what he could not change. He kept stroking Thomas’ soft hair and felt some of his tension ease. They were here, they were safe.

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New Horizons and Old Loves

Life, man… It is a perpetual state of change. In fact, one of the only certainties about life is that it will change. And humans are no different than any other oxygen breathing, carbon-based sack of stardust. The world changes. We change with it, whether consciously or not. We discover things we didn’t know (I hope) we learn and make different choices (also—I hope and that they are in positive directions). We take hurt and either learn to heal or use it as a weapon on the other stardust sacks near us. We find excuses to fall back into bad habits, or reasons to springboard into better ways of living. We are a constant swirl of contradictions and brilliance.

As a beginning writer, I always thought I’d write the same kind of book for my whole life. Because I loved love. And I loved romance. And I enjoyed participating in the happily ever after of a good swoon-worthy book. But as the world evolves so do we, and I am no different. This is not to say that romance is some basic-bitch level writing, it absolutely is not. Romance is hard to pull off (sexual pun completely intended) in a way that is both believable and reaches for something we all wish we had. Its maddening and beautiful and some of my favorite books are still romances.

Back to my evolution.

It didn’t take me long to realize that while I love romance…it wasn’t the genre that fascinated me. The trouble began (I feel like this is one of those old 1960’s “don’t let this happen to you” videos in health class) probably when I started genre hopping like a vagabond onto railway cars in whatever direction the tracks were going. Just anywhere but here. I was thinking about how and why I seemed easily distracted into forays of genre crossing, experimental writing, and odd formats…And I just figured it out.

I’m a character follower. I can’t stick to a genre because my storytelling is like a puppy out on a walk that wants to jump on and follow every new person home. I want to stick my noses in their crotches and find out where they’ve been. Ok. That—that analogy went too far.

The point is… People interest me. Characters interest me. Whether I’m watching them pirate a space ship, imagining them breaking up the scar tissue of a thoroughbred horse, or fear for them as they get possessed by the spirit they’re hot for. I’m curious about people. How they live, how they deal, how they fail. How they love… what they love. How they keep on keeping on and manage to use their big old squishy hearts towards better ends. Or bitter ends.

So I guess I don’t stray too far from love. But I like the depth of how love incorporates itself into our lives, whether its romantic or not. Knowing this about me feels like untying a corset, a big breath in, a cutting of old ideas binding me into “what kind” of writer I am.

I’m a character writer.

Which means I can write poetry, or gay romance. I can write socially conscious plays, or epic space farmer odysseys. I can write song lyrics or philosophical observations on love and meaning (but I repeat myself). I can write about characters because I love and respect each of them. I care about them. I am curious about them. I am compassionate for them. I can be the journalistic eye that follows character and changes the world and myself through their experiences.

This year I’m wrapping up some older projects (urban fantasy-erotic-trilogy based on the legends of Norse and Scottish mythology? Yes please…Genetic killing machine learns she has a conscious? Don’t mind if I do… A time traveling, hot as hell gay romance between two of my new favorite characters? My heart is all a-twitter… A literary first person POV exploration of grief, loss, and how we let go without losing our hearts? My soul didn’t know my brain could write like that…)

But I’m also hopping on new rail cars. Tentatively, 2 plays covering everything from the cost of pro-life legislation on a micro level and the oft-ignored life ruination of the high school to prison pipeline for black youth, a book of erotic poetry, and exploring my horror side with short fiction. It’s all a little ethereal and unsettled yet, but I see the stardust of potential, tossed out in the frozen dark of space, lying in wait for a gravitational pull to gather it into new universes.

Oh, and signed up for another fucking marathon so…that was stupid. That stardust seed is a cackling massive black hole I should have clicked away from instead of looking at the price and going… “Hey! That’s a cheap way to suffer immensely.” I bet I could have paid somebody less to take a bat to my knees, with the same outcome…but here we are. Eternally hopeful and stubborn.

So here’s to new endeavors, in your writing and your life. Open up that perspective a little wider and let some of the stardust in. But keep love…at the heart of your universe.

Resolving the Past, Living in The Present

Hello gentle readers and fellow writers. It’s the first week of a new year and I think I probably gave you more advice than you really wanted last week, so this blog will be shorter and less preachy.

First, there will be some events happening in the next couple of months that I wanted you to be aware of. For instance, I’ll be in Denver at a Pop-Up Book Sale sponsored by Illumination Author Events on January 20th from 10-3. I’ll have my newer titles from 5 Prince Publishing as well as some of my older books (paranormal, steamy ghost sex anyone? witches and handyman love?). I’ll be signing books and happy to answer questions, and will be giving away some swag. I hope I can see you then!

Second, I’m back on track with my newest Kindle Vella The Three Hearts of Eve, with new episodes dropping every Friday. For a few tokens and a quick like at the bottom, you can continue to support my electricity and food habits. Seriously, these are fun little stories that are easily readable while sitting in traffic or waiting for appointments. And reading is better for you than doom scrolling so check out all your favorite authors on Vella.

Thirdly, I’m still working with the Writing Heights Writers Association as the Youth Coordinator and our classes resume in January. These classes are free, hybrid (they can attend from anywhere) and this year’s youth will have the opportunity to work on an anthology, including learning the process, getting paid for their work, and presenting the finished book at the WHWA conference this July. If you know a teen interested in writing who needs a supportive community, send them my way. (youth@writingheights.com)

That’s all of the immediate announcements, but I’d like to leave you with a final thought about New Years and resolutions.

I heard someone say that instead of making resolutions we should look to resolve something in our lives. And that actually hit home. I have a general sense of what I want to do this year, but I’ve been struggling with specific, work-related goals. When I got to thinking about resolving things, all of those hectic little post-it notes and vagabond thoughts started to fall into place.

This year I’m going to resolve projects that have been in limbo. I’m going to find closure to a few series that have been in the ‘waiting stage’ for too long. I’m going to spend some time, out of the editing sphere and into the growth mindset. I’ll be taking classes on craft (erotica and playwriting? Not together…those are two separate classes, ha ha) and different modes of writing. I’ll be reading a great deal more (next week I’ll post a picture of my proposed TBR).

2024 is about feeding my present mind with rest and softness so that it can grow into the next year, as well as tying up the loose ends of my writing past. It’s about revisiting poetry and short stories and submitting to different venues, expanding my wheelhouse and sharing what I know.

I’ll be sure to keep you posted as I progress and I hope you’ll reach out to me as well. I love to hear what your plans and hopes are. I want to know, what will you resolve in 2024?

Advice on The Next Year

(As if she knew enough to tell anyone else what to do with their life…)

I am, by no means, an expert in life. I have failed at it before in so many ways. I’ve made lots of messy mistakes, and will probably do so again, at least once a year for the rest of the time given me. So–feel free to close out of this blog with a knowing roll of your eyes.

Or…

Hang with me for a minute, and let’s talk. Listen, I know that this world and this life feels like a hot mess sitting on top of an explosive train wreck, parked next to a puppy store and children’s hospital. There are large, capitalistic forces beyond our control, churning out profitable war machines, and rising costs. Famine, disease, environmental ruin… There’s very little that can be done by one person. Except…

Except what we can do.

Here’s my humble advice:

[image error]Pexels.com" data-medium-file="https://thebeautifulstuffblog.files.w..." data-large-file="https://thebeautifulstuffblog.files.w..." src="https://thebeautifulstuffblog.files.w..." alt="" class="wp-image-6085" style="width:471px;height:auto" />Photo by Karol D on Pexels.comStay healthy. Eat well, cut out poisonous shit (alcohol, drugs, etc), keep your body moving, and mediate. Read books, lots of them, from lots of sources and lots of topics. When you indulge in news, chose a reputable source, and shun any ‘breaking news’ sensationalism. Your attention to the world’s needs and troubles isn’t for sale. Do something that scares you. No, I’m not talking driving off a cliff, or anything that’s hurtful. I mean, ask for that promotion, take that class, talk to that girl, write that book, quit that job, leave that jerk. Do it. Do something that feeds your bigger self. Everybody has a passion, no matter how silly or fanciful others find it. Fuck others. Do your silly. Embrace that hobby, that joy, that interest. Do something that makes you lose track of time for the engagement it brings you.Understand and embrace that your passion, your creativity, doesn’t need to be monetized to be worthwhile. It does not have to be sold to justify its existence.Be kind in all things. Studies have shown that when we are kind to others, it releases oxytocin into our system. That’s the feel good snuggly chemical that we’re all short on. It helps us bond and relate. It helps us connect. In a real way, not just by clicking a ‘like’ button. People who care for others, speak out for others, stand up for others. Understand that other’s rights are our rights too.Limit your time in imaginary, algorithm cesspools and echo chambers. Seriously. Set a timer for your social media scrolling. I know its part of many of our jobs, but so are spreadsheets, and we don’t spend any more time on those than absolutely necessary. Spreadsheets are better for you than social media. And if you knew how much I fucking hate spreadsheets, you’d know I mean business on this one.Get outside. In the cold, in the wind, in the heat and the dark. The human body was built to experience the particular stimulations of the outside environment. We need sun. We need the far away stares into mountains and parks. We need shivers and sweating. We need to feel the earth under our feet and the sharp skin of tree bark. We need it. We came from it. We should cherish it while it’s still here.Self Care is important but SO IS COMMUNITY CARE. Hate to break it to you, little meat suit, but you’re not the be-all, end-all of the world. Yes, you are important, but you are only as important as the community you build and support. You do not survive alone and the self-care craze has turned a bit too self-important and self-centered. You are not above the suffering of others when you have the capacity to help. Take care of yourself, but take care of others too. We all lean on each other to survive. And on that note…VOTE. While we still have a democracy to vote in. You laugh but… we are dangerously close to a dictatorship. We already are muddling through an oligarchy of waaaaaay-too old leaders dictating policy and laws based on ideals of 60 years ago, that serve the ruling class (white, male, rich, christian). They were able to stack the supreme court so we can no longer feel safe that our democracy is being held in check and balanced with common sense. See above notes about…be kind in all things (including voting for issues that affect humans’ rights and quality of life) and participating in community care (what’s best for those most disenfranchised will eventually be best for us all)Protest. If every worker, every woman, every unrecognized majority member were to stand up and walk out… on their imposed ‘places’, on their below-wage jobs, on their prison-pipline school systems, this country would grind to a fucking halt. This country NEEDS to grind to a halt. This country needs to be reminded that shareholder needs mean jack shit when there aren’t workers to keep the economy rolling. This country NEEDS to recognize that unpaid labor, income disparity, childcare fleecing, education suppression and the harassment and abuse of over half its population is no longer tolerable. Money should never outweigh the betterment of humanity.[image error]Pexels.com" data-medium-file="https://thebeautifulstuffblog.files.w..." data-large-file="https://thebeautifulstuffblog.files.w..." src="https://thebeautifulstuffblog.files.w..." alt="" class="wp-image-6087" style="width:263px;height:auto" />Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

In short. Next year should scare the shit out of you. Because you’re going to try all kinds of new things. To be seen, to be heard, to heal the downtrodden, and to heal yourself. You’re going to learn things about the world that have been hidden by your echo chambers and sensational ‘journalism’. You’re going to have to step out of your house to meet people and learn about them. You’re going to have to constantly push boundaries.

It will be scary to try new things, scary to speak out. It will seem pointless and fruitless, unless we can all do it together. Because maybe… maybe if we stand up to be brave, whether in protest of policy, or in defense of our own happiness and health, it will ignite the fire in someone else, and in someone else…and in someone else.

Until…by the end of next year, our one candle will have lit an unprecedented inferno.

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Santa, Hippy Jesus, and The Importance of Choosing Joy

It’s that time of year when we are faced with a choice that defines our humanity. The choice to either believe in the light of the season in all the forms it takes and spread our own joy to illuminate the shortened days, or the choice to be a petty and divisive jerk and shit on other people’s beliefs.

Don’t be petty and shitty, not any time, but especially not this time of year.

The world is dark enough as it is.

Be good to each other.

Psst… if you’re looking for a way to be good, especially after you read this tear-jerking post then click on this link and spread some joy:

For the regular Citizens (and children) in Gaza (regardless of sides/religions/divides) check this link out.

For something closer to home: This is a great place to start.

And now, grab a tissue and enjoy…

Dear Madelyn and Delaney…

I hear there have been some questions at school and amongst your friends, about if Santa Claus is real.

There comes a time, in most kids lives, when they are taught to grow up and out of what some adults call “silly, fanciful, daydreams.” And so adults and peers will go about destroying everything that even whiffs of magic, and work hard to wipe away every ounce of stardust from the eyes of children who believe.

To this I say…Shut your mean-hearted pieholes, you wankers. (And anyone who hasn’t, at some point in their existence, called a middle schooler a wanker is probably lying. Let’s face it, middle school is not our finest hour as humans.)

These are the people who will say it’s obviously impossible for a generous old guy to deliver presents to kids one night of the year, while simultaneously cherishing and accepting the “fact” that a deity impregnated a virgin and their child wiped away the entirety of sin in the world…

…uh…

If they can suspend reality and base their lives around the idea of (albeit a cool), hippy/demigod, is it such a stretch to believe in a jolly old elf that spreads the ideals of generosity and selfless giving for just one day?

I won’t touch your demigod hippy if you don’t touch my fat guy in a red suit.

I bet Jesus calls him St. Bro-cholas.

I refuse to lose my stardust. (As Anne Shirley would say; I refuse to be poisoned by their bitterness.)

You want to know if there is magic? If Santa is real?

Here’s what I know…

Santa is real and magic exists.

How can I be sure?

I’m here aren’t I? You’re here, yes? We’re all here.

We were sprung from the unlikely combination of a chemical lottery and dumb, cosmic luck. Our bodies’ chemical and mineral components are the same as stardust floating around and comprising distant galaxies. We are made of the Universe and the Universe is in us. We’re naked, funny walking apes, and we’ve survived hundreds of thousands of years of evolutionary death traps.

If all of that’s not magical, what is?

Here’s what I also know.

There are two types of people in the world.

Those that destroy joy, and those that spread it.

I KNOW that it does no harm to believe in something better, more beautiful, and magical in our lives (Hippy Demigod or Santa Claus).

I KNOW, it does no harm to fill our eyes with wonder and joy in the midst of the darkest day of the year.

I KNOW, it does no harm to hope and anticipate.

I KNOW, it does no harm to walk into these short cold days with elation in our hearts.

And I KNOW this:

what a horrible, dark and sad world it must be for those that seek to take away such light; those who disbelieve and ridicule others who hold magic in their heart.

It does harm, to take someone’s joy.

It does harm, to smother the fire of giving and generosity.

It does harm, when we seek to oppress the light of selflessness in a world so dark.

I also know this; each one of us chooses what we believe.

We choose what we fill our hearts with and in a world that can be so gloomy and wretched, why would you want to fill your heart with anything that would make it even more so?

I choose to believe.

I believe in Santa Claus and I believe in magic.

I believe that there is light in the darkest of times. And I believe that the joy that radiates from hearts that hope, and love, and give, is more real than any hot air getting blown around by a bunch of self-conscious, hormonal, dying-to-fit-in middle schoolers.

Now listen: I can’t decide for you what you believe, but neither can they.

So you choose.

Embrace the joy, be the magic, and light up the dark… or reject the lot of it and wipe the stardust from your eyes.

As for me and my heart; I choose joy.

I choose to believe.

If you want to do something to spread light, that doesn’t cost anything but your time, check this out:

uspsoperationsanta.com

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The Writer Needs a Break

As we gear up for the last few weeks of this year, its always interesting to take a moment and think about what we’ve learned, if anything at all, from our trip around the sun. What have I learned? Well, I’m still trying to figure that out. It’s all a hazy, Monet painting, that I’m still too close to. There’s no grand picture, for all the individual points of light and dark. And its practically impossible to be introspective and retrospective when so much noise and obligation is still harping on me.

Like anyone who recognizes the signs of burnout and dangerous feeding tubes straight to their depressive tendencies, I’ll be stepping back for that purpose.

This year, more than any before, has been the perfect example of towering highs and dark-depth lows. I’ve been busy trying to find a path, putting my efforts into editing and publishing, marketing and selling…after losing my north star last January. That’s the order it happened. I did not leave instructing to write. I had to leave an abusive situation and it tore out a gaping heart-shaped hole. I had to fill it with something or risk…not being part of this grand farce of life anymore.

But, as tomorrow will be my last book signing/book launch of the year, I’ll be taking a break from social media, self promoting, and marketing for at least a couple of weeks (ideally for the rest of this year). I’ll still have blogs (my favorite holiday one is coming up next week) but you won’t see me town-crier-ing about how much I’d love it if you bought my work and left a review. I need a break from that. Because although it is a necessary part of this game, its not why I write and its killing my soul.

Plus…I’m out of books in the pipeline. I’m out of distractions from my pain and depression. I’m out of excuses and must stumble in the dark for awhile in order to find my purpose going forward. I honestly don’t know if I’ll publish again. I honestly don’t know if I have anything left to write that I believe in. I’m like the year itself; in my dark season, and I think I need to rest in this space.

Please, do not think that I am ungrateful, for the opportunities and the advancement in my writing that happened. I’m still over the moon and ever-grateful to see my name in a publishing house’s ranks. To have books on my shelf, with my words, and stories tucked into beautiful covers, is a dream come true and I suppose one I might not have found, if I hadn’t had space in my life to fill.

So maybe, in my darkness, in my social hibernation and retrospective quiet, the conclusion will balance out in favor of the light and reveal that the pain that hobbled me, turned me in a direction so much more deserving of my time. Maybe it will just give me time to stretch past the old scar tissue and discover my next adventure. Who knows. I only hope the rest will bring me back around to finding a reason to keep participating in the grand farce.

If you follow my blog, I’ll still be posting (scheduled). If you follow me, don’t think I blocked you if I’m gone for a few weeks. I wish you and yours a happy holiday season. We’ll come back around next year.

I wish you health. I wish you contentment and gratitude. I wish you warm coffee and good friends. I wish you hope. I wish you rest.

Being The Light

As we move away from November, closer to the shortest and darkest day of the year, and on the first day of a celebration of light… I wanted to say a few things about our world. A little, horrific recap if you will, of situations that are spreading darkness…through the world, our own country, and our communities. Nothing like a little Suzie Sunshine to make the holiday’s bright, amIright?

Every year, since 2020, sort of feels like a strange do-over that’s still not getting done right. We’re trying to catch up, but we’re not really sure what that means. Catch up with the whirlwind of hate and disparity. Catch up with the deepening poverty. Catch up with the escalating violence between two countries that is made worse by the unfair favoritism of the world’s enabling ‘parents’… Catch up with what we lost. And there’s simply no way. Not with all of it. Not with our tiny human brains and our way too big human hearts.

Wages are stagnant, the price of everything is rising. We are still divisive, waiting on an election next year that could very well see our first mafia-like felon on the throne (because he will insist on a throne like any decent dictator would). There is an undercurrent of unrest, but “luckily” we’re all so underpaid and overspent, we simply don’t have the time, energy or funds to protest. And the internet keeps us drugged up on kitten videos and algorithmic echo chambers…

Companies and the government et large are concerned by the dropping birth rate, but not so concerned that they’ll do something to improve the conditions of all those fertile youngins. You know like…giving them a decent wage so they can afford to feed themselves before they throw another mouth into it. Or subsidized/free/decently priced healthcare to care for themselves and the said new offspring. OR I DON’T KNOW MAYBE GIVE WOMEN BACK THE RIGHT TO CHOSE TO HAVE A BABY OR NOT.

Here’s a tip…nothing turns women off from sex like knowing that we may get saddled with a baby that we’re solely responsible for in a declining economy. Cross your legs ladies, we’re not designated as broodmares to keep social security from crumbling. They should have thought about that a long while ago. In any case. That’s a dumpster fire with a different chemical accelerant for a different day to throw a match on…

The rich are getting richer (glad to see the stock market is so healthy while 1 in 3 American school-age children are suffering from food insecurity—are we still calling that kind of shit a ‘win’ for the economy?) The poorer are falling into depths of poverty they can’t begin to rise from.

The world’s still burning and flooding. Freezing and drying up in ever intensifying waves, destroying entire habitats and species within shortening periods of time.

Did I come here to remind you of the dumpster fire caught in a tornadic shit storm that is our world?

No, I did not.

I came here to remind you that you are a vessel of light.

I came here to remind you of your potential to shine even in the face of insurmountable difficulty and hardship.

I came here to remind you that your attitude, actions, and struggles matter and can make a difference.

Am I preaching to go forth and be a Pollyanna, ray-of-delight-and-positivity, spreading goodness and sunshine to the masses so that they can catch your optimism like gonorrhea on spring break?

No. Jesus Christ, no. Certainly not.

Look, we’re all reeling. We’re all coming up out of the dark of our own prisons. We’re all trying to find balance. We’re all watching horrendous atrocities take place a world away. Babies and mothers, refugees and wounded being bombed on their way to safety. Wondering, constantly with upturned guts who’s side to take. Allow me to let you in on another little secret.

There is no winning side.

War is not hell. Hell only takes the deserving. War takes them all. The grandmothers. The doctors. The five year old, clinging to his mother. The only good to anyone, to humanity as a whole…is a ceasefire. But you can bet your pretty little knickers that the US government in its dwindling war machine will not remove itself from such a gracious teet. Nope. Babies can die as long as the military complex survives.

Ugh…see? It’s pretty fucking dark in these parts. And we are but one heart. One soul, each of us. One tiny spark of stardust, trying to find some happy in a world of increasing hurt.

Here’s another secret…its not your job to find continual happiness. It is your job to do something with your life. To find a why, that makes a difference, and to pursue it. In the midst of hardship, in the midst of suffering, this is your purpose. Happiness may be a byproduct. But it’s not the reason. I’m asking you, in the gloom and confusion of our current state, to get out of your own head for a goddamn minute. Allow yourself to sit in the misery–appreciate the suffering and while doing so, extend your hand to the person next to you, or sitting in a bomb shelter half a world away.

Do something for someone else. Petition, Vote, Donate a little more if you can (be it time, money, or resources). Bring your elderly neighbor groceries or offer to put up their holiday lights. Send care packages or thank you notes to your local hospital or teachers or even the delivery person who’s working their ass off for some bijillionaire so he can make another penis rocket… Wait, am I getting my bijillionaires mixed up? Pot-ay-toe, Po-tah-toe, they’re all the same white privileged asshole who instead of ending human suffering, delights in deepening it…

Call your mom. Call your friends. Hell, call your best friend who you had a political rift with years ago. (Just–don’t call your ex—nobody needs extra shit in an already rampant shit storm). Patronize your local businesses for the holidays and take out.

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None of that appealing? Not feeling THAT altruistic? Ok, feed the birds outside, especially on cold days. Spend ten extra minutes playing with your dog or being ignored by your cat, perhaps at a closer distance. Read your kids an extra story. Hug them twice as long as you normally do.

Still not ‘up’ for that?

Then at least don’t be an asshole. The world is already at capacity. Be one of the good ones. If for no other reason than you are a light. And light spreads light. Not darkness. A light goes out and purposefully makes the world a better place in any small or significant way it can. It does not hate. It does not fear. It doesn’t not justify the killing of other people. It lets others have rights over their own body and futures.

That’s what being a light is about. Thinking about someone other than yourself. And that, my friends is the best gift you can give.

If you can do just one or two of those things, I guarantee something amazing will happen. The world won’t just look a little brighter. It will BE brighter. You will feel it in the center of your chest. You’ll start to see the world as a series of choices, opportunities, to glow a little warmer. To spread more joy. And I can’t think of a world more in need of the simple, small acts of kindness. No Pollyanna pigtails and sunshine yellow dress required. (Unless you already have the outfit and bitch you look fine in it—then rock that shit).

Go on now—get out of here and do something with your codger-ly, huff-ly, badger-ly self. Be a reluctant light if you have to. But be a light.

Survival of The Writer: And What National Novel Writing Month Teaches Us

I’m going to keep it brief and give you a little excerpt at the end of this blog to tie up another great year of NANOWRIMO. I hope that your month was successful and that it taught you something about your ability to persevere, in the face of ominous word counts, writer’s block doldrums, and persnickety characters that don’t do as they’re told.

I, for one, am proud of you. The winner of the goodie bag will be chosen this week and I’ll announce the name on the blog this week. Think of it as an early Christmas. I’m still curious to know how it went for all of you and if you have any pitfalls or successes you’d like to share, please send them my way. If this was your first or your 25th, I know that you got something out of the process.

If anything, it teaches us how to manage our time better, how to flow with the writing even when its not going how we think it should, and how to keep going even when its hard. I hope the very best for your project. My final piece of advice is this:

When the first day of December rolls around, I ask that you take that hard-earned manuscript you slaved over for a month, save it (Twice) and put it away. For a whole month. Don’t look at it, don’t tweak it. Don’t edit it. (the only exception is that if you’re really close to finishing something or the whole thing, keep extending your daily word count goal until you’re at a good stopping place). Don’t open it again until January 1st at the earliest. Give your brain and your thoughts time to settle and reflect, so you can come at it with fresh eyes and a begin the process of turning that beautiful raw material into a wondrous book.

Here’s a little (unedited) piece of my new project. Enjoy! (and Congratulations)

…

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I wish the train would go faster, why do we have to keep stopping for people? I get off, shove my way through the current going down, swimming upwards like a desperate salmon. I keep the soup intact. I climb his stairs two at a time and the ache in my chest is probably equal parts worry and being terribly out of shape.
“Please answer. Please answer,” I whisper as I raise my finger to the antiquated brass button. Charlie rips the door open before I can even ring his bell. He looks wild. Unmoored. His eyes are fighting and strange. Like he’s made…decisions. I don’t know what to say so…Kansas takes over.
“Hey—”
“Get out of my way.”
“Where you going?” I ask and tilt my head to the side like an innocent farm girl, unaccustomed to dark thoughts.
“Out,” he grouches.
“I’ll go with you.” I shrug at this, and the soup and bread shrugs too. He glares at me; I can feel his mouth forming sharp blades of words.
“I’m suicidal.” The admission itself is a lifeline that he throws out. He could have said he had a meeting, or lawyers to talk to, or a walk to think. He hopes I’ll back down if he throws it, head on, into my face. I force myself to smirk and roll my eyes, even while I bully him backwards, my will and the box of warm food herding him.
“You’re hungry.”
“No!” he says, a split second before his stomach rises to greet me with a groan. “Just go, Meg. I’ll see you at the funeral.” His back is pressed to the not yet closed door.
“Who’s? Yours?” I pause, Charlie’s eyes go soft through the anger. “Get in the apartment, Charlie. Before it gets cold.” I force him back, and slam the door closed, putting myself between him and it. I set down the box and take off my coat and hang it up next to where he’s standing. He sighs, takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes.
“Meg,” he whispers.
“Let’s eat,” I say and take off his scarf for him, hanging it with reverence next to my shabby long trench. He gives in and throws his coat over the bright blue. As though he can’t look at it tonight. I take the box into the kitchen and start to unpack the hot soup and warm bread. I have to get the step stool to reach the bowls in the cabinet and Charlie is just standing there watching me, shirt with his cuffs rolled up, untucked and pining for the bridge or busy street that would have ended the pain.
But the pain can fade. I know. It can become livable. It’s been my asshole roommate for some time. I set down the bowls and crack open the top of the container. Charlie leans in, trying to feign disinterest.
“Is that—”
“Chicken and wild rice, from Saul’s private stash.”
Charlie fake glares and his stomach growls again. “You little shit.”
I don’t respond but I pass him a full bowl and a chunk of fresh bread. He holds them both in his hands, warm, soft. Little things to cling to in a world that was so desperate and cold five minutes ago. He doesn’t speak, but he sits at the island and I saddle up next to him.
I talk about work. I talk about an article I’m working on about AI, I talk about the impending writer’s strike. I keep my topics to things easy to let go of. I talk about anything, but leave spaces of silence for him to contribute. He doesn’t, but he presses his long thigh against mine under the counter, and finishes the rest of the soup.
I offer to stay. He says it’s unnecessary. The funeral is tomorrow. We have things to take care of. He shakes his head. He’s changed from the man marching to death. To someone resigned to accept it. But I’m wary, and I don’t want to return to my cold apartment. Not with his knee touching mine.
“I can take the couch.”
“No.”
“Charlie.”
“I’m fine.” He says, and I believe him, but I look at him like I’m not sure. “I’m gonna be fine.” He says, and nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

NANOWRIMO: WEEK 3

Hey! It’s week 3 and if you haven’t sent me a comment or update on how your process is going, please do! I have a drawing going on for a Writer Care Package, with all sorts of fun goodies for you to enjoy as a treat for surviving this month. And speaking of surviving, let’s take a look at the dreaded week 3.

Hey there writer.

I know I don’t have to thank you for being here with me because if you are akin to me, you’re looking for any excuse to change up the monotony of this novel-writing month and escape that mad-dash. Perhaps you’re feeling like this story you’ve been pouring your heart and soul into for what seems like years is starting to stale. Things are getting drab. The plot line is petering out. The characters have run out of things to say.

This is the dreaded, dead-ended doldrum, (say that one a few times fast) of week 3. And it can often feel like middle age in its sunken sails, stagnant air, and the questioning of the choices that brought you here.

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With only days left in this crazy adventure, you may feel like you just don’t want to go on. That perhaps it would be easier to abandon your project all together and take a hot little novella out for a spin. Maybe start seeing some poetry on the side. Perhaps dabble in a little erotica?

While I encourage some dabbling (especially in erotica) I would argue that all of those exploratory practices can be done right in your own work in progress. So you’re bored, so you don’t know what the characters will say to one another…I urge you to start a new chapter, in the same document, where your characters take a jump off of the tracks and do something completely unexpected. Put them in a different time, put them in a different dynamic…hell, switch their genders and see what happens. Write a poem that serves as a synopsis to the story, first from one character’s perspective, and then from another’s. All of this play might help unlock the paths your novel needs to get going again. Think of it as putting some wind in those sails. A little spice in between the pages.

And all of those words you put down, even if they may be edited out later, still count as words towards your 50,000. Let’s be honest, at this point in the process, any word count is better than none.

It’s normal to feel a bit discouraged and bogged down in week 3, but what you’re building is worth hanging on to. It’s worth the investment of time and thought in this, the darkest, dreaded, dead-ended doldrums.

Hang in there kid. Go get freaky with your WIP and spice things up to see you through to the end.

Next week, look for the final, and highly inspirational installment of my NANOWRIMO survival guide.