Goodbye to all the people who said I couldn’t do it.
Peace out to those who never believed in me, and fuck off to those who have hoped I’d fail.
I am up at five o’clock every morning to put words on a page because this is my story and I want to write it and write for a living like I used to.
So be wary, writers, of putting all your eggs in one basket, because if the basket drops, you do, too.
Get up early. Get your butt in the chair.
Wake up your imagination and say hello.… Read the rest
“Write an English sonnet centered on the theme of the supernatural.”
Yeah, okay, I thought as I closed my laptop. No schoolwork for me today.
Instead I’m going to go out and enjoy the fresh air under a blue sky full of clouds and dance in the grass until I have to collapse there, lest I die.
I will lay and feel the breeze and smell the flowers around me, and hear the children laughing and the birds singing.
I can’t help but think it wasn’t writing to themes Shakespeare was worried about, it was missing perfect days like these.… Read the rest
They got him a new car every time he crashed his old one.
The kid was a speed demon, but they loved him no matter how reckless he was, no matter how casual he was with taking other people’s lives in his careless hands.
Trying to stop him was useless. He would have left home, he would have disappeared on them.
They would try to reason with him, they would tell him he might ruin his future (but not that he might die) and his only answer was:
“Speed never killed anyone. It’s becoming suddenly stationary, that’s what gets you.”… Read the rest
The day winds down and you know you’re leaving work only to go home to try to answer the daily question of what the fuck is for dinner?
You’re glad to leave work, but going home has its own stressors.
There’s the child who chews with her mouth open, loudly. There’s the boyfriend whose loyalty you question. There’s the job you love but you’re terrified of losing.
But you open the door and there are flowers on the table; vibrant, bright, ferociously alive.
Their scent is a welcome assault; you breathe and smile.
You never know what’ll be a daymaker.… Read the rest
“It’s never going to work,” I say, her upturned palm in my hand. “No matter how much he loves you, even if he marries you, he’s always going to love her more.”
“Then why is he doing this to me?”
“Because he thinks he won’t find better or ever be happy again. This is his best worst option.”
She cries, and the psychic shifts.
“Just leave him. He doesn’t really want to be with you, and deep down you know it.”
The other woman thanks me, sobbing, and runs out.
I step over the psychic I knocked out, leaving smiling.… Read the rest
They say that I’m beautiful but I will never believe them.
My blond hair is too soft and shiny, my pale white skin so unblemished.
I’m petite, a size double zero, and I can do my makeup better than the stylists doing the Met Gala’s red carpet looks.
I move like water through any room and part it like the Red Sea, no one can touch me.
I’m flawless; I know this.
But no one will come near me, or look in my dagger eyes, or raise their voice to speak to me.
I am just a cold, lonely island.… Read the rest
We walk up the old wood path that is obscured by mist, which makes everything colored in a haze of green reflected from the lush trees.
“We should turn back,” Micah said.
“No, we’re too close, it’s right here.”
And it was. They’d reached the tree they searched for, and knocked three times on its bark.
A hidden door swung in and bright light emanated from within. Cheney proceeded directly inside while Micah tried and failed to stop her.
He was glad he did.
They’d found the ancient, secret library of the mystics, and now everything in it was theirs.… Read the rest
In therapy, we are EMDRing our way toward feeling like enough.
I show up, I trace the green dot back and forth with my eyes while I think of the worst memory of my entire life and cry about it.
And then we do it again. And again. And again.
The same place, the same words spoken, the same gold couch, the same familiar face becoming a stranger in seconds.
It’s like physical therapy for your brain: sometimes it has to hurt a little more before it starts feeling better.
Though I miss him, reminiscing can be sweet yet sickening.… Read the rest
We stood in the street looking at the house for what felt like hours.
It got so late in the afternoon, I didn’t think we were going to make it inside before dark, and we had to be home before dark.
It would be fine; we wouldn’t have time to go inside.
But I was wrong, of course, and my friends got me to follow them through that open door that was hanging on one rusty hinge.
We never thought it could slam behind us.
We never could have imagined what would be on the other side of that door.… Read the rest
