The longer I write fiction, the more I realize that my version of "write what you know," looks like me working through my trauma by writing it. The first time I knowingly wrote my trauma into a story was when I wrote about a character being molested. It was supposed to be her story, part... Continue Reading →
I feel the dreams lurking in the corners of my room after I wake. They drain my day. This strange amalgam of fiction and reality...
I got a lot of interesting feedback from my last post. Mainly bewilderment. I blame myself. I use this blog as a way to flex my writing muscles, but if you ever read one of my novels or my recent poetry, you'd notice a difference in tone. For instance, my current work in progress contains... Continue Reading →
I'm having so much difficulty, as of late, finding a way to vent my pain. It's currently backed up in my head in the form of an endless scream. I drown it out with books and cooking shows and crushing candy. Plastic screens and magic black squiggles that envelope the here and take me... Continue Reading →