Category Archives: Blog

I need your typed opinion.

I have a hundred or so followers, which means probably three of you (plus the Crusaders and my mom) read my blog diligently with every new post. This post is for you.

You might’ve noticed I haven’t posted anything substantial recently. I was going to say “probably” but that sounded too cocky. The reason is that I’ve really been enjoying my role as part of the Conceited Crusade, so much so that I’ve started to reconsider the direction I was headed with this blog. My intention was to create a loyal following with interest in romance novels, and since I’m a slack-jawed romantic at heart, I felt confident that this was the right choice.

But now, every time I sit down to write out a sappy sentence on love, there is a nagging in my scalp that pleads for me to add “fuck” three or four times before a few words. It’s not that I’ve only just discovered the power behind cursing – it’s that I’ve discovered the power behind writing whatever I want.

So, I guess I’m reaching out to you. I need advice. What would you like to read? Do you think I’m particularly talented in one form of penmanship as opposed to the other? Have you ever struggled through this sort of conflict?

Golden Eagles, Werebears, and Grufflemuffins – Oh My!

Picture this – it’s deep winter and snow is packed on the forest floors like dandruff on a homeless man’s shoulders. The moon is full but not visible: the empty branches stretch overhead and block out any potential light. All you have is a torch in your right hand. The heat is intense but you prefer it to the alternative, and so your face sweats while your toes freeze. You have one goal and one goal only: write an interesting blog post.

You tremble and struggle through the forest until finally you see it. Your inspiration, tucked away beneath the talons of a large, golden eagle that sits atop the tip of a mountain festered with werebears and grufflemuffins. You twist your fingers around the hilt of your pen and draw it with the intention of spilling ink. You leap forward, penning through drafts like your wrists are made of seismographs. But as you get through crumpling you latest draft, you look up and notice you are nowhere nearer your inspiration.

Your frustration is crippling. You roar into the sky with mad determination. In an effort to reach your inspiration, you circle around the mountain in a previously trailed path, full of drafts already bleeding with red ink. But these drafts, as polished as they are, only hold you back more. You are reminded of how many drafts you’ve had to scrap already – how many wrong turns you’ve taken in the past. Maybe your inspiration is gone now and forever in the claws of a golden eagle and its posse of werebears and grufflemuffins.

Tsing. That’s the sound of your pen sheathing into the ground. You kneel beside it, sweat dripping from your forehead. What now?

Low and behold, next to you a young man in a black polo and a green cape waving in the wind. His face hasn’t met the challenge of shaving yet – I don’t even know if his balls have dropped. It doesn’t matter. For all his youth, he is already an expert at his craft. He wraps his cape around him, into an apron, and with swift determination creates 32oz of magic in a cup with a single green straw. He hands it to you, and you see your name mangled in sharpie. You smile – the effort counts.

You retrieve your pen. Tsing. The battle has only just begun.

Cue ominous Latin church chant.  

Drained

These blank pages used to mean everything to me. A new beginning. A new adventure. Another escape.

Now all this empty space intimidates me. It scares me. Words that used to trickle from my mind and effortlessly find their place in intricate sentences now sit trapped in my noggin somewhere, stumbling and struggling to appear comprehendible.

I’m no longer the storyteller I used to be. I can’t even fathom becoming the writer I once wanted to be. I never thought I’d lose this part of me, and yet I feel as if I have.

I am drained of inspiration.

Finding the balance between being a millennial and wanting more, more, and more.

We used to spend hours leaned in over sweet coffees or cuddled under endless stars. Spindled into deep conversations or tugging at clothes until we were butt naked. We used to ignore sleep until it tore us from reality, snoring like children in the backseat of her Honda Accord.

Now, I barely see her. I spend hours thinking about her, wondering what she’s experiencing there on her side of town. I spend hours missing her, longing for her, dreaming about her and our future. I await her arrival like a hungry pup, wagging my damn tail every time I think I hear footsteps on the stairs. I’m desperate for her company, and that’s pathetic I guess. I don’t care. If you spend all your life worried about what people think you just end up looking like a dumbass. Nobody ever agrees on what’s acceptable, so stop trying. That’s what I tell myself, but I still try.

It’s miserable to think that the things we do to be with our loved ones tear us away from our loved ones. That’s just like life to do some fucked up shit like that. Feel love. Feel like there’s fucking rainbows pulsating through your veins and your stomach is swirling with cotton candy, and just when it can’t get better, tear it all away because of balance. Life craves balance, but as a millennial I just don’t understand the concept of moderation. Millennials. Instead of defiling my poor earlobes and binge watching predictable television I’m obsessed with this girl. My addiction is better than yours.

Every night, close to midnight, the little cloud pissing on my head wedges aside to cast forth its silver lining. Because like a fairytale, at midnight – every night – my leading lady returns to her rightful throne in my arms. See, even though I might not have her all day, I get her during the most meaningful hours. I get to see her as one day transitions to the next, at the eve and dawn of an adventure, and I get to soak in every detail of her life like a sponge in brainbarf. I get everything that she is, condensed in 2-3 powerful hours – passion, love, dreams, anger, happiness and worry. After 21 hours dry, struggling through withdrawals, I finally get another hit.

And so the addiction continues.

Book Cover Feedback

I’m getting closer and closer to wrapping up edits on my book, so I’ve been playing around with book cover samples. I’d like some feedback so I can get a better idea of what I should be looking for.

  • Is the grainy effect on the picture distracting?
  • Font, size?
  • What kind of novel is this?
  • Is the title appealing?
  • Is it annoying/conceded  that the image is of the author (used this because it’s free and no copyright issues)
  • ANY additional feedback would be much appreciated

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Read more about the book here.

The Perfectionist

The biggest bane to the existence of perfection is time. Because of time, there can be no such thing as perfect. To be perfect everything must be exactly as it is, without change, and yet through the passing of time those brief seconds – those split moments are moved along like unnoticeable bubbles in the current of life.

Still, we are somewhat aware of perfect moments. We notice that particular times during sunset the light catches the clouds in such a way that it looks as if God is spinning wheels of cotton candy and the landscape wears shadows like long capes and gowns dragging over the floor.

I experienced a moment like that. But I didn’t experience it in the sunset, no, I experienced it in a pair of eyes. I felt the rush become me – a sensation to end all; to finish me. I had seen them many times before, and I would see them many times after, but I would never catch a moment like this.

And yet, ‘catch’ is so far from being the right word. I didn’t catch that moment. I didn’t do so much as stumble under it as it trampled me. I barely remember it, to be honest, I just remember the feeling. That feeling of perfection – perfection… perfection has touched me! I have seen what no one wants to see, and that is perfection. And it’s rough. To be witness to perfection, and then to be dragged along by time and forced to experience so many imperfect moments. It feels like hearing Beethoven and then being tortured with loops of Yellow Submarine.

That perfect moment will forever drive me in life. I will never settle again. I have tasted just a hint of it but I’m a devoted addict to perfection. The problem is knowing that my attempts at perfection are all so moot because, just like little bubbles in a strong current, catching perfection is impossible.

When In Doubt, Edit.

A few days ago I plunged face first into my book and tore it apart – again.

Reading it and feeling like some parts aren’t up to par is scary. Deciding to go in and doing some control+deleting is scarier, still. Word counts decrease. Page numbers decrease. Confidence decreases.

But then, as I type away, that empty blank void is steadily refilled with cleaner, more appropriate lines and relief swallows my body. Word counts increase. Page numbers increase. Confidence… well confidence is still low as fuck, but HOPE sets its juicy little tushie in my conscious and I begin to feel good again.

When in doubt, edit.