“Writer, predator; what’s the difference?”
Words hurled at me in response to words hurled at another. I did not mean to hurl them; I meant to lob them gently in honour of a woman who inspired me to reflect on the consequences of our inclinations, and it backfired.
Guess you can’t dip your fingers in someone else’s honey without them asking you to wash your hands both before and after. Fair enough, I suppose. Continue reading “About Last Week…”
It’s true: my heart has gone offline again. This makes me neither cruel nor interesting, just eager for a way back in.
Should you see a woman stumbling along jiggling heart-doors at random, well, it’s probably me.
You know what I hate most about shrinks/therapists/councillors? They’re always asking how I feel about that—and that, and that, and why not that too?
Fuck you all anyway. (My seven year old ass got sent home from school for hurling that particular gem at a school councillor once—ten Hail Mary’s later and all was right in the world. There’s something to say for being Catholic–provided you’re not a little bo…oh never mind.)
My heart is a writer you know. Continue reading “When the Heart Goes Awol”
I’m posting one day and one and a half hours after my appointed time. My inner child is keening in a puddle of tears while the rest of me is standing by, arms crossed, more or less sneering ‘suck it up, sweetheart’.
First time ever—but no guarantees it’s the last. Continue reading “Words in Context”
I’ve been asked why I encourage other people to write regardless of training or background.
I do it for selfish reasons—one of those reasons is curiosity. Another is personal need—I need other people’s words in my life.
Reading and writing are doorways into worlds at once more honest and more poetic than moments hardened to habit by unlit fires. Words are abundant yet retain their value; cyphers and letters left lying about transmogrify into rabbit holes worth falling into, not the least because sometimes it’s the hardest falls that save your life. Continue reading “Words Matter. Maybe Even Yours.”
Days are no longer days at all but flurries of sound and motion whizzing past close enough to touch but not close enough to seize or bend to my will.
I am busy. So busy I’ve become an automaton fueled by movement and sound whilst simultaneously exhausted by movement and sound, bouncing between A, B, and C with a rapidity that would startle Usain Bolt. Continue reading “Pins and Anchors”