OMG OMG OMG

Crow Toes likes my story like a super lot and they want to have it in a future issue, but the next few are full, so I'll have possibly one forthcoming.

OMG i'm gonna be in print! OMG OMG OMG.

squeeeeeeaaaaaal.

What my new Beagle obsession has lead to:

Character drawings of Death and Lady Neville from Peter S. Beagle's short story "Come, Lady Death." However, the style of dress is definately more Edwardain... I blame Edward Gorey.

Things which I enjoy immensly:

1. The sound an orchestra makes when all its parts are tuning independently. It's always different and always the same each time you hear it. Somehow it's never obtrusive, which it ought to be when you think about it.

2. The smell of extinguished candles. Much more so than the smell of them burning.

3. This quote by Peter Beagle: " I very much doubt that I'll ever write a proper spy novel, but in a way most of my people are spies, or feel that they are: not government secret agents, but spies without homes, without memories, spies abandoned here with no instructions except to survive, to wing it and to look human. Some of us even manage to become human in the process."

4. Making things.

Once upon a time, back when I was stupid, I was at a rave with a friend and a bunch of people she knew. I used to go to those. Have a different name for a night, flirt and then go home alone because I could never follow through. I wore these bright green sparkely wings on more than one occasion, but the last time I wore them it was at this great big halloween bash. I danced with my friends even though I didn't like techno that much (still don't), then went outside to smoke when the air got too stifled with hot sweaty bodies and boys who were showing off. Yeah, smoking was the break for fresh air. It was a backwards time and I already said I was stupid.

So I got outside and of course every square inch of the smoking zone was taken up by just as many people as I left behind, but I could still feel the air overhead and I happened to be taller than the folks in my party. It was a break. And I smoked a ciggarette, and then half of a friend's, and we went back inside to dance some more.

At the end of the night I took off my wings to get in the car and saw a neat little burn hole the size of a ciggarette in my wings, burned clear though the gauze. Somebody out there in all that fuss decided to burn a hole in my wings. I repaired them the next day so you can barely see, but if you know where to look it's plain as day. And I never wore them again. Frikken jerks aren't going to burn up the rest of my wings just because they've got a mean bee up their bonnet.

I only just thought of it now because I've got my shoes on with the little round charr mark on the toe.

I miss card catalogs.

It just took me twenty fucking minutes to sign into my email account at comcast. Why? Because I couldn't find the button. There were so many bloody pictures and exclimation points and Hooey about god knows what, probably some celebrity's ass which got too big or something. But was there a button for email? Nope! Not where I could find it!

God I miss text. Just plain "whatcha lookin for? does that word ring a bell? why yes it does thank you" and it's all over and done with. But now everything got to be so bloody eye catching that all of it just washes over you as white noise.

I should have figured better trying to navigate through comcast's slushpile of nonsense, but I was just trying to log in and confirm my facebook account. Facebook! I swear for logging into that I'm going to have to take a week pennence and sit in a dirt hole with nothing more technologically advanced than a piece of string.


One of these days I'm going to finally throw in the towell and find a bomb shelter sealed away from new advances until I can finally wrap my head around how some dude just up and decided one day to record sound by dragging a bit of metal across wax. And yes, I'll be updating my blog from there.

Journal Trouble

I bought a literary journal in the hope to expand my horizons! I was dissapointed!

Why is it that everything I think might be a good fit for me because, hey it's a little weird, and I'm a little weird, and maybe this could be a beautiful friendship, I end up disgusted by how full of bologna they are?

"Oh we're so deep because we write about how crappy people are and how full of shit the world is and also we use words like shit and fuck because we're edgy."

God! I know how crappy people are and how full of shit the world can be. I live here, dammit, I know! But whatever happened to fiction trying to rise above the crap fest and celebrating the triumphs of life? Even writing horror (and sometimes especially writing horror) there has to be a bit of lightness for the reader to grasp onto, otherwise it just reads as pompous drivle.

I don't want to have to write only for children's mags just because I haven't lost all hope for humanity. Ah well. Maybe I've just been picking the wrong journals. God I hope so.



I have a feeling Canada is holding all my letters because I don't write in all caps... damn you Canada.

Story Club: Birthday Edition

I am turning the glorious number twenty four! Many things can be celebrated with this number: I match the hours in the day, Jack Bauer probably thinks I'm sexy now, and I'm one year closer to crossing schizophrenia permanently off the possibilities list!

So I'm hosting a story club because I think they're fun.
Where? My house.
When? Wednesday Augest 19th, probably around seven or so?
A theme? Whateves. My favorite part of story club is surprises.

There will be cake fer sure, and probably other foodstuffs.