Writing

  • Writing

    So you wrote a book…

    You did it! You did the hardest thing in the entire world! Just kidding, but yeah, writing a book is HARD WORK. I just finished writing my seventh novel (not to be confused with all of the half-baked and 10-30K word documents in my “writing” folder on my laptop), and that is pretty bonkers to me. Maybe to some people, that’s not that many, but there are a multitude of reasons I can’t churn them out. For example, my first couple of ideas, frankly, weren’t that great! And I didn’t know very much about craft or about life, so they took eons to complete. And they’re not very good at…

  • Writing

    Last Train to Nowhere

    She didn’t know how she got to the train station. There was a vague memory of walking in the foggy morning, between the dirt road and the train tracks, ticket in her hands. A train pulled in as the sun rose, but it wasn’t the right one. Not that she had any reason in thinking so, it just didn’t feel right to rush on it along with the men in suits holding briefcases. They weren’t going to wherever she needed to go. Another train came and went, more people getting on, some stepping off. Couples, more men in suits, families, solo travelers. Nobody noticed her standing on the platform in…

    Comments Off on Last Train to Nowhere
  • Writing

    august

    Sometimes I forget the air at the beach stays salty even when the sun goes down. Even in the dark, I feel like getting sand stuck between my toes. It’s pitch black crossing the highway. No headlights or passing cars. No one felt like driving up the coast tonight, I guess. I can hear the crash of the waves from here, calling my name. They’ve missed me after a long time away, after jumping city lines for years trying to run far enough away from the memory of this place. The lights at the club blaze in the distance, but I can’t go there yet. I kick my shoes off…

    Comments Off on august
  • Writing

    outdoor pool

    She’d never been high before, but she was sure this is what it felt like. The street lights glittered brighter, the air was cool and sharp on her skin, and her skin buzzed with the promise of his touch. And, of course, from the cheap beer racing through her bloodstream for the first time. Anything was possible tonight. “Do you want to go swimming?” he asked. “Yes.” Anything with you. She hoped she didn’t sound as breathless as she felt. She knew he had a pool at home, he was one of those people with a backyard oasis designed for a hundred pool parties. Not that she ever made it…

    Comments Off on outdoor pool
  • Writing

    Amsterdam Part Two

    My heart is bigger and brighter in walkable cities. Ones with cobblestone streets and gray skies and brick buildings. Even in the cold and wind and mist, it’s full of life. Or maybe that’s just the espresso talking. I’ve loved this city since I was twenty-one. I’ve dreamed of her when I’ve felt lost, and I’ve missed her sparkle when I’m missing the friends I knew there. She is always in my back pocket when I need her. I am so lucky to have been able to meet her again, to reintroduce her to the woman I’ve become since we last saw each other. Somehow I am exactly the same…

    Comments Off on Amsterdam Part Two
  • Book Reviews,  Writing

    The Most Annoying Writer You Know: A Preliminary, Non-Sponsored Freewrite Alpha Review

    Hi!! Writing you this review from my Alpha itself, while I’m watching Groundhog Day. This is a very important day for my college friends and me. But that’s not what this post is about. This is about this very fun writing tool I got for myself in an attempt to become someone who actually finishes her writing projects. Now, many moons ago, in one of my first posts on this website, I wrote about all the things I love about handwriting drafts as opposed to typing them on the computer. I am very much a pro-handwriter. I love it, and it’s really the main reason I have finished as many…

    Comments Off on The Most Annoying Writer You Know: A Preliminary, Non-Sponsored Freewrite Alpha Review
  • Writing

    real or not real?

    Today I turned down all the lights, shut the buzzing air conditioning unit off, laid on the white duvet I once found comforting and safe. I used to love the empty promises and quiet monotony of hotel rooms: beige walls and confusing light switches, dry soap bars, and thin carpet. On the inside of the blackout curtains, I could have no idea where in the world I was. It was once my favorite feeling. Long days, short nights, and seeing you in the dimly lit hotel bar, waiting for me. I never knew where it’d be, or how often. The mystery made it fun. I’d come back from a panel…

    Comments Off on real or not real?
  • Writing

    Amsterdam

    Summer was my season until I turned twenty-one. The warmth of the sun, the freedom of my daylight hours, and time poorly spent sleeping in. I loved the heat and getting sunburnt, lying still, covered in aloe until I could go around and do it all again. August Baby rules say summer is supreme. I’ve seen snowfall before, flurries and iron chill. Footprints marking my path in the powdery ground. Leaning over the back of a couch, getting lost in the swirling snowflakes as they find somewhere to stick themselves. I’ve seen April showers bring a May super bloom, a sea of orange and yellow in middle-of-nowhere California. Sunshine and…

    Comments Off on Amsterdam
  • Writing

    The Evil Jean Shorts

    TW: eating disorder She couldn’t see them. She’d buried them at the bottom of her drawer for a reason. At first because winter had fallen, and she no longer needed them. But now, they just laughed at her. They were once her best friend, through and through, these jean shorts. When every other article of clothing snickered behind her back or threatened their seams, they stood by her. Hugged her in the worst of times. But then last summer came, and she found out that they’d turned on her too. It couldn’t have been that bad of a winter, could it? What had she done to make her trusty favorite…

    Comments Off on The Evil Jean Shorts
  • Writing

    In This House, We Love a Good Trope

    Tropes. Tears. Tattlestar Galactica–wait, that’s not right. Look, we as writers all want to be edgy. We don’t want to lay into tropes and archetypes and the same old, same old. Things are tired, and they’re not fun because we just feel like copycats. There are so many books and movies and stories and art out there that all feel the same, but there’s still somehow so much that’s new and fresh. Honestly, how do those creators do it? Of course, there’s the whole “subverting” tropes thing. Stories exist without those kinds of things. I suppose it’s not that hard, but also…it is. That being said, you’re lying if you…

    Comments Off on In This House, We Love a Good Trope