I Write For Me

I Write For Me

“I write to capture silvered words,” some say.
“I write to a higher purpose,
I write to pray.”

But I,
I write to pin down butterfly wings
I write to put a mark on the moment my soul screamed
I write to satisfy my furrowed eyebrows
And the speeches I give in the dark
I write to give room to the stirring bird in my hollow heart
I write for candy
for the convulsion that comes from wanting
I write for fire
For the steam that rises in my throat and chokes me
I write for listening
And if I’m not careful,
I write
for the ghost between my mountains
that becomes me
when one moment’s dead and emotion is a memory
I’ll write the scenery
I’ll forget the life that made me write
and write the seasons of my mourning


“Realize that your inner sight is blind…”

In all the struggles I have had with writing, my biggest complaint is that I am not allowed to see where I am going, so to speak. The seven words that make up the title of this blog provided a sort of catharsis and a poem was born. It is a sister and a part two to Writing the Plot: When What You Want Doesn’t Matter, so I would recommend reading it if you feel a little lost (don’t feel bad, I always do).

“Realize that your inner sight is blind”
and paint it black
like ravens
like your memory
Inspiration is sitting on a mushroom eating apples
and looking at you with white fogged eyes
smiling darkly.
“I will never give you stories if you use your eyes to see
and with me, no eye is welcomed.
All the dark you can find is mine
and I will give you what you need.
Let’s begin with what can you hear
now that you know you cannot see.”


The moral of this story? Maybe one day I will learn not to argue.



Which Would You Like to Read: A Sneak Preview

Dear Readers,

I am asking for your input. Below are excerpts from three of my stories. I want to know, based on these excerpts, which of these stories you would prefer to read first.

Please comment by saying A, B, or C or the first, the second the third or 1, 2, 3 or whatever would indicate clearly to me a specific passage.

This is Story A (or 1, or the first)

Story 1

Alright, let that soak in. Take a drink of water, cleanse your palate…


This is Story B (or 2, or the second)

Story 2

Take a deep breath. Clear your mind. Think about misty mountains, puppies, cold winter wind…


This is Story C (or 3, or the third)

Story 3

Now, take it all in and choose.


I look forward your responses 😉

Yours Truly,


A Neat Little Packages That Implies the World

In life, you can be three things: The magician, the audience, or the trick.

The magician knows it all, does, it all, says it all. It is magic, but not mystery.

The audience sees it all, hears it all, but knows nothing. The pleasure lay in ignorance.

The trick listens, the trick responds, the trick works. It is in limbo, with aspects of both the audience and the magician. It knows a little, but can’t do much. It sees a little, but can’t see all. There is magic in it as an instrument and awe from it at what it can do.

The process of writing has these elements: the magician, the audience, the trick.

There is someone who knows all, does all, and says all. There are people who see all, hear all and know nothing. And there is always, most vitally, someone who knows a little, but can’t do much, sees a little, but can’t see all, and is an instrument and a tool in awe of its own uses. That someone would be the trick-better known as the author.

From Alice’s Ocean

From Alice’s Ocean

I didn’t want to write and so I wrote this I will always marvel at the beauty of the struggler Of the person, up til 4 in the morning trying to write and writing badly til, with a ping, their mind snaps and makes a poem out of their struggle to create

I will always be amazed at the muse who makes their writer go all around the mulberry bush looking for rabbits and rare worlds
only to have them craft a poem about the sea of tears they’re now standing in

I will always be thankful for the times my mind snaps and for the muse who bothers to bother with an obstinate struggler
I am thankful for salt stained gifts
I am thankful for hard-won sentences

Catherine Morland’s Got Nothing On Me

Dear Readers,

I am posting this to you from a lakeside manor in an unknown land on a violently stormy evening under the close watch of invisible creatures with ill intent and the heavy  gaze of an ex-monk vampire priest ghost devil monster who has one eye that coruscates with the fires of the Infernal Beneath and another eye as fogged as the very lake this ancient mansion retires by in this unknown land inhabited by ghouls and creatures of all description (or lack of description), etc., etc., etc.

I am, however, glad the incorrigible villain allows me use the wifi, otherwise my stay here might be intolerable…

How to tell you’re reading a gothic novel – in pictures | Books | theguardian.com