Author of the novel WHEN YOU LOSE CONTROL

Waist-length waves of sorel brown catch the wind and fly. Small frame dressed in obsidian to match the disquiet within. Unwilling in a dry apple orchard, passing a woven basket.  At autumn's onset, much will be harvested, the uncertainties. But the others, they fade like stiff grass and the cornflower sky. Traipse across cement, presenting the spoils. Ah, it's spoiled, but decades away, she will  ascend and leave the gravel paths. The significant, dividing shift. 

When I was a kid, I didn't have a chore chart because I didn't do any chores. I either wasn't asked, or if I did do a chore, it led to screams and put-downs. There were no "thank-yous" or "I appreciate the help" or anything even close to kindness. It got to the point where it was easier, mentally, to retreat off to my room and hide with some art supplies or a book. Sure, mom would be screaming and complaining about something, she always did, but it was 'nicer' when the scream was just general and didn't include a "you're so lazy" or "ugh, of course, you did that wrong" or whatever other insult that wicked witch could hurl out.  The only times I got attention from Azazel were to put me down or gaslight me, so why would I add in some manual labor and make home life worse for my kid self?  One time, I have no idea or recollection of why, but I offered to vacuum. I was maybe eight or so, and I said I'd do the breezeway

He smiles with cheeks and dimples and eyes that scrunch together in joy, lighting up not just a handsome face but the swarms of swooning admirers. The happiest optimist in green fields and posh studios, ebony hair crowned with laurels. Atop running red earth, the jocular ace, striking. The resounding roar, tremble. 

Her eyes were the color of the sunrise sky, and she ran. Her hair was as red as the leaves, and she smiled. Her cheeks blushed like hellebore, and she knew. Her dress matched the color of the snow, and she walked. 

It's 21° and brisk and harsh with dirty snow on the sides of the road. The skies are grey with brumal, perhaps spring won't ever show.  Curled up on fleece, the dogs are snoring  as the cats all hide. 

Everything is frustrating - hypocrites oblivious to their obvious. Expanding like spilled soda, sticky, on and on. Under scorching winter sun, She cannot see the forest; it is novel and catchy like a lyric. Figs, ludicrous talk of figs, makes the ridiculous palatable, for her at least. So, she will stay with him and live  on their lard diet. Speechless but It's okay. It's fine. 

I happened to catch a live stream of Cristo Fernández on Instagram today, and he said, and I hope im quoting this correctly, "success is where preparation and opportunity meet."  Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes!  Words to live and thrive, by.

Tomorrow is my birthday. Right now, I'm supposed to be in Ohio with my godmother and my aunt. I'm supposed to be eating a celebration lunch at a Greek restaurant and enjoying the company of some incredible people. Instead, I'm sitting by myself on the couch at home.  Today, I'm grateful to be physically healthy. This time last year, I couldn't walk because I had such bad inflammation in my back. I'm happy to be surrounded by my pets, whom I love more than anything in the world.  We'll see what tomorrow brings.

A hard, wooden bench Heavy, soggy, stifling air The summer crowd And a solemn heart Scared little girl Desperate to be Anywhere else Somewhere without force  Escaping, or trying to To the farthest recesses of her mind Ignoring the words and scorns Cross-eyed at the acid green carpet Going through the motions Emotionlessly, defeated and accepted  Stale and fermented  Unpleasant, stiff people Maybe the worst Is the dirty and blonde boy Who stares and touches, Reaches out with fingers fresh from his nose

When the paper dress arrived in the mail, I stared at its bold pattern. Cellulose fabric, funky blue with huge pink splotches and neon green lines.  It was happy, this paper square in cellophane. Silly, uplifting for a bit. Paper that didn't depress- a departure from the angry black and white words that arrive daily. More people are heading to Vietnam. There'll be 250,000 total. Planes are being shot down. Words like 'besiege' fill the news. So I unfold an a-line dress, gently shake it out, and slither myself inside.  My feet slide into a bright pair of Sun Shimmers, and I can't help but twirl. Whirling in front of a door mirror and imprinting a circle into the shag carpet. I spin to spiral away from words like 'foreign relations' and 'martial law.' Waist-length brown hair swinging around like a chaotic car wash brush. Stop. The colors, the words, the textures, stop, and I breathe.   A paper dress is fleeting and so too is my escape. 

As a lonely kid who really only had the TV for companionship, I desperately wanted to jump into the Tanners home on Full House. I wanted to be DJ, have a friend like Kimmy, and I wanted parents like Jesse and Danny.  Danny Tanner was a dad who had all the answers and made his house warm and clean, and inviting. Sure he was goofy and nerdy, but he was so loving and caring.  For years, I watched new episodes of Full House, then re-runs, and then bought all the DVDs so I could keep escaping. To this day, I still love the show and its characters.  Hearing about Bob Saget's passing last night was just heartbreaking. I'm so sad he's gone, so sad for his wife and kids. It just doesn't feel right or possible.  RIP, Bob Saget; thanks for the laughs and making a sanctuary for a kid to escape in. 

I am exceedingly proud to announce that I have received two full requests from literary agents! My book has been sent to both of them and I am exceptionally hopeful and excited and proud. And very, very thankful! Fingers crossed!

Everyone has it Everyone So now  I sit here Waiting Wondering Planning Unplanning Stewing Fearing Am I next So much  Anger Resentment Towards family And employers I was so good I listened For two years Twenty-four months For what Why Playing  The worst case scenario  Game I look at the couch My beloved pets Nervous Defeated but Slightly hopeful What is This reality 

I stare at the sticker It says it's a mission What is the vision Doubt growing thicker  Too many distractions  It's bumpy and green Intrusive thoughts intervene  I'm rife with inactions  Writing, creating, used to be fun Will they like me, will they pick it Don't know if it's good or unfit What am I doing, have I come undone My souls on display  Out there, can't take it back I'm too invested now, blue and I'm black Feelings and thoughts an erratic bouquet  I want to act, want to scream  Listen to my voice  I had to make this, didn't have a choice You have to care, it's my dream

What did he do This bibliophile This well-intentioned man Such innocence His love for words  The ostracized Mr. Bemis He sought to read To escape his world Haunted by clocks And time Finding sweet solitude  Of life and voyages  But his fate was cruel Conspired against Punished for no reason Sentenced for no crime Haunting, broken glasses Shattered on the stairs No justice, no fairness At all