Author of the novel WHEN YOU LOSE CONTROL

I reached out my right index finger and gently hooked one of the strands of hair that's always out of place. It's greying, which sounds like it should be sad, but it's anything but. It's a lovely color, it reminds me of smudged ink, the kind that's on the corners of book pages, pages that have been turned a hundred times. It's familiar in a way.  The soft lock of hair has a slight curl at the end and that's where I start twisting it around my finger. Curling it up, letting it fall. Repeat. I love this piece of hair. It's real, untamed.  Black eyes. Who knew black eyes could be so jarring? They're like velvet or outer space or a cozy room at night. Somehow they're brighter and sparkle more than blue or green or brown. They're soft, welcoming.  But it all became a memory. How did it come to this? Why? Was it the wildflowers or the daydreaming? Is this a punishment, karma? I never meant for any trouble, any pain. I was only lost my whole life, s

In current sight, there are three cats; no, four, he's in the shadows. A case of makeup, a lovely quilt. A window to chilly spring. Ah, but there is also burbling, constant anxiety, swimming in my stomach.  Heard, not seen. But can't you see it on my pallid face?  Longsighted, there is traffic and unpleasant solitude. A wrestling match with dread while trying to keep pace.  Fear and apathy and walking into my disappointments. A little fish tank reflects my face that's screaming the what-ifs.  I became the teen from the books I read, pathetic at this age. I feel bad. It's not hard. It's the best I've had, but God damn it, I don't want it!  In hindsight, did I have this coming? For we can never really shed our white trash beginning, no matter how hard it's repressed.  I have tried! What do I have but pickle jars and thrifted clothes?  Insight. Let's not go there; in.  Introverted. In my head. In fear. In case. Inside. In denial.  In a loop of panic and

Adventurous Ed Sweet Steede, gentleman pirate  Made for each other Fine silks, lobster fork Switching to a black leather Hanging by a thread  Red robe of sadness White outfit of such sorrow Come back together 

Wickedness will not destroy Ukraine. It cannot.  You can't mar a soul.

I was today years old when I learned from a researcher that Louisa May Alcott was a trans person.  How fascinating! How wonderful! But also, why am I just learning this now!? And for that matter, how did I never pick up on that?  I've been watching or reading LMA-related things since the second grade. I was never femme and worshipped LMA and Jo March. How. Did. I. Miss. This.  Why is so much queer culture erased? How sad. How despicable.  It's like how I only learned a few years ago that Emily Dickinson was a lesbian. I was not too fond of her poetry and didn't understand the whole romanticization of the hermit legend. And then it all made sense. I got it. I understood it.  How many other authors and, for that matter, poets, artists, historical figures, true stories are hidden? 

Due to surprising, exciting, and hopeful circumstances, I've been editing and formatting my first novel again. Recently, I put it away. The hard copy got stashed in the attic; on a shelf that lurches out over the stairs, so either way, the damn thing is always over my head. I archived all the digital copies, and I stopped querying, trying to focus on new projects.  I had to take a break from my novel because I poured every single bit of myself into those 300+ pages. My entire heart, my soul, my beliefs, my dreams...there was nothing left, in a good way. I was proud for so many reasons, one of which was because I am a self-loathing, terrified of attention and heartache, recluse, who 'didnt write anymore.'  When I set out to query, each 'no' felt like a meat cleaver to the heart in my open and profusely bleeding chest cavity. After 9 months of queries and non existent mental health, I walked away.  As I've taken it back out, I just want to cry. I love this book. M

I think what I'm most jealous of, in regards to the  next generation, is that they weren't raised or abused by  boomers. Imagine starting out life without that trauma. Or bullying, or hitting. The complete disregard.  Starting off with society finally looking at mental health and spectrums and all the other  gorgeous fragments for functioning.  Of course, it's not perfect.  Some will face adversity, abuse, waking nightmares. Plus, the ravaged dying planet boomers have destroyed.  Oh.  Residual trauma. After effects.  They may be one or two removed from the thrummers, but living-  'living' in their mess. Wildfires, hell summers, floods, hurricanes. The daily  'once in a generation' global catastrophic events. But at least they've got...um...? Perhaps they'll at least be equipped to handle it? The future?  Will there be one, when all that stands between us, them, is one degree?  You've left nothing but evil, thoughtless, reverberations.

From a book owls corner / google search: [My] "condition [is] called hyperphantasia, where  people vividly imagine whatever you say to them . Like, if you say “beach” for instance, a person with hyperphantasia will “see” a beach in minute detail in their mind, along with other sensory input. From Reddit user molopp: " For a long time reading has been one of the best activities I’ve ever come across...I’m starting to think this is because I have hyperphantasia. When I read, it’s as if I almost cease to see the words and just begin seeing and sensing the world I’m reading about, completely taking me out of reality." I JUST learned that not everyone reads this way and it is blowing my mind. It explains why I've loved reading so much. It explains why I read so fast. It explains why I can read so quickly in my mind but am terrible at reading aloud.  35 and I am JUST now understanding myself!

"How about blue?" I suggested from the backseat. I was about eight, and my nose was buried in a Babysitters Club book. Wrong answer. My mother started manically screaming, "BLUE!? REALLY? YOU THINK THAT'S OKAY? THE HOUSE IS BLUE! YOU WOULD HAVE US BUY A BLUE CAR!? YOU ACTUALLY THINK IT'S OKAY TO HAVE A BLUE CAR IN THE DRIVEWAY WHEN THE HOUSE IS BLUE!?" What sane person could suggest such a thing! Report me to Martha Stewart or the Paint Police, whoever could charge me first! Imagine what the neighbors would say if- oh, wait, not one person would ever waste time or energy caring about that, let alone notice it.  What if the blue car, and blue house, were set against a backdrop of a blue sky? We would die of embarrassment and have to move away.  As I so often did, I tuned her out and settled back into my book. The Babysitters Club lived in an idyllic world, a calming world. They lived in my precious escape, without insane adults. 

Everyone; the rude, the cruel, even the kind, have called me dramatic.  I was incessantly peppered with "you're so dramatic, you should take drama lessons" from my first bully, my mother.  I wish I had been signed up for drama class; that would've made the gaslighting hurt less.  It was easier to preface speaking with "I know I'm dramatic, but..." How dare they make me believe it, invalidating my own experience. Every time I speak, I wonder how long it will be until someone calls me dramatic. I'm not dramatic, I'm neurodivergent, and you're an asshole. 

When the T service was suspended between a few stops, we had to get on a bus. In some ways, it was a treat.  Seeing any part of Boston fills my heart. It's a beautiful and small and endearing metropolitan area that's always changing. It fills me with joy and excitement, and hope.  A light mist of spring rain fell as the bus groaned through the streets. People crammed inside and clamored to get off.  At the stop before ours, when the bus was pretty packed, two people tried to squeeze on. We all backed up or tried to. The first made it on. The second sort of tried to. Then he walked off.   "There's room," I tried to call out, but he didn't hear me.  He was black. Did he think I moved out of hatred? Nerves? Fear? Racism?  It was none of those things, I only moved to make room, and I had smiled.  I was wearing a covid mask.  I would've moved to make room for anyone.  I'll think about this exchange and wonder; Was it claustrophobia?  The vile social climate

It's the mask I wear, pretending to be okay. Guess what, I am not. Anxiety - me. Depression is my baseline. RSD, me too. Neurodivergent. Found out now, but it's always. Connecting sad dots. Dyscalculia and Dyspraxia. SPD, Hyperlexia.  CPTSD and it's "severe" ADHD But wait, there are more! 

From Twitter: You see a picture of yourself in a foreign newspaper. You get someone to translate the headline for you:  "Search for Kidnapped Child Still Ongoing" *** I quickly thanked the nice stranger for their translation and darted off before they realized the picture was of me.  My pace quickened, and I pulled my grey scarf higher, so it was covering my nose and stuffed my hands deep in my coat pockets.  They couldn't have noticed I was in the picture. There's no way. That was two years ago, when I was barely fourteen. Fourteen, why hadn't the headline said 'missing teen?' I did look young in the picture, and maybe people would be more sympathetic towards a child than a teen and, therefore, more willing to help. A child was innocent; a teen could be a runaway. I was a runaway.  I am a runaway. I was never kidnapped. The false trail helps keep me hidden. Big, bold headlines in black and white let me stay in the shadows. My only fears now are getting ca

My favorite drag queen The hilarious skinny legend Burning sage Little Broadway number Stark white guitar Ted Talk Costume changes And Klarma, so much Klarma Hysterical An icon Live and in person Happy, happy, tears

From a musical production review a few years ago: Everyone knows and loves The Sound of Music (TSom) story and heartwarming and catchy musical numbers. What first-time production goers may not know is that the stage version of TSoM is a little different from the beloved movie.   These are a Few of my Favorite Things is sung towards the plays beginning as a duet between Maria and Mother Abbess.   The Lonely Goatherd is sung to the children during the thunderstorm.  These are two examples, but the most obvious difference is there's no Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer. While that might be hard to accept, it’s possible to find a production- a  high school production-  that holds its own and creates quite a remarkable show.   Such was the case at the blank High Schools production of TSoM.  It was hard to decide on what was most astounding when the play opened its curtains.  Was it the professional-grade backdrops? The impeccable costumes? The fast and capable crew? The Boston Pop