Author of the novel WHEN YOU LOSE CONTROL

Like Robert the Bruce found inspiration in the spider that kept rebuilding its web, I found inspiration in the teeny spider that kept crawling onto my notes yesterday. I am scared and mortified and nervous but also determined AF. Stay tuned...

I am clenched in the vicious, drooling jaws of anxiety. I am shaking and scared and apparently just labeled as dramatic. One, I'm on the autism spectrum, so fuck you, and two, it's an autistic meltdown. I am overrun with exhausting emotions right now. Hurt, fear, sadness, helplessness...I'm on day three of this but by all means, stay away. Like, could I have some actual compassion?  Yeah, I'm fine in that I'll get up tomorrow and go to work, but meanwhile, I feel like I can't breathe, I feel abandoned, my brain feels like a cake mixer on high, my back aches, and I'm nauseated beyond belief. I guess this is the cross I bear. Alone.

Liquid cream on my tongue slowly oozing to my anxious, anxious, washing machine spin cycle, stomach. Chalky cream. You tatste awful and you're a bandaid on a massive, sanguinary wound. Sticky with what ifs and possible embarrassment and thousands of constant scenarios. Do they make a calming doggy thunder vest for adult humans? I am aching. And nervous. And wondering. Sacred to holy hell. Please?

Queen. She was a queen- and a maverick.  A badass and strong woman. Someone to idolize. I longed to be  as cool as her, as funny. I marveled at her  beautiful hair and the way it moved. She never, not once, took anyone's shit. Smart and tough, great dresser to boot. What a hero to all of us born female.  All of us born as what society sees as lesser.  She was never lesser, regardless of society and systemic bullshit. Unwavering in strength and resiliency, intelligence and grace. You could argue but none could argue that you are a Queen.

I used to like you. Not just the character you played. I wanted to be you or her. You both were my idol I would've  settled for being  your sister or friend. Maybe I could've been your other best friend living next door  on the other side of your grey mansion with the bright red door. I would've been the politest guest  and perfect confidant.  You, who had eveything everywhere you looked. I would've given  anything for your father who never yelled, who understood.  Or your uncles, who were honored to let  their entire lives revolve around you. You had the best clothes and the best hair. Perfect grades and a room I've been jealous of for decades.  Plus handsome boyfriends I could  only dream of. I wrote my college essay about you. The letter that got me  accepted to my university was about you, your influence, and how nuch  you meant to me. But now I hate you  and love her. And not for the reasons you would think. You damn...

Sweet prince with the wolf cut hair of Hawkins and Forrest Hills. Leader of lost and forlorn labeled so unfairly,  Eddie the freak. The kind one, kissing the guitar. The unfortunate one, witness to horror. Hiding under the tarp. Sail out and sail away. You had no powers, not supernatural ones, just your goodness. Lovers Lake and radios, stopped watches and a trip to the  creepiest old house. Grabbed and pulled through the gate, followed by new friends. S.O.S. Through the old chandelier. The War Zone, ready for battle. Tin shield and makeshift spear. Play your song, concert for the ages. Deflect with the bicycle, refuse to follow and face the hoard. Heroic. Eddie the epic. Biten and consumed  and rendered rabid by those vile, evil, Demobats. Please return. Hero, vampiric,  ghost, or  reserected. Eddie the hero.

Optimism abound today! As I tried to start writing again and tried to make a writing career for myself, there were times when I felt like it was stupid to keep going. I often struggled with the optimism and perseverance to never give up and the reality of no one wanting my work. Then I found I was struggling with should I still write for myself, or was that dumb? I ended up taking a couple months off, if for nothing else, my mental health, and then surprises came. Interest in my work. Hope and validation. I'll skip ahead, but there's potential interest in a 5k word piece, and a short story has been accepted into an online journal. Thankfully, I've learned that never giving up is always the right choice. You make your own luck, and you should never give up on yourself. 

The writing prompt asked; if you could have three fictional characters over for dinner, who would you choose? Ted Lasso, Jo March, and Blackbeard (The OFMD version.) We'd eat KC barbecue in Concord and after dinner, we'd go sailing. It would be a dream come true and I'd never want to wake up.

"Sara! My name is Sara!" I was trying to help a desperate young woman on the shore of a marina somewhere in Texas. I was having an incredibly realistic dream. It was so real that when I woke up, I did a google search for people named Sara in Texas. I didn't find anything but couldn't shake the feeling of how real this dream had felt. I'd been walking on a long and winding sidewalk near a marina peppered with large white boats. It was really hot, the sun was beating down, and I longed to jump in the water next to me to cool off. I walked by some construction workers, who made me cross the street to get around their work. When I got back on the sidewalk, I came across two women who seemed panicked.  I approached the one with blonde hair and sunglasses and asked if she was okay. The other woman seemed to fade away as Sara frantically told me her name and started crying. We both looked around the marina, then tried to figure out what to do. The last thing I remember b...

(with a few details changed) "I like your scars, Bradley," called a deep voice from my memory.  I'm transported back, years ago, to the cabinet makers where we worked, before the Revolution.  He had seen my first scars, the only ones I had prior to the war. I look into the mirror and cock my head, so I can see my jagged scars, reddish-purple reminders of an accident in childhood.  I try not to go deeper into my memory, but I blink and find myself outside the cabinet makers where we had sat close together on the long bench, knee to knee, exchanging glances.   After eating lunch, he'd tossed aside his gala apple core, brushed off his weathered hands, then ran them over his glistening face. He caught me admiring him, his sandy blonde hair tied into a ponytail with a black string. He effortlessly stood out against the vivid red leaves in his loose white shirt and black breeches. My eyes darted from his hair, to his square jaw, to large and calloused hands. I'll never ...

When Game of Thrones was still on the air, I used to complain to one of my best friends about how frustrated I was that these TV writers dared to change any of the brilliant words George R. R. Martin put down on paper. I couldn't believe they could come along and change anything he' written! Didn't they know how much time and precision and life he had poured into the books? And I kept saying how impressive it was that George created this whole universe, these five books!    As the show went on and the story seemed to get away from the writers, from all of us, really, it was frustrating! One of the things I complained about a lot to my best friend is that they couldn't change the storyline or these characters or this detail because George had meticulously woven everything together in such an incredible way, so how dare the show! I would get the response from my best friend-in a teasing way- oh, your precious George, and oh, if he were a better writer, he would have finis...

I notice that he slouches sometimes. He only does it when he's nervous, and I don't believe he is aware of this tell. Normally, he stands tall and proud, though never in a domineering way. Rather, he has the posture of a man who is proud of what they've accomplished. Though his resume is impressive, he remains endlessly kind and effortlessly humble.  He is the only man I have ever gushed over, and it surprises me that I can gush. I was the eternal man-hater, the one who insisted I would proudly be single forever. I was independent to a fault and loudly not looking. When fate brought him to me, I knew in an instant that despite all my efforts, I was in love. I had called my best friend in a desperation that was equal parts 'What the fuck?' and 'Why is this happening?' When she was done laughing, I asked her what I was supposed to do now. "Follow your heart!" "But I didn't think I had one!" That earned more laughs.  Eventually, I discov...

Canary grandma poncho  Vintage and so soft A rather stark and  Intense Contrast to the other Pinkish weaves of yarn The one that made me beautiful  The one that was torn away By cruel and crueler words The one I thought had Turned to trash How strangely it has grown But still I live My Marcia life But still I thrive  Despite it

Traveling from Boston to Ohio today with my godmother, we were up at 2:30 am, got to Logan, had a stopover in Laguardia, and finally made it to Ohio. We had many hours to laugh and plan and enjoy each other's company. The day only improved when we met up with my other Aunt for bbq, thrifting, chats, and Mediterranean food. Topping the day off with some Project Runway reruns was the icing on an already perfect cake. 

I long for a time  When I didn't fear the news Back when my anxieties Had a much different fuse But I guess  I didn't know better Didn't see history's repeating  Helped by each abetter Over and over We've been here before And it could get worse Damned to be diverse, woman, or poor The hate continues Oppression thrives  Crushed by capitalism The price just our lives Must be nice  To be a cis/het white male Gross and in charge and free Overseeing and laughing when we fail Scams and greed and  Phallic rockets Yachts and islands Cash for billionaire pockets  All that is left is hope What else can we do Until they take that away And monetize it too