Resurrection Through Fiction

Resurrection Through Fiction

Somewhere in northern Colorado there's a dingy gray duplex sitting on a cul-de-sac near the railroad tracks. Behind it is a dry, yellow field where grasshoppers and mice keep busy.One half of the duplex is occupied by my mother and a version of me at 16 years old. The other half is occupied by another single mother and her 16-year-old son, Shawn.My friend Shawn.We call one another "Neighbor Boy" and "Neighbor Girl."We call the duplex "Our House."There are shenanigans. There's trouble and fun. But life is always fucking with things, flipping them upside down, changing them into something new and almost unrecognizable.People drift apart. They move away, have adventures and things happen to them.By the time we turn 19, Shawn is a quadriplegic due to a car accident and I'm in Florida, acquainting myself with the redneck bar scene.I soon flee back to Colorado, and from time to time, I run into my old friend at a party, a mutual...
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I Finally Understand What Stephen King Was Saying About His Desk

I Finally Understand What Stephen King Was Saying About His Desk

I've always had a complicated relationship with writing desks. It seems absurd to say such a thing, because a writing desk is an inanimate object and therefore indifferent, which should make having a relationship with it anything but complicated.But, for writers, or anyone who spends several hours creating at a desk every day, that relationship is important. You have to be able to live together in harmony. Perhaps it's this way with a musician and their instrument. Maybe even more so for them, as they tend to travel with the inanimate object they're having a relationship with, and I generally do not lug my desk along when I travel. Sure, I'm bogged down with pens, notebooks, and tablet, but that's another story altogether.Where I get my real writing done, my final drafts, submissions, blogging, publishing, all happens here, at my very small, very cheap, and very reliable little desk. But it wasn't always this way.My first desk was a thing...
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Self-Promotion vs. Self-Sabotage: The Weird Balancing Act of Being a Writer With Anxiety

Self-Promotion vs. Self-Sabotage: The Weird Balancing Act of Being a Writer With Anxiety

Here's a scenario I've lived through more than once and will likely experience again one day: I'm having dinner with a small group of people, chiming in only occasionally because I prefer to focus on my food and listen to everyone else. Without warning, someone says my name and proceeds to ask me questions about writing. Have I been writing? What have I been writing? Tell us about it what's it about and when can they read it and oh for fuck's sake Brenda why can't you just leave me alone with this goddamn chicken leg?I know, I know. Brenda is only making conversation and is trying to include me. She doesn't mean any harm. She is a person with a fairly developed set of social skills. But, for me, this scenario, and variations of it, are painful. Not physically, of course, but in a way that makes me want roll up like a pill bug and disappear under the...
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Finding Hope in a Galaxy of Women’s Stories

Finding Hope in a Galaxy of Women’s Stories

If you're reading this, that means we made it through 2017. What seemed like a hopeless quagmire of shit and doom in January is still an insane quagmire of shit and doom, but maybe it's a little less hopeless. A little less shitty and a bit less doomy. At least, in the way that I'm choosing to view it, the world is still broken, but nearly one year into the most powerful country in the world being run by a bile-spewing fleshy cesspool of fetid narcissism, I've seen plenty of clear reminders that he isn't the one with all the power. I'm still angry. I'm still worried and freak out a lot, so when I catch myself sinking and letting my imagination overwhelm me with worst-case scenarios, I look elsewhere. I follow the advice of Mr. Rogers, and I look for the helpers.Lately, though, I don't stop with the helpers. I look for the fighters. The resisters. After watching a...
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Short Stories and Tiny Blissful Moments

Short Stories and Tiny Blissful Moments

How are we doing these days? Holding up? Hanging in there? I hope so. If you're reading this, I hope you're doing so during a brief pause from doing nice things for yourself like reading books, making art, drinking beers, and eating some really incredible food. Tiny blissful moments are a big deal. Everything that's going on in the world constantly draws me in and I feel compelled to read the news and dive into my Twitter feed, but lately, I'm suffering from information fatigue. Mostly, it's Trump fatigue. I don't need to experience a daily bombardment of voices each day telling me that he said an awful thing. Both sides harbor their own set of obsessions that tend to weigh heavy on everyone. Too much of that shit and I start to morph into Rust Cohle from the first season of True Detective.There's a lot of scared people. Angry people. And people who think none of this matters, or...
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Break Through These Times of Trouble

Break Through These Times of Trouble

This is a love story. It is not unique. I've lived others like it, and so have you. Like many love stories, this one ends with tears, confusion, and a lot of reminiscing about its beginning. Where it began was 1991, a time in my memory that is strange, dark, and forever distorted by a thick layer of time and smoke. It was an unhappy time, immersed in anger, abuse, and large amounts of cheap booze. My mother and my boyfriend at the time had a weird and wildly inappropriate thing going on together. When I'd catch them in the act, they responded by telling me I was crazy. I felt crazy. This was compounded by the fact that we three lived in the same house. I wanted him to leave. She did not. Every day, I was furious and frustrated. But, one day, just as 1991 was nearly at an end, on a not so very special day in...
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