Writing Woes II

I feel like my writing is getting stagnant. I used to write seventy thousand words in a week and, though they weren’t perfect, they felt brilliant. The story I was telling was one that I was so invested in that it carried me forward. And the editing can wait. 
I’m critical now. I pick over every word that I put down until nothing seems right—the same way you just look at numbers in a sequence sometimes and could swear that three didn’t always come after two. 

The only way to remedy it is to write more. That would be my guess. When I wasn’t as anxious about the everyday world and when I didn’t have much free time I was always making time to write. I’d carry notebooks and a laptop into IHOP or Starbucks and just stay there on a day off or skip work and write. 

I miss writing on a damp porch when it rains and feeling like if I didn’t have to worry about a cafe closing or some obligation that I could have kept writing for hours. I think I’ve prioritized other things over my writing. Photography became a huge one, but it’s not something I even do every day or even every week. I’ve gotten good at planning and plotting out where stories need to go and how I want things to happen. 

But the only way that any of these novel ideas I have are going to get written is if I write them myself. No one is going to wade through notebooks and random docx files of planning to piece together awesome ideas that were never committed to the page. 

I think the biggest difference now is that I’m never alone the way I used to be. Being alone cultivated a need to spend time doing something when I was tired of sitting in front of the TV. Now I have people to talk to and I’m going places in the middle of the day, sometimes just to be out of the house because I feel like that’s the thing I’m supposed to do. 

Nd what I really need to do is write. 


“Logan” is the best X-Men film yet, but that isn’t saying much.

“Logan” having an ‘R’ rating seems more a reaction to the success of “Deadpool” now than anything and that kind of highlights my issue with the movie. It’s not a bad movie by any stretch and it’s probably the clearest vision that anything super hero related and made by Fox has had besides “Deadpool”.

Them not really doing anything with the ‘R’ rating besides blood and gore and cursing is kind of what I expected. I honestly thought the cursing crossed over into silliness at times. There was no need for some silly sex scene in these movies and I’m glad they never went that route. There’s some nice hints about the future world “Logan” occupies. 2029 isn’t too far fetched, but it’s also just different enough. Things feel more lawless.

In the past I’ve said that it might be a strength that the mutants of Marvel have been kept away from the rest of the universe. There’s such a diverse and large number of characters from the X-Men books that they can support their entire own reality filled with super heroes in a world where genetic mutation gives someone control over the weather or portals in their eyes leading to a dimension filled with beams of concussive force.

For the first time that separation from actual Marvel hurt this movie. The world felt smaller when just mutants had been in it than the one in the Old Man Logan book. A lot of the references to Spider-Man or the parts with an older more grizzled Hawkeye would have been awesome to see, but Fox doesn’t have those properties and really it’s no one’s fault but their own. Fox is the one keeping themselves from a Sony like deal with Marvel and Disney and a chance to basically print money.


And these things might not seem like they affect the movie, but they really do. The movie is technically good and there’s a real emotional center to all of it, but it feels weaker because they had to lean on the X-23 storyline and only on the X-Men storyline in general. When I heard they were doing an Old Man Logan style story I got really excited, but then got really sad that we couldn’t see a lot of the wonderful things.

This is one of those case where a movie really didn’t suck by any stretch and was a good watch, but it feels like it wasn’t as good as everyone has been saying it is. Honestly the X-Men series has been so wishy washy that anything this tightly plotted and competently written looks like the fucking “Magnificent Ambersons”.

Don’t think that I’m telling you to stay home or this isn’t worth it, I’m just saying not to get your hopes up too high. It’s a good movie, but it’s not surprising. X-Men had the potential to be at this level for a long time and we have Fox to thank for it not being that way.

Lost in Translation

I might have lost my first reader because of what I’ve been writing.

If you don’t write there’s this thing that seems to be something that even the most carefree, fearless of writers goes through–somehow, someday you’re going to write something that is going to get you into trouble. Writing has caused an uproar before, for sure. There’s what happened with Dan Brown and the Da Vinci Code or the many people made about the portrayal of sex and just relationships in general in Fifty Shades of Grey.

Notice that both of those books sold very well.

That’s not an invitation to write the worst things that you can, but there’s obviously something to be said about the controversial selling or the shitstorm that brews around a thing actually helping to fuel its ascent.

We could only hope to be that lucky. In my case I passed a story along to a woman who I wouldn’t call a friend quite yet, but there was something budding there. She had asked to see something I was writing and as she actually reads a lot I thought that this could be a common ground for us.

I e-mailed the first chapter to her, because I almost never send out the complete manuscript, expecting to hear back in a couple of days. The idea was that she would read it and make some comment like “that was really cool, I’d read this” or “nah, not really my kind of thing”. In the past I’ve gotten either.

I’ll interject here that one of the things that I read in Stephen King’s On Writing that has always rang true with me was that the writer in us has this desire to find an ideal reader–usually a spouse or friend or family member whose feedback they write for. This person would be the audience you have in mind. Maybe not so much in the sense that they are the type of person that you’re writing for, but more that you write everything to filter through them. The writing process is lonely by necessity, even when you’re writing with a co-author. That first time that you hand someone the printed stacks of paper that are your novel or send out that little file attachment is a big step. Their impression of the thing is your first impression of what anyone else thinks.

And in a way I’m kind of searching for the person to be that. It takes more than just being the first to read a thing; they have to be honest enough and brutal enough to be willing to take a stab at something very personal that has, up until then, been your own little secret creation.

Sure, you learn to get hardened to criticism and to take it as a critic of what’s on the page and not you, but it’s still a part of you. It’s still a very vulnerable give and take relationship.

So when I didn’t hear back, I figured that it was because she didn’t like it and was scared of hurting my feelings. I actually like hearing someone didn’t like it, someone telling me that they loved it doesn’t usually tell me what needs to be fixed.

Something always needs to be fixed.

She and I talked over the next few days about photography and kind of joked around. We came to the point where she was going to meet up with me the other day and then the day of she backed out. And I did what I do when anyone does anything, even a small thing. I over analyzed it.  It really works in my favor some of the time. If there’s a problem that needs a high level of scrutiny I can do that.

The phrase she used was “no contact” and it seemed like a very specific sort of language to use with someone who you had very lighthearted contact with in the first place. Looking back over the conversations we’ve had since I got the iPhone (and looked for an excuse to text anyone I knew had one to see the little blue bubbles) there’s nothing alarming in my language with her. We had breakfast together once a while ago and haven’t seen each other sense, but I wondered what I’d said to get this response.

The old “what did I do that upset you so much” conversation isn’t one I usually have to have. I know what I’ve said, I probably said it on purpose. I was careful this time; I’m usually extra careful because i can get carried away with jokes that are too much for people and topics that shouldn’t be discussed.

Then I realized the only place I hadn’t been careful was my writing. The first chapter of the novel I sent her has some choice words in it and some choice imagery. She actually questioned it when she first started reading the whole thing, but that was the last conversation where we mentioned it. At that point she seemed fine with there being a little adult content. It wasn’t there for no reason, that’s for sure.

I think she read the rest of it either days ago or very recently and had been thinking it over. Is this the kind of person that I want to be friends with? Someone who would write this must be sick or someone who would write this must have a real problem. Authors aren’t the people they write about in their stories, although part of us does go into the process. I’m no more Lissette than I am any other character written by someone who just had the idea. But she’s up here in my head, she came from there and I can pull that personality forth and put it on the page (haven’t been doing it as much lately).

The writing scaring her is all that makes sense to me with the scant information that I have. This isn’t really the first time this has happened, but it is the first time that someone has not wanted to be my friend anymore because of it and it’s sad because she seemed really sweet and I wish her the best.

Does this mean that I stop what I was doing before or change how I have been writing, no. I don’t have direct feedback to know what it was that caused her issue nor do I want to be the kind of person who censors their writing. I’d rather write things better and strive to take offensive subjects in a thought provoking way, rather than hiding from them or appealing to the lowest denominator.

If I’m published someday I hope she sees the book in a store or while scrolling through Amazon and decides to take it look; I hope she gets that what I’m trying to say is clear. I hope she keeps turning the pages and finally gets what I’m trying to say.

Sandman: Seasons of Mists Review

“To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due.”

2530815-death35To quote one of the first reviews that I saw on Goodreads.com: “This is where shit gets real in the Sandman series…” I don’t think I have agreed with any review more than I did with that little snippet of that one. This review is spoiler free.

Seasons of Mists is where everything that I was promised about Sandman kicks in. The comic is a very slow burn and it’s all been good up to this point, but, and let me make this very clear, Seasons of Mists is everything that that makes this one of the most celebrates comic books series of all time.

There’s just some damn good writing here and so many quotable parts. There’s a lot of expansion of the mythos and we finally meet the majority of the Endless Siblings. And we get some really good stuff from Lucifer; his reasons behind the things he does and just some insight into Hell that makes for a really interesting read.

Some of it I had come up with for my own Lucifer, without having read this part. I don’t think this warrants me changing it, but it does warrant me realizing that I need to make sure to not tread on this ground without something of a new take on what I am doing.

If you’re like me and you’ve been hearing for years how amazing Sandman is and you’re on the fence about reading it, just let me say that this short series in it is all the reason you should need to find a digital copy on Amazon or scour the book stores of your city.

You won’t be able to just read the Seasons of Mists without the stuff that came before. It builds largely on a lot of little set pieces that have been in play for a while and I think, that if I’m right, this is only the beginning of the good stuff.

Preview Chapter Two of Stephanos

So I’m lazy. I wanted to have something else for today’s post, but I didn’t know what to write. So here is the second chapter of the story from the previous post. Stephanos, chapter two.

Laptops unwind in that same way that spiral-cut-hams do, until you’re down to the good bits: the motherboard, the power supply and the little connectors that I make up names for. Nothing looks exactly the same as anything else, and nothing fits where it shouldn’t. That’s the golden rule of computer component repair. It looks more complicated than it is, really.

hornsAt this point I could afford another cold heat soldering iron that was actually made to do these jobs, but there’s a charm to this one. I made it out of a busted curling iron, some mechanical pencil lead refills, a sliver of mica I took from an old compass, some twelve-gauge wire and other parts I salvaged from around the house.

Thank you, You Tube.

A girl in my class managed to snap the charging port off of the motherboard in one of the loaner Sony Vaio’s that we use in school. I offered to fix it for a tiny bit of cash and it’s good practice.

The actual soldering is just a dab and the quicksilver-like dot sizzles into place beneath the charging port. I barely have time to take in the oily metallic smell before I have to pull the iron and coil of solder away. The smell is my favorite bit.

A few seconds to dry and I test the connection. Yellow or orange or a red light will indicate if it is charging.

And of course it is.

I slide the innards of the laptop together, working the snap together fittings down over one another until I hear the small click of the latches. Each layer has a few screws. I’ve got them separated out into the little compartments that line along the old fishing tackle box that my Dad let me have. All arranged by size right to left; smallest to largest.

Someone knocks at the door to my bedroom. “Your dad said you were busy back here?” My chest does this little hiccup thing at the sound of Daunte’s voice.

“Almost done. Come in.”

He slips through cracked door, leaves it hanging open and steps in behind me taking me around the waist. My head tilts right in anticipation of the kiss I know is coming. “You still look busy.”

“Stop,” I giggle. “Static electricity, I could short the whole board out.”

“She wouldn’t know; it’s already broken,” he mutters against my neck.

My skin is warm and buzzing as I slump against him. “Funny.” I meet my reflection’s gaze and my eyes are a vibrant red instead of their normal blue. My eyelids close and I dry swallow before opening. “Did you stop by to tease me?” When I look again they’re back to blue.

“I was on the way home and wanted to stop and ask you if we’re still on for tomorrow?”

I turn so that we’re face-to-face and almost eye-to-eye. My toes push off the ground until I close the distance and can kiss him full on the mouth. “What you mean is: is Lissette still coming to meet Errol?”

“He’ll be all mopey if she isn’t. It’ll just be shitty. I’d rather tell him we canceled it.”

The prickly hairs dotting his cheek catch at my skin as I run my thumb along his face. “I’d rather tell him we canceled and still go, too. But she never gave me a straight answer. She’s driving me so I guess she’ll be there.” I rest my arms on his shoulders so that they stick out straight behind his neck and tilt my head to one side. “What exactly did you tell Errol?”

“You and Lissette are like sisters.”

Daunte and I have been friends since Miss Swanson’s third grade class, when the seating chart changed and we were partnered up to learn cursive. That same year my horns were coming in and he was the one of the few kids who didn’t tease me about them. I kissed him in the sixth grade when he tried to stand up for me and got punched in the face. Neither of us ever officially asked the other out—we were just kind of dating after that. And three years later, here we are.

“He’s not going to expect me to help him talk to her or pass little notes or some shit, is he?”

“He’s not going to do anything.”


“Just tell her I whined about how I haven’t seen her outside of school in forever.”

My hands find themselves under his collar straightening the crease. “Guilt trip. We’ll make that plan B.”

“I have to get home and help Mom.” He rubs the hair down over my horns and pulls me in for a kiss. “I love you—see you tomorrow.”

“Love you too, night.”


From the warmth of my bed I do the shower math—how much longer can I sleep, plus how long I absolutely have to shower to be presentable, minus the time I told Lissette to be here. Do I have time to get ready? I lie on the edge of sleep for five minutes and then stumble on my heels into the bathroom.

Most of my morning shower is cold today; I’ll have to make an effort to replace the wire I borrowed from the tank-less water heater to make the soldering iron. The rest of the time spent getting ready comes easily. The Succubus side of me means I never look like a hot mess—my hair will fall into those perfect bouncy curls, but it does cooperate with other styles. I don’t need makeup except for lip gloss (though sometimes I cover up my freckles). I’ve never had a zit or pimple in my life.

When the sound of the shower is gone Lissette and Dad’s voices come through the wall muffled. His laugh is distinct and there’s a faint smell like—scrambled eggs? I towel off in the shower and step out onto the mat.

My outfit for the day is a purple peasant-style tunic and a pair of black yoga pants. I keep thongs and other things I don’t want found hidden in a Tampax box under the sink. It’s the one place Dad wouldn’t look. I step out of the bathroom and slip into some no-show-socks and a pair of black flats.

I find Lissette making small, slow circles beneath her face with a frying pan full of scrambled eggs and sniffing them. She doesn’t see me at first. “See how fluffy they are? It’s all about the whisking, the more air you get into them then the fluffier they are.”

My dad is shoveling the eggs into his mouth and grumbling something that sounds like agreement in reply.

“I didn’t know we were trading egg recipes.”

“Look who finally decided to join us.” Lissette puts the skillet back on the stove and ditches the oven gloves.

“I told you to be here earlier than we needed because you’re usually late.”


I sigh. “How’s your mom doing?”

Lissette plucks a sliver of egg out of the pan and drops it into her mouth. “I didn’t tell her. Something came up.”

“Lissette.” The words are behind my teeth waiting to come out, but Dad’s right there staring up at us as he chews his egg. I close the distance between him and me, and hug him tight around the shoulders. He’s tense as I whisper to him. “Bye Daddy, I’m staying at Lissette’s tonight.”

“Alright. Give me a call when you get in for the night.”

I never do and he never bothers me about it.

We head out the door to where her car is parked. I’m staring at the back of her head as we walk. She’s braided some of her blonde hair into a circlet that wraps around her head and for some reason it reminds me of a Valkyrie.

There are muddy trenches marking the spots where cars have backed up and turned around and parked. I try to step between them and hold my tongue until I reach the door of the car. “Why didn’t you tell her?”

“I’m not really in a rush to see my Mom cry over another guy.”

“Oh. Are you in a rush to see her get some disease or—or—knocked up by a guy who doesn’t even respect her.” Lissette’s mom was the closest thing I had to a mom at this point; she even had me calling her Mom.

Lissette holds her hand up. “I’ll tell her tonight while you’re there. I might need the back up.”


“Anyway, we’re early. How about we make a quick stop to check on something?”

“Is this scheming or snooping?”

“I slipped a GPS tracker on Tim’s car the other night—I think he’s with the little home-wrecker.”

“What makes you think that? And where did you get this?”

Lissette shrugs. “Fifty dollars at one of those run down places that sell spy gadgets. After I acted all confused and worried about my cheating dad the guy even helped me set it up.”

“Dammit, Lissette.”


“I tell you what, we’ll go indulge your stalking fetish if you do that thing we talked about?”

“Which thing? We talk about a lot of things.

“Come with us today and get to know Errol.”

“When I had a boy pinned to his bed last night with my tongue halfway down his throat and do you know what the furthest thought from my mind was? When’s my prince charming going to come and rescue me from this dreadful life of doing what I please?” she clasped her hands together, tucked them under her chin and fluttered her eyes. Lissette and her theatrics.

“You were with some boy last night? When?”

“Like I said, I wasn’t in a rush to see Mom cry. Remember that kid we used to give rides home.”


“Or Nick. It was definitely four letters.”

“Please tell me you used a condom.”

“Didn’t have any—so we just made out and necked some.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not asking you to give Errol a handy. Just come with us so that he’s not—.”

“—Fucking your swerve up? Awe, you guys let me tag along all the time without an escort.”

“Yeah, but you keep yourself occupied.”

“True. I’ll go, but only because you need to spend time with Daunte.”

“You’re the best.”

“And because I need your help to follow Tim.”

“There’s something very broken inside of you Lissette.”

Stephanos Preview Chapter–Edit

English-dept_The threadbare carpet bites my knees every time I move and the dress I’m wearing doesn’t reach far enough to cover them. Poor planning on my part. There’s no room beneath this desk, but if I slip out now I risk exposure. So, I keep my head hunched down and scroll through Twitter and Facebook to drown out Mom’s boyfriend, Tim, and the woman who is obviously-not-my-mother getting hot and heavy on the table across from me.

I catch a glimpse her lying on her back with her salon-perfect hair dangling over the edge of the desk and the tip of her nose sticking out just above her bangs. Tim is hovering over the woman, sweaty and as red as a baked ham, with an expression that suggests he’s pulled a muscle. My phone has a folder full of pictures I snapped of them kissing in his car. And another folder of them kissing in the stairwell. Video of this would just be added trouble. When Mom found out that Annemarie and I searched “penis” on Google out of curiosity a few years back she canceled HBO and grounded me for a week and a half.

How much longer are they going to be at this?

I shift so that my back is on the floor and curl my legs up to my chest. Their breaths are just as deep and slow by the time I’m a week into my Facebook wall. I settle in for the long haul.

Mom’s relationships follow a pattern of guys with secret cellphones or apartments that she can’t go to. This guy’s late night archeology tutoring sessions didn’t seem to have any set times, he stood Mom up to go to one of them and he’s not even being paid. It felt like it fit the patterns.

I’d rather be grounded than caught, though. This is, like, my Olympics. I’m a pretty fucking awesome stalker. We high school girls tend to nurture our stalking skills. So, when I “accidentally run into you” in the hallway for the third time, claiming I’ve missed a button or remembered a funny joke, and you do that little laugh and lean in close and notice the smell of the perfume (that I practically thrashed around in a tub of), then the stalking becomes legitimate dating.

Boys don’t always figure out how to nurture their charm. Sometimes their stalking becomes kidnapping, which usually becomes twenty-five to life.

I burn through a good chunk of a Facebook game before I finally hear his breathing growing shallow. There’s a dull thud as his body hits the table. They finally fall silent. I poke my phone out over my shoulder past the corner of the desk to get another look at them with my front facing camera; the woman has her back to me and is slipping her underwear on under her dress.

“I can’t keep coming down here to see you,” she says. “We need to go to your place. It’s closer to the dig site.”

“Not there. She has the key,” he drinks in a few breaths. “She pops over sometimes to visit.” The ‘she’ in this case being my mom.

“I see.”

“It’s not like that, just she’s suspicious. Bad history with relationships.”

And yet you still humped this girl on the table in the lab where you both work. There’s a quality to the girl’s voice that I can hear affected by the acoustics of an auditorium classroom and asking about plate tectonics and laccoliths and their effects on artifacts. She mentioned dig sites. Karen something-or-other. She was a student in one of Mom’s classes; I used to come by after school and use passing out papers as an excuse to steal cookies and cakes from the faculty lounge.

Jumping out, pointing my finger and yelling “Ah-ha!” is out of the question. There’s several more minutes of them talking in low tones before he gives her a peck on the forehead and they part ways.

It’s like, she just had your cock in her mouth not fifteen minutes ago—you’d think he’d show a little more gratitude.

The shaft of my boot drags against the carpet as I crawl out from under the desk. I pause a second and listen for movement before getting to my feet. The usually pale skin of my thigh is rubbed a splotchy red. I limp down the stairs, my leg tingling from the sudden movement, and go out the door I propped open earlier.

My Jetta is parked in a student lot beneath a large oak tree. Annemarie stands with her butt resting on the passenger side window and her head down over her iPhone. She glances up, the glow from the phone mingling with the parking lot light, painting her hair orange.

“You didn’t text me,” I say.

“This book’s just getting good,” she holds her phone even though there’s no way I’m reading it at this distance. “Besides, someone could hear if your phone isn’t on silent.”

“Like I’d make an amateur mistake like that.”

Annemarie locks her phone and slips it back down the front of her top. She’s all dresses, skirts, blouses and tights. She hasn’t worn anything with a fucking pocket since Pokémon cards were the in thing.

I’m climbing into the car as she slides in next to me. The spiraling ram-like horns poking out from beneath her bangs on either side of her forehead catch the Mardi Gras-style necklaces dangling from my mirror. Her horns are smaller than other succubi and don’t get caught on things often, but those trashy beads that people hang in doorways are the bane of her existence.

“Don’t move.”

“Not again,” Annemarie whines.

I lean over and unwrap her. “We’re going to have to get one of those big cones to go around your neck like they use so dogs don’t lick themselves.”

“It’d just make me run into even more shit than I already do.”

“There,” I take the beads down at least until I figure out how to keep her from getting caught in them. “So I had a bit of a huge breakthrough tonight.”

“That why you were there so long?”

“Yeah. Tim is cheating on Mom with a student.” I flick through pictures on my phone of Karen pressed passionately against the wall next to the stairwell door as Tim kisses her face and then neck. Then I move through a group of them together in the car.

“How did you get these?” asks Annemarie.

“Why do you think I told you to stay over here? Kind of hard to hide with a six foot succubus trailing you around.”

“I’m not six feet tall.” She turns to look the window at something past the massive tree, something I can see. “You know this is going to kill her, right? How’s she supposed to go back to work if her partner-slash-boyfriend is cheating on her with a student? The school’s going to suffer. Who are they going to find to replace her?”

“I could take Mom’s place.”

“The university isn’t going to give a sixteen year old research privileges.”

Mom’s one of the few doctorates in Eclispademonology on the planet—that’s the study of extinct demons. Only a handful of programs in the country exist for it; her old grimoires and tomes were my bedtime stories and summer reading. Mom never encouraged it, but she never stopped me either.

The car revs to life as I turn to face Annemarie. “Do you remember Simon?” I ask.


“If I have to be the one to tell her that her new boyfriend is a lying sack of shit, so be it.” I back out of space and head for the freeway. “But we’re not going through that again.”

Annemarie is silent until we’re almost halfway to her house. “Maybe they’ll let you teach someday. No one’s lining up to talk about sifting through the dirt for clues about things that happened when dinosaurs were the flavor of the week.”

“Dinosaurs never existed alongside demons.” She should know this, she’s heard me do report after report on the subject.

I catch the smile on her face as we pass through the light of the halogen lamps that line the freeway. “Shut up.” I move into the center lane to avoid passing too close to a police car that has someone pulled over.

Lightning explodes in the sky in a three-strike burst that causes us both to scream. Hand to her chest and gasping for breath, Annemarie glances over at me. I’m trying to pretend I didn’t just swerve all over the place. “What the Hell? It’s clear out,” she says.

There’s no moon, so we glance to the gash in the eastern sky, streaked with hints of purple at its edges. It looks as if someone stretched a spot in a black trash bag until it ripped. The Wound’s been there since the Beginning, it’s the final remnant of my father’s lost war.

I got ahead of myself. My name is Lissette Metzger and my parents are a woman who was hipster before hipster had a name, and Lucifer. Morningstar Lucifer. Nurture over nature—I turned out fine. But I’ll be the opposite of fine if I’m not home by 10:30 PM.

Annemarie made me drop her off at the corner of the sagging chain-link fence that encloses her yard. She made some excuse about the gate being broken around front. This time of night, her dad would be passed out drunk and shirtless in the front porch rocking chair. No use risking the engine and lights waking him. I wait until she slips through the side door to the screened in side area of the house and flips the switch for the flood light behind the house to pull off.

Two hours to kill and only ten minute drive from home; there’s nothing appealing about seeing Mom cry again. If I’m in the house holding the evidence it’ll be impossible to keep it from her.

There’s a boy who has a work-study scholarship to the Catholic high school near Annemarie’s. On summer nights when school was out and we were out until the rain ended we’d pass him walking down the street, his shirt soaked through with sweat or rain or both and offer to give him a ride home.

Occasionally he’ll text me, but the conversations never lift off. I don’t need him to be good at talking, anyway. I lift my phone to my ear as I pull up to the stop sign and it clicks mid-ring.

“Hello?” his voice is confused and distracted. I’ve caught him busy.

“Hey. Do you know who this is?” His name is listed in my phone as Nick, but I have a habit of giving people names I wish they had.


“Yeah, listen, I’m doing this thing for school and I need to get the opinion of someone who goes to a school with uniforms. Like, I need to know how you feel about it—can I interview you?”

“Sure. Ask away.”

“I’d rather do this in person. The body language and junk might be helpful to the article. It’s no problem if you’d rather do phone, though—”

“No. Sure, Lissette. Come on over.”

“See you soon.” I hang up before he can answer me and take a left onto the road. The driveway at his house is all grass and mud. I’m the only car so I pull in close. It’s for the best, the gear shifter makes the logistics of the whole business too hard and my backseat is piled high with heels, bright dresses and empty slushy cups from Sonic.

He’s at the door in a wrinkled white t-shirt, and his dark hair is slicked down to his forehead wet. I’ve never seen it dry.

I’m in a yellow and black polka dotted sundress and my hair is in that Zen state of messiness where it looks look like I don’t care, but not so bad that it appears that I’ve given up. I step out of the car and go in the back seat for a random notebook that’s under the driver seat.

“Sorry to bother you.”

“It’s okay,” he comes off the porch and walks halfway to my car.

“You’re here alone?”

He nods. “Dad works in a plant and my sister has the car.” No mention of a mom; she’s dead or left. I can’t remember.

He falls in step with me as I reach him and holds the door for me. “Well, I won’t keep you for too long.”

“It’s okay really. Tomorrow’s Saturday, so no practice.” The screen door closes behind me and I stop next to a cracked leather couch that’s draped in those decorative yarn blankets. The kitchen kind of just begins out of nowhere off to my left and there’s a hall past that, the bedrooms I figure. “Do you want something to drink or anything?”

“Water please. Thanks.” I touch his arm with the tips of my fingers.

I watch him get the glass and make the water out of the corner of my eye as I sidle toward the hallway with the notebook clutched to my chest. The door at the end of the hall is open and a basketball jersey is tacked to the wall inside.

“Is that your room?” I ask as he hands me the water.


“You’ve been playing football a while then?”

“That was basketball actually,” he chuckles.

I take a big drink of the water. “Oh, right. Can I see? It might be best if we do the interview where you’re most comfortable anyway…”

“Sure. I mean, yeah. That’s fine.”

His room is all posters and trophies and musk mixed with body spray. There’s an Evangelion poster to my right; racist portrayal of Angels, but at least his taste in Anime isn’t shit.

I catch him staring at my eyes. Most Nephs have multiple colors in at least one eye. Mine are green with a yellow swirl. It gets a lot of looks and you get used to spotting people trying to look while trying to look like they’re not looking.

“How—how do we begin?” he asks.

There’s a black and white poster of two girls laying on their sides kissing with artfully messy sheets around them above his unkempt bed. I walk over and sit on the corner of the bed and place the notebook down in my lap. It must be past eight forty; I don’t want to waste more time than I have to.

“Look, I’m going to be straight with you—this notebook is full of drawings of horses,” I open it to show him the colored pencil sketches of two horses running through a meadow. “There’s no interview or article. I just wanted to have sex, but I don’t have any condoms and I can tell by the state of this room that you don’t either. We can make out. I’ll even slide the top of my dress down, but the bra stays on and your dick stays behind at least two layers of cloth, okay?”


“It’s a yes or no question, whatever-your-name is. I’ve got to be home in an hour and fifteen minutes.”


“Okay as in yes or…”

“Yeah,” he closes the gap between us and I polish off the last of the water dropping the cup on his bedside table. He kisses me as if he’s worried that I might slap him or pull away. But before long we’re full on kissing and I’m pulling his head into mine and trying to draw him back onto the bed.

His tongue tastes like Dr. Pepper and cigarettes. He puts a knee into the mattress to brace himself between my legs and I push my forehead to his to keep our lips apart. “Let me get these straps down,” the heater kicking on almost drowns out the sound of my voice.

The top part of my dress falls until it’s hanging off my thin leather belt. He rests a hand on my shoulder lightly and works the fingers of the other one up into my hair. Either he’s shy or he’s taking it slow. It’s okay; we’ve got an hour.

Then again, I want to stop by this gyro truck on Westheimer before I go home.

I grab him at the waist with a burst of strength that’s part cheerleading muscle, part Neph. I flip him partway onto the mattress and straddle him. His fingers play at my skin that’s almost hidden by my knee high leather boots (the damn things have too many buckles for me to bother taking them off; I don’t hear him complaining).

“Sorry for getting rough,” I tell him before I kiss his neck.

“It’s okay.”

His hands are on my waist, but he’s not aggressive. We stay like this for I don’t know how long; necking back and forth. I pin his hands to the wall right below the poster of the lesbians and we kiss until my back hurts from fighting to keep my legs wrapped around him and my body bent to kiss him. And then the alarm I set before I came in here goes off.

“What’s that?”

“I have to go.” I retrieve my phone from the cup of my bra and silence the alarm.

“What was this?” His eyelids slump and he glances away.

I shrug as I slip back into my dress. “I get bored and I needed to avoid going home because Mom is going to cry when I tell her what I did.”

“You’re going to tell her about us?”

“No, her boyfriend’s cheating on her—it’s just—it’s complicated.” I climb off of him. “I’ve got to go. Thanks Nick.” I go to head out of the room scooping up the notebook as I leave.

“My name is Alex.”

“Right. Tell your dad to get a Brita filter; the water tastes like metal.” I’m out the door texting Mom as it shuts behind me. I don’t think he moved from the bed.

Be home soon. Gyro for dinner?

Her reply comes a few seconds later. Sure.

Trying to soften the blow of infidelity with spun meat. This will go over well.

Mom is sitting cross-legged on the bar stool when I come through the door clutching my phone and two gyros. She turns to greet me and her thick horn-rimmed grading glasses are perched on the end of her nose. There’s a bottle of beer or some kind of wine cooler next to her. The bottle is green, but she always picks her labels off.

“Guess who’s got two gyros and is a minute late?” she narrows her eyes at me.

I sit her food down next to her. “There was a line.”

“It’s okay,” she smiled as she grabbed the wrap up and pulled the foil with her fingernails. Mom’s hair is an ombre white-blonde and dark brown, but the slight gray in her roots is showing. She’s got freckles and full lips that are always the color of a candied apple. It’s odd to be saying it since Dad is probably one of the most attractive creatures in Creation, but I wish I had taken after Mom more.

“I told them to take it easy on the onions this time.”

“Good. I thought I was going to have to bathe my tongue in tomato sauce to get the smell out.”

“We need to talk, Mom.”

“About?” she pauses with the gyro lifted to her mouth but not quite in attack range. The grease is threatening to drip onto her Florence and the Machine t-shirt. I freeze.

“My curfew…couldn’t we go a little later. I mean ten forty five or eleven even?” I ask.

“Maybe,” she says. ‘I’ll think about it.”

“Okay. You’re going to get grease on yourself,” I wrap a napkin under the underside of the gyro and clutch it there until she wraps her hand around to hold it. She smiles until her cheeks turn red from strain and then bites into the gyro. Telling her now would be a greater disaster—a Hiroshima out of what would have been Pearl Harbor. I unwrap my food and take a bite.

How long has it been? My last clear memory is seeing Mom curled up on the recliner across from me eating Greek yogurt and watching the News.

There’s darkness creeping in at the edges of a place I can’t make out. The smell of salt water and the heat are still on my face. My body tenses and my eyes open to see Mom fumbling with her purple grading pen. “Christ,” her voice is a whisper.

“What is it?” my whole body is sore. Is this what dreams are like?

“One of the girls who needed special tutoring is bombing this test Tim asked me to grade—I don’t get what else I can do.” Tim, Mom’s soon to be ex-boyfriend, teaches archeology and he tests multiple choice so it was entirely within Mom’s (or anyone else’s) ability to grade for him.

“Who is she?”

“Karen Laurel,” Mom says. “Sweet girl.”

The dream or whatever it was still echoes through my mind and it takes me a second to hear what she’s said properly. I saw one of these study sessions for myself earlier tonight—it goes a long way to explain her test.

Mom smiles. “You look like someone just walked over your grave. Everything okay?”

I press the button to unlock my phone and look down at the pattern security screen; it times out and goes dark. “Yeah. It’s nothing.”

Guardians of the Galaxy was…fun?

Okay, so that title might be one of those things that looks sarcastic. Bear with me here, because this concept might be a little foreign to movie-goers. This movie was just pure fun. Sure there was some drama here and there, but the set pieces, the characters, the plot—it all worked really well to create a fun atmosphere and I think that I heard more laughter in this auditorium than I have in any movie I’ve been to in a long while.


That includes comedies.

If there’s one thing that I can say about Marvel in the positive it’s that they’re bold. So bold. They put out a comic book movie about a title that isn’t considered mainstream the way your Spiderman or Iron Man types are and they made it look like something watchable. They got star power behind it and sold it. They didn’t shy away from the fact that there’s very little human or familiar in these worlds. They didn’t try to water down the story.

The start of this movie is a little jarring and for the first few scenes it skips around and it’s hard to get a good footing, but once you catch up to where the movies going (maybe about twenty minutes in) it’s just pure fun. I’ve read the comic this book is based on and the characters are pretty much spot on. The snark and the witty banter is well-written and effective. It’s not the Whedon-esque humor that seems to pepper the other Marvel movies and the characters all seem to speak through themselves and be funny on their own merit. No one sounds exactly like anyone else and even in the two hours or so with them you get a definite sense of voice.

I want to keep this short, but go see this movie. Go see it right now if you can. If I had to rank this as opposed to other Marvel films. Like I said, it takes itself a lot less seriously even though the thread is far greater. There’s no political commentary or anything of that sort, but not serious doesn’t mean bad. Captain America 2 was my favorite of the Marvel movies up until this point, but I think this one might be even with it.

Again, go see this movie.

Houston, We Have a Title

crownThe book was supposed to be called “Keep Austin Safe”. That was to be the end of it. But the name seemed less and less like what I wanted the more I typed it out and looked at it. It floated around in my head like it wasn’t good enough and like it didn’t really embody the changes the story was undergoing.

And then I up and moved the whole thing to Houston and dropped a lot of the characters.

What had been there as one story was now dramatically different to the point that the previous title didn’t make sense. The thing stayed without a title for over a year and I really felt that not having that there, not having something to call the story or refer to it by was a little discouraging. I’ve never been the best at coming up with titles and the ones that I have tried to use are usually song references or something else like that. I just didn’t want to do that. Not for the first thing I was really pushing to try and finish up and get out there.

Without giving too much of it away I settled on a title randomly while reading through some of the notes I was keeping for my writing. The word as it was being used was a name of a character, but it was one of the characters I dropped and it still had relevance to the main idea behind the story.


Simple, though that might change. I have been thinking about adding a colon and a phrase after it. I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad idea, but I will think on the idea some more in the meantime. I just wanted to post that I finally had some development on this front considering that I posted a while back about not being able to think of the right thing for this story.

A Whole New Batgirl

batgirl_495x767The news of the new Batgirl costume comes right on the heels of my friend from over at the blog “Beauty and the Book” giving me the advice that I should give the Batgirl comic books a try. While I was probably going to ignore the advice, this new twist in things kind of makes me feel like I might be more inclined to give it a try. Comic books have never been my thing, really. I read this awful Sonic the Hedgehog comic back when Sega was a respectable brand. And I cracked open part of the “Sandman” series because it was written by one of my favorite authors, Neil Gaiman. Back before the movie version of the “Watchmen” came out I read the book cover to cover. Other than that my forays into comic books have been very short lived.

I’m of the belief that when something dares to be different and make an effort to push the boundaries of what’s normal that it’s at least a little respectable. This is why I respect the movie “Sucker Punch” even though it’s a cluster-fuck despite it’s attempts to challenge nerd cultures view of sexuality and women. Perhaps it was more daring than it was profound, but it’s worth rewarding daringness some of the time. Writing and illustrating a comic book character from a mainstream line that’s dressed in a sensible manner and not just written for dudes to gawk at is pretty daring. And it’s a step in the right direction for a DC comics that has been struggling to come to terms with its age and lack of popularity over competitor Marvel comics.

Reading “The Watchmen” kind of taught me something. It’s a lesson that I’ve learned pretty much every time I’ve explored a medium long enough. It showed me that there’s something underneath the upper level layer of stuff that we commonly see that gives this thing a potential to be special. Video games have it. Television has it. Music has it. Books have it. Comic books have it. It’s taken a lot of time for people to accept some of these mediums as being able to be artistic or special or deep. But it happens.

Maybe this will be a repeat of that. Maybe I’ll see something in these comics that I missed in the other things that I tried to pick up. I don’t really doubt that there’s something awesome about comic books, I just think that it’s never been a very accessible medium with all the history and different backstories and issues of comics that are out of print. Kindles and other e-readers kind of change the game. So yah, I’m going to give it another try.



unearthly australiaCynthia Hand wasn’t a name I had ever heard of before I started reading her Unearthly series. The first book came highly recommended by a friend of mine who is an avid reader and since the subject matter was similar to what I write I jumped on it. I was curious to see how someone else was writing it.

The big difference between Hand and myself, other than her being published, is that she writes in that ever growing Paranormal Romance genre. And she’s probably the first author I have read who made me not want to toss the book across the room because the characters behaved like idiots. It was refreshing and the first book is really well constructed. The second book isn’t as good and I haven’t gotten to the third (there’s a novella between the second and third), so I don’t know what to say about how the series ends. But book one, Unearthly, is a good example of how you do it.

The problems in books like Hush Hush and Twilight are recognized and cut out leaving behind a coherent narrative that still features love and magical creatures. But one that gives a sense that these ingredients can be mixed to create something other than drivel.