Manifesto

I believe in writing that whispers. I believe in writing that doesn't shout to get your attention. It snaps, only once. *Snap* To beckon you in, to draw you closer. To lean in, to hold eye contact. To listen, writer to reader. Voice to voice. If you can't hear it, draw a little closer. I'll... Continue Reading →

Rest

He hung there, suspended between surface and depth, oxygen and solvent, ripples and stillness. The turtle stayed perfectly still, webbed feet motionless, his head just barely protruding from the deceptive water. He floated, indefinably content in the patch of sunlight that was picking its way though the adjacent tree branches to grace the water's nebulous... Continue Reading →

706 Wilcox St.

How do I encompass this? How do I capture this? Do I dare chain this moment down to the binds of paper and serif? Am I even a writer if I don't try? I grew up in an art gallery. I have never said it that way before, but I think it is the truest... Continue Reading →

Dear Younger Me: Writing

Dear younger me, To write is to bleed. There will be nights when your typewriter keys are soaked with blood, dark, sticky, and dripping. Blood metallic and warm on your fingertips. There will be days when your paper is splattered with drops of blood as you rapturously grasp at everything, at nothing. There will be... Continue Reading →

Scraps of Paper

I can't write about it because I wasn't there. But I've grown up in its aftermath. Every autumn, that one day. Homework wasn't due; assignments weren't added; class wasn't roudy or noisy. And, for one of the few times of the year, the old box-set TV screens were turned on, buzzing to life as disoriented... Continue Reading →

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