Moments our porch light observes, and we do not: The American Dagger and White Lichen moths hesitating and fluttering around its dusty glass when I get home from work at 10:33 each night.
Like Pain is Kitsch
There's too much sh*t and not enough words. A Christian college was supposed to be good for my language, edifying I suppose. Ah, well. You know what they say about a "well-placed damn." There's dried blood on these typewriter keys. Let's fix that. I've been away awhile. The bleeding never stopped. Only the words did.... Continue Reading →
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 →
I was so meek, so insecure. So tentative, I couldn't see everything it kept me from. Everything it kept me from. How am I supposed to be a great author, like Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, when I did not spend my childhood authoring? When my waking moments were not dedicated to creating, composing, writing like they... Continue Reading →