Twice I have wandered the solid-color halls of Crystal Bridges—a mostly free art museum in Bentonville, Arkansas—gazing at walls peppered with paintings, sketches, and collages like the glittering gemstone and woven feather earrings clinging to plastic jewelry trees in Macy’s.
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.
Things that make you an adult (Noted by an only child) Pepper on your scrambled eggs. Especially after all of your eighteen childhood years, insisting to your mother that you do not like pepper.
I tell myself so many lies to live the way I do. You wouldn't believe the sheer number. Or maybe you would. This is my confession. A while back—I couldn't even tell you when—I let the demons in, and they've been here ever since. Roaming through rooms, stashed in dark corners, smiling black teeth under... Continue Reading →
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 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 →
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 →
Dear younger me, Passion is infinitely important, my child. And you are so passionate. I can still see you. There is not an animal you don't think is cute, an essay you don't love to write, or a flower you can't find joy in. For all the battles you've fought, you have an extravagant passion... Continue Reading →
A Study in Crimson Prose 