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.
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 →
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 →
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 →
Do you ever have those moments when you just soak up people? You just absorb them because you want to know everything they are. Do you ever desire to read their life story, splayed before you like the pages of an encyclopedia? Every experience that molded them, defined; every action, its cause and effect; every word... Continue Reading →
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 →
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 