Here’s a little recap of the year in writing:This year, I finished a final(ish) edition of my novel, Kursed Kreatures, and have been querying literary agents. This is how one obtains representation to then sell the novel to publishers; this is no trite task, and it’s arguably easier than making your novel successful according to Elle Griffin. In response to the many agent rejections (I’m up to 50 now), and having much more energy and time for other writing projects, I now craft stories for yo...

Here’s a little recap of the year in writing:This year, I finished a final(ish) edition of my novel, Kursed Kreatures, and have been querying literary agents. This is how one obtains representation to then sell the novel to publishers; this is no trite task, and it’s arguably easier than making your novel successful according to Elle Griffin. In response to the many agent rejections (I’m up to 50 now), and having much more energy and time for other writing projects, I now craft stories for yo...

Photo by Dwinanda Nurhanif Mujito on UnsplashTwo Orcs climb a sheer rock face so steep, anyone who fell from its face would forget to see their life flashing before their eyes. Halfway up, the Orcs don’t look down at the clouds clinging to the rock below them. They only have eyes for the top. Muscled and tanned, wearing short wool jerkins and half-shirts on their chests, spears affixed to their backs, they climb with vigor. Grok, the chief-in-waiting of Village Hidden in Dreams, licks her rig...

Photo by Dwinanda Nurhanif Mujito on UnsplashTwo Orcs climb a sheer rock face so steep, anyone who fell from its face would forget to see their life flashing before their eyes. Halfway up, the Orcs don’t look down at the clouds clinging to the rock below them. They only have eyes for the top. Muscled and tanned, wearing short wool jerkins and half-shirts on their chests, spears affixed to their backs, they climb with vigor. Grok, the chief-in-waiting of Village Hidden in Dreams, licks her rig...

Photo by Patrick Tomasso on UnsplashShare If you’ve ever said… “I wish I knew how to write.” “I have a book idea, but…” “I’m not a good enough writer…” Or any variation on these statements, this post is for you. Truth is, no writer is a writer until they start writing. Even me, someone who loves to call himself a writer and couldn’t live without writing, was once not a writer at all. Not long ago, I was someone who wanted to write. Who liked the idea of writing more than the actual work of it...

Photo by Patrick Tomasso on UnsplashShare If you’ve ever said… “I wish I knew how to write.” “I have a book idea, but…” “I’m not a good enough writer…” Or any variation on these statements, this post is for you. Truth is, no writer is a writer until they start writing. Even me, someone who loves to call himself a writer and couldn’t live without writing, was once not a writer at all. Not long ago, I was someone who wanted to write. Who liked the idea of writing more than the actual work of it...

Writing is a vacation from the real world. Writing feels more real than anything, at times. Writing feels like the only thing I can do. Writing makes me feel like I’m not crazy. Writing shows me how crazy I am. Writing is beauty. Writing creates something that wasn’t there before. Writing is my method of exorcising my demons. Writing is how I find heaven again. Writing is beyond my passion, it’s my lifeblood. But none of that answers the question of why. It all comes down to this: I am lookin...

Writing is a vacation from the real world. Writing feels more real than anything, at times. Writing feels like the only thing I can do. Writing makes me feel like I’m not crazy. Writing shows me how crazy I am. Writing is beauty. Writing creates something that wasn’t there before. Writing is my method of exorcising my demons. Writing is how I find heaven again. Writing is beyond my passion, it’s my lifeblood. But none of that answers the question of why. It all comes down to this: I am lookin...

Please see the author’s note at the end for insight into this story!If you’ve spent any amount of time living in our three dimensions, you’ll have noticed some memories manifest as though they occurred seconds ago, untainted by the degradation of re-remembering what happened. For example, I recalled these details crisply: I met Amarantha in December, during a mild winter one could only find near the sea. She had shoulder-length hair that curled up at the ends, her laugh lines, brown eyes, fre...

Please see the author’s note at the end for insight into this story!If you’ve spent any amount of time living in our three dimensions, you’ll have noticed some memories manifest as though they occurred seconds ago, untainted by the degradation of re-remembering what happened. For example, I recalled these details crisply: I met Amarantha in December, during a mild winter one could only find near the sea. She had shoulder-length hair that curled up at the ends, her laugh lines, brown eyes, fre...

Photo by Jorge Rojas on UnsplashMy father was a draftsman. He did the grunt work for an architecture firm in the city, drawing foundations and floor plans like a retail worker hangs clothes. The work was simple. He hated it. And no one took his own architectural designs seriously. I couldn’t tell you if my father was a genius or if he just enjoyed designing out-of-the-box buildings. Things that might exist with an exorbitant amount of money and time. The wealthy usually have plenty of one, bu...

Photo by Jorge Rojas on UnsplashMy father was a draftsman. He did the grunt work for an architecture firm in the city, drawing foundations and floor plans like a retail worker hangs clothes. The work was simple. He hated it. And no one took his own architectural designs seriously. I couldn’t tell you if my father was a genius or if he just enjoyed designing out-of-the-box buildings. Things that might exist with an exorbitant amount of money and time. The wealthy usually have plenty of one, bu...

Photo by Quino Al on UnsplashOnce, there were two potters. One lived in the desert and threw jars and cups with the colors of the forest because she’s never seen it with her own eyes. These jars and cups were made to hold and pour water, the most precious substance in the desert. The other lived in the mountains and fashioned water fountains for bees in the hues of the desert. A bee fountain, mind you, looks like a plate but has a shallow depression for an ounce of water, so the bee can quenc...

Photo by Quino Al on UnsplashOnce, there were two potters. One lived in the desert and threw jars and cups with the colors of the forest because she’s never seen it with her own eyes. These jars and cups were made to hold and pour water, the most precious substance in the desert. The other lived in the mountains and fashioned water fountains for bees in the hues of the desert. A bee fountain, mind you, looks like a plate but has a shallow depression for an ounce of water, so the bee can quenc...

Photo by Anderson Rian on UnsplashSubscribe now Living here, all I know is cold. If you can call it living in the first place. I don't even know if I'm alive. That is to say, sometimes I think I am, but often I think I am not. Thinking and living do not cohabitate on this frozen, flying rock. Here's what I do know: I have a body like the people in yellow suits. I stand on two legs, grasp items with my five-fingered hands. But I don't have a mask on like they do, and I don't have a suit on. Na...

Photo by Anderson Rian on UnsplashSubscribe now Living here, all I know is cold. If you can call it living in the first place. I don't even know if I'm alive. That is to say, sometimes I think I am, but often I think I am not. Thinking and living do not cohabitate on this frozen, flying rock. Here's what I do know: I have a body like the people in yellow suits. I stand on two legs, grasp items with my five-fingered hands. But I don't have a mask on like they do, and I don't have a suit on. Na...

A short story about memory, history, and identity.Photo by Yannick Menard on Unsplash*you’re not crazy, there aren’t any quotation marks on purpose* … Your memories are nothing but sandcastles melting away in the waves of your moments. Remembering something solidifies certain parts of what happened, the emotions and your perspective, but the details leak away, like your ice cream. Uh, your ice cream is melting, Edgar says. Oh. I catch the dribble with my tongue, turned red from the sweet wate...

A short story about memory, history, and identity.Photo by Yannick Menard on Unsplash*you’re not crazy, there aren’t any quotation marks on purpose* … Your memories are nothing but sandcastles melting away in the waves of your moments. Remembering something solidifies certain parts of what happened, the emotions and your perspective, but the details leak away, like your ice cream. Uh, your ice cream is melting, Edgar says. Oh. I catch the dribble with my tongue, turned red from the sweet wate...

and the art of flamingos.Photo by mana5280 on UnsplashA young latino teenager, two white guys, and a very small woman walk into a dojo.This is not the beginning line to a joke, but to a story about flamingos. I promise there’s no pithy lesson on wax-on, wax-off. We’re about to undergo a physical, emotional, and psychological test. We’re attempting to earn our next belt, or rank, in karate, thus allowing us to move on to new techniques and new skills. We put on our old belts and wait for the t...

and the art of flamingos.Photo by mana5280 on UnsplashA young latino teenager, two white guys, and a very small woman walk into a dojo.This is not the beginning line to a joke, but to a story about flamingos. I promise there’s no pithy lesson on wax-on, wax-off. We’re about to undergo a physical, emotional, and psychological test. We’re attempting to earn our next belt, or rank, in karate, thus allowing us to move on to new techniques and new skills. We put on our old belts and wait for the t...