Sticks and stones.

May break my break my bones but words will never hurt me.  The pen is mightier than the sword.  So which is it?  Do words have power or don’t they?  Should an author type a word, that fits beautifully with a character?  Or should they be responsible and censor themselves so they don’t hurt anyone?

When is it okay to say, what ever word?

For me personally, the F word, not rhymes with duck, is a biggy.  It’s like nails on a chalk board and I refuse to listen to music with that word in it.  I hope I’m not unique in this.  The word maybe different but there are certain ones that just bother the lizard part of your brain.

But, I’m a hypocrite.  If it appears in a truly amazing book, I’ll keep reading.  In Andrea Speed’s Infected series, Roan, is called it on several occasions.  Not only is he gay but he is also a feline shifter.  Kitty F*g.  It bothers me but I can see his strength of character and his humor in how he deals with it.

I don’t know how many female protagonists have been called B!tch and that doesn’t bother me either.  Maybe it’s because I’m male?  I don’t know.

So, when is it okay to use words that someone will be offended by?  To make a point?  To show a characters isolation?  Isn’t there a hundred other ways to do that?  You have roughly 80,000 words to show their isolation or make your point.

I guess it’s just something I have been thinking about a lot more lately.  I worked at a gas station and if you want to be called names you have never had the opportunity to be called before, work at a gas station.  Customers will not hold back.

I’ve been called: F*g, bitch, asshole, (all the standard ones) and Honkie.

I actually thanked the gentleman who called me that.  It was new, in my twenty almost one years of life no one has ever called me a honkie.  Cracker, sure, but cracker always struck me as odd/pitiful.  The only thing I can think of that would be less offensive is Chip.  Crackers are delicious and insanely useful in cooking.

N***** just means ignorant.  That can never be taken in a good way.

And I have seen authors use it too.  Their eyes were watching god.  That book they make you read in high school with the surprisingly crappy Halle Berry movie.

They read and show the movie in school, yet sex is hidden and made something OTHER.  I don’t get it.

So when is it okay for you to use these words?  I haven’t the foggiest.  Honestly.  And you could say that you aren’t using it, your characters are, but that’s a cop out.  You created your imaginary friends and you gave them the personality and place to use the words.

Words have power and I am personally going to try very hard to remember that.  If I have a character, who for some reason, uses whatever word, it will be for a better reason than quickly showing isolation or strength.

Though at the same token, if my imaginary friends (Like myself) cuss like a sailor, I won’t stop them.  Fu(kin $#!+, I hope that made some d@mn sense.

And peace on earth.


Story. Lessons. My mom.

Who? What? When? Where? Why? Taste. Touch. Smell. Hear. See.

The vital components of any story, fiction or non-fiction.  Show don’t tell.  Do this.  No do this.  You can’t say that.  You can’t do this.

I’ve wanted to be a writer for several years, basically the second I found out they had spell and grammar check.  I have always had thoughts, feelings and opinions on everything.  When I’m being overly blunt my mom laughs and points into the distance.  “Mom,” She says, “look how fat that lady is!”

Apparently when I was four I said this at the grocery store and she was shocked.  She fought her urge to pick me up and abandon our cart full of food.  Instead she bent down to my level and told me that the woman wasn’t fat, she was curvy and beautiful in her own right.

The woman didn’t like this.  She wanted me to be raked over the coals because she was offended.  My mom responded,  “My son made an observation. He had no effect on you.  He did not decide your weight, eating or exercise habits or even your glandular issues or family history that may have led to your curvy physique.  He expressed himself and I am proud that I have raised someone who can express themselves.”

Or something like that.  It changes every time she tells the story.  Regardless it has stuck with me.  I am who I am and I should express myself but I should do it in a way that doesn’t hurt someone else, physically or emotionally.  I should have some tact.

Writing is kind of like that.  If you eventually want someone, somewhere to see it, or even if there’s just a teeny tiny chance that someone may, you shouldn’t let it hinder your expression, but you should at least attempt to have some tact.

You should flourish in the thought that someone will agree with you and you shouldn’t let the people who want you to be raked over the coals stop you.  At the same time you shouldn’t give the coal people any extra ammo.  If it matters to you and you feel strongly about it, shout it from the roof tops, but be ready to defend yourself and everything that makes you what you are.

So those are my slightly circular thoughts.  Hopefully you don’t have a head ache.  Also hopefully the people who agree will shout louder than those who don’t.

Controversy is conflict.  Without conflict, story doesn’t exist.

Die Death!

So, I am super tired of people dying.  It sucks.  My grandma died tonight.  I picked up my cutting habit again, and am currently bleeding because crying made my nose all stuffy.  Seriously not a good reason, but I did it.

My dad, very supportively said, “Suck it up.  You’re twenty now, soon everyone you’ve ever known will die.  My parents are probably next.  And your siblings are all older than you by at least a decade, so you’ll get to go to their funerals too.”

Woo!  :.(

I’ve outlined three different books because of these awesome mile stones in my life.  After I outlined them, I emailed them to my bestie, and deleted any trace that they were ever on my laptop.

I have decided to take a mini vacation from my life.  I will now go out and hug everyone who’s first and last name I know.  Okay, probably not, I am an antisocial/social butterfly.  I know a lot of peoples.

I baked a dozen apple pies and didn’t eat any of them…  Hers were better.  Also I burned the first two.  I am up to thirteen Tiny Hats for the month of September.

My imaginary friends are now all immortal because I don’t want them to die.  It used to be fun to kill them in new and more evil ways.  Like the Sims.  That game is the best, I’m sure everyone has played it but if you haven’t you should.  Tiny computer people are at your mercy.  You are a god to your Sims.  You can make them go to the bathroom and then take a way the door so they’ll starve.  Remove the ladder when they swim so they drown.  Hit their tiny little universe with a tornado because gods get bored of happy little healthy people.  It’s like author-ing only more sociopathic.  Woo….

Anyways hope all of your people stay alive.  Call them say you love them and ask for all their good food recipes because demanding that they live to be 187 will not necessarily make it so and you will miss the tastes.

Would you keep Reading?

The sixteenth of November is the hardest day of the year.  Penny vanishes and leaves me all alone.  She can’t deal with the day any better than I can, but she can hide better.

How sad is it that the shattered pieces of yourself have to protect themselves from something in your past?

I haven’t slept in two days.  I won’t sleep today either.  I should have been better, I should have been smarter, I should have stopped him.

The phone rang and I threw it against the wall. The battery flew one way and the phone flew the other.

Today I cried.  Today I lay curled up on the floor in his hoodie and I let the darkness take me.  There were no nightmares to paint, no one else in the world.  Just me, alone.


I flinched.  “Not real.”

“I’m not?  Or your not?”

I smelled decay.  It coated the back of my throat and seeped into my pores.  “You’re not.”

“Samuel, is that any way to speak to your creator?”  The Father laughed.

“Tried to break us.  He created us.”  I pulled the hood over my head, rolled over and nibbled on cold ramen.

“I am the reason you have magic, power.”

“You are nothing.  Not anymore.  You can’t hurt us anymore.”  A while later, I rolled back over, I couldn’t smell the Father anymore.

Alone, again.

You need a platform!

Every site, blog, vlog, author, agent and publisher says that authors need a platform.  It makes sense.  Build your audience.  Tell folks when your books are coming out…  I feel strongly against it.

I’m boring, at least to myself.  I am like a platypus, neat, but I don’t really do much.  I have secrets and quirks and problems…  But I am average.  I’m not even the hero of my own story.

I like my imaginary friends better.  They are full of piss and vinegar.  They say what’s on their minds, they do things I can’t, wouldn’t and shouldn’t.  Their pasts are rife with weirdness, wonder and tragedy.

I’ve written worlds full of monsters, fairies, love, hate and chocolate.  I’ve written about characters coming out to their parents and being accepted.  Children being abused.  Cutters, drug addicts, stick thin cheerleader stereotypes.  I like them much better.  They amaze and excite me.  They help me deal with everything and nothing.

Their stories tie up in to neat (or slightly disheveled) bows.  Mine, I won’t even get to see.  I won’t have foreshadowing necessarily, or a moment of true happiness before death knocks on my door.

My characters look at my flaws and judge me harshly or they offer their support in my struggles.  Real, living breathing people are unpredictable and I am a control freak.

Thank you to all ya’ll who read this…

Part of a platform is consistency, so from here on out, I will post every Thursday.  I might sprinkle in some more, if I’m not off on an adventure with my imaginary friends.  😀

Better late than never…

Life’s life.  Sorry   Now as promised, here are chunks of stories I’m working on.  The first is kind of a joke on romantic comedies.  The main character Opal Mason is a klutz, who is in love with her boss.  Her hair tells her how her entire day will be, just by how it looks in the morning.

The second is something I’ve literally just started (maybe a month ago) and it’s darker, and a bit more magically inclined.  Urban fantasy.  The main characters, Samuel and Penelope share a body.  Samuel will be written like this…  Penelope will be written like this…


Journal # 11

Today was awful.  It was completely expected but still I was surprised by just how awful it was.  My hair looked like crap, my not so cute curls just wouldn’t straighten, now matter how hot my flat iron was.

My only clean shirt (because I forgot to do laundry) was shiny, ruffled, white blouse, which was missing the top button and as luck would have it, my only clean bra was black.  I looked like a frizzy whore.  A very cheap, non-well put together, frizzy whore, who got dressed in the dark.

The highlight of this “great” day was when my boss, Dean, super hunk extraordinaire, said “Morning Opal.”  Which isn’t technically sexual, but if you saw him you would say, “Damn that dude, oozes sex!”  And you would be correct.

My blood rushed to parts unknown.  (Okay so maybe like 6 or 8 guys have explored.) I got distracted by his sex ooze.  So when he said, “Morning Opal.”  I got light headed and such, and fell down the stairs, ripped my pants and landed on top of Ralph, the creepy mail guy.  He smells like burnt popcorn and garbage.

His smell attached itself to my clothes so I had to get rid of them.  Bye bye hoe shirt, you will be missed… Probably.  Today couldn’t have been worse if it had tried.  OMG.  Just what I wanted, to be contradicted by the universe again.

My bestie, Amy, just texted me to tell me that my mishap is on Youtube.  With over a eight thousand hits.  *Checks watch.  It’s only been three hours!  FML.



My night lasted about three hours.  My sleeping bag was drenched in sweat and I slid on the wood floors when I stood up.

Carpets.  And a bed.

I half sprinted half tumbled down the spiral staircase.  The canvas’ were in a pile in the hallway.  I picked one up, situated it on an easel and scattered my paint bottles around myself in a circle.

I checked the clock, 4 am.  I’d been painting for three hours.  I sighed and noticed for the first time, that there was no music on.  The appartment seemed hollow in its absense.  Maybe it was just me.

I walked into the kitchen and grabbed the Jack Misty hadn’t wanted earlier.  I took a big gulp and it burned going down.  I smiled and took a couple more.  I opened a drawer and pulled out my weed.  Three joints.  It would do.  Need to find a new dealer.

Dealer, carpets, bed, other furnature.

I touched the walls and checked my hand, the paint was dry.  I took the painting off the easil and set it against the wall.  Another canvas took its place.

“Not drunk enough,” I murmered to myself.  Liquor bottles joined the paint bottles in the circle.  The stereo started playing Penny’s song and…

“And I could tell it wouldn’t be long!”  I sang.  I opened my eyes and, “Seriously?  Sam… Fuck it…  He was with me, yeah with me.  Singing I love ROCK AND ROLL!”  I spun around in the circle of Sam’s dispair, sung my heart out and when the song was over, I picked up his pieces.  



I picked up the vodka and shrugged.  “A bit more won’t hurt me.  Da!”  I said and screwed the cap back on.  It joined the other bottles in the cabniet.  I looked in the fridge and sighed again. 

Once everything was put away I took a shower.  The sweat clung to my skin and I scrubbed harder.  Sam’s shampoo smelled like apples and it left my hair soft.  I toweled off and left the clothes in the bathroom.  Naked I climbed the spiral staircase and looked out over the new appartment.  Not bad.  Little creepy, but what can you do?

My clothes were in a suitcase at the bottom of the closet.  I dug through it, throwing clothes over my shoulder as I went.  Finally, at the bottom, of course, I found my corset.  The artifical breasts jiggled constantly while I secured the hooks in the front.  I blow dried my hair and put it up in two pig tails.  I silently thanked Sam for not cutting it all off… I knew how much he hated the extra length, but it was just so pretty.

I found a black with red pinstriped dress and pulled it on.  “Here boots, here booty booty boots!”  I sang as I searched the appartment for my boots.  “Always the last place you look.”  I smiled and walked over to the door.  There was a note taped to the wall above them.


I crumpled it up and threw it behind me.  I found the keys on top of the fridge and headed out.  The cool early morning air felt great on my skin.  The neon lights of a tattoo parlor called my name but I ignored them.  This is my new city.  I smiled to myself.

Several hours of wondering around later I found a house that was far to tempting for me to do anything but give in.  There front yard was a true eden for me.  Gnomes in all shapes and sizes were litereally everywhere.  I smiled at them.  “Hello, Mr. Gnome.  I think you’d look better over here.”  I picked him up and moved him about five inches to the right.  “Mr. Other Gnome, wouldn’t you like to be closer to the tree.”

A while later I stood in the middle of the street staring at my masterpiece.  Gnomes, all moved slightly from their origonal posision in the yard, some tipped over, some huddled together and some away from the group.  “Beautiful.”  I blew them a kiss.  The porch light turned on and I ran behind a tree.

“OH MY GOD!!!  Mary Lou!  Somebody moved the gnomes!”

“What!?  No!”

I giggled and took off running.  “Another Gnome universe turned on its head!  Woo hoo!”

After a couple of blocks I sat down and tried to smoke.  “Lungs, come on!  I believe in you.”  After a few more failed attempts to enjoys the cigarette, I threw it and rose to my feet with a yawn.  “Okay time to go to bed.”  My stomach growled.  “Okay, food then bed.  I wonder if Sam has any pot left.”

I woke up and checked my watch, noon.  “One second,” I called and the banging on the door finally stopped.  I took two asprin and shoved the bottle back into the sleeping bag.

I tripped over Penny’s boots and looked down at myself.  I sighed and took off the dress she’d slept in, threw it in the pile of her clothes that were now everywhere and unhooked the corset.

I grabbed a hoodie and a pair of jeans off the floor and pulled them on.  The pounding started again.  I sprinted to the door, pulled it open and exclaimed, “Seriously, knock that shit the fuck off!”

The guy in the hallway just smirked at me.  “Hung over?”

“Yes.  Paintings?”

He nodded.

“One second.”  I shut the door and walked over to my bag.  I pulled out three hundred dollars and went back to the door.  “Here’s three hundred dollars, I need you to drive them to the DDO gallery.”


“Fine.”  I went back inside and pulled out two more.  I grabbed my keys off the kitchen floor.

“Ms. Argos,” I said when she picked up the phone.

“Yes, Mr. Knight?  The paintings were delivered?”

“Be there in ten.”

“How are you transporting them?”

“Paid the delivery guy.”

“Okay.  I’ll be in the alley behind the gallery, just have him back in.”

I hung up and turned to the delivery guy.  “Alley.”

She guided him using wild arm gestures.  He stopped, put the truck in park and looked at me.

“No idea,” I said before he could ask.

Ms. Argos held open the door while he moved the wooden crates in.  “Just set them next to that wall,” She told him before turning to me.  “So the show is on wednesday and you can paint on sunday the twenty-third.”

I nodded.

“What’s this collection called?  Is it going to be Ashes2 or something new?”

“Down the Rabbit Hole.”

“Like Alice in Wonderland?”

“Only a lot less pleasent.”  Once the last painting was in the gallery and the truck pulled away I said, “see you sunday.”

“You’re leaving?  Don’t you want to see my reaction?”

“Have a bucket handy.”  With that I turned and walked down the alley.

Okay, hope you liked it.  Any comments or questions are awesome.


Writery stuff. Readery stuff. Aftermath.

So, right now I am working on a couple manuscripts, I’ll probably post a chunk of them tomorrow.   I read a post about depression and how it makes it hard to do things.  I understand, with one exception, I always write from a dark place, the more I want to just…  Well anyways, I write best when I can’t see the keyboard through tears.

I don’t know if anyone else has read Andrea Speed’s Infected series.  Book three will make you want to smack anyone who smiles for like a week.

She is a beautiful writer and so very good with words.  Obviously I am not.  The blog posts are probably first drafty and I am actually okay with that.  I’m just talking to myself mostly anyways.

I had twenty seven cigarettes today.  Had thirty yesterday so I am doing pretty good.  My sister is one of my best friends and she is concerned about me.

“Hey, Have I told you lately that I love you? I think you are one of the bravest giving passionate creative person that I have ever had in my life.”-Sister2

The only other male at my work place, hit on me today.  I’m not entirely sure if he was serious.  I’m kind of hoping he wasn’t.  He’s to good for me.  Like A&F could use him as a model.  I’m twig thin and lacking in every muscle group.

I’ve been wondering a lot lately what makes someone mature?  Is it age? Attitude?  What?

Also what makes someone brave? What is the difference between stupid and brave and why?

Also, also, (terrible grammar) How long is it okay to grieve?  Is there a time limit and are there healthy ways to deal with it?

Even MORE also, is punching the mother of a dead friend appropriate grieving?  And before there are confused angry “hell no’s!”  Let me just explain that I am not a violent person, to others, except verbally occasionally.  She asked me why I had to make him gay.

At his funereal.

I’m not religious, but I felt like saying what I wanted to in front of a priest was kind of wrong.

I really just wanted to scream “Gay is something you are or your not!  Bitch is a choice you have so clearly made.  He is dead and you still can’t love him.  He was beautiful.  A light in this shit hole of a world and you couldn’t see it through the eighty layers of make up you slather on your face.  Your his mother.  You were his mother, where’s the unconditional love your supposed to have for the child that grew inside of your gapping whore vag?”

I wish she was a character in a book, preferably the main character so she might make sense to me.

One song stuck in my emo head today, Bad bad day- P!nk.

I’ve had a bad bad day but who gives a shit.  Could be sad all day but I don’t feel like it!