The Calm Before The Storm

I don’t actually think I believe in the calm before the storm. The storm always breaks well before the rain, you can feel it in your mind, watch the darkness gathering in the distance, pulling you towards it like a wave rolling towards the shore. Feel the dread in your guy, heavy in the air, saturated.

York was lovely, a truly adorable city, but marred by the doom waiting to tip over our heads, the water balloon already in transit to smash into our face.

You’re never just paranoid. You know when something isn’t right. When something has gone unsaid.

I made myself horribly sick on it and have made the long-overdo pact with myself to give up drinking. Not in a black and white way. In a way that’s like… Why have I ever invested so much time and energy to make myself sick in a new friend’s dirty toilet for a day?

How would I need that when there is this?




Also, we went to a drag show.


But now we are back in Edinburgh, waiting out the storm. Maybe one of these days the rain will stop.


Day Forty-Four: Mardi Gras


Made it to New Orleans in time to catch a parade called Muses (it’s an all women’s Krewe). Had a good time. They throw shoes out to lucky folks and–hooray!–I caught one so… looks like it’s going to be my lucky year.

I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say now. I’m in recovery. Let’s just say I had to take a little nap in the bathroom this morning. Lucky Year is starting off right?

I have to go to a Ball tonight. Wow, poor me. I HAVE to go to a Ball. My life is so hard. It’s a lot of pomp and circumstance and people throwing money around like it’s candy. It’s hard to watch when you only have $25 in your checking account.

I love this city. I love Mardi Gras, but New Orleans is the city with the strangest priorities. Have a speeding problem in your community? Stop fixing potholes and no one speeds anymore. Have a drug problem? Sell alcohol everywhere and at all times, then you just have legal drug problem.

It’s a very strange place. Wonderful. Interesting. Magical. And insane. If I weren’t writing Fantasy… Every story that takes place in this world that I hereafter write will probably be set in this city.

Day Twenty-Five: A Dance With Johnny Walker

Have holed myself up on my father’s couch with a bag of throat lozenges and an insanely fluffy comforter (feeling ill). The weekend’s wedding was wonderful. I’m not a huge wedding person, though. I think they’re great parties but I can’t, for the life of me, think of a good reason why I’d personally choose to get married so that cynicism has a tendency to spill over at times like these. They’re wonderful people though, and I wish them the most wonderful future together.

Love confounds me in a way. No, not love. Love is the act of confounding a person so that’s pretty straightforward. Maybe it’s just marriage that leaves me grasping at pins. What’s the reason for it? I think it’s a well-meaning reassurance, perhaps. But I don’t think I’ll ever be optimistic or determined enough to slap a guarantee on another person. Nothing in life comes with a life-long assurance. But that’s just my personal experience. People are the hardest to love–we’re very unpredictable. That’s what I enjoy so much about being a human. You never know what we’re going to do next.

That being said, the wedding was a riot. Had to have cost an ample fortune. The beer was great. The damn bartender refused to give me a double. Also, I forgot to bring a bra so I had to borrow one from my stepmother (and I can assure you, nothing makes you reconsider all of your life-choices like borrowing a bra from an older relative. The granny-bra is a real thing… do they not know about the great strides we have made in hosiery?). I am a whole new shade of shit-show. (And writing for children, too! What a sham.)

Anyway, I don’t have much to update. I drank enough Johnny Walker at the wedding to think myself some strange combination of Ginger Rogers (I owned that dance floor) and Hemingway. Tried to do a bit of inebriated editing while watching ice skating at 2 am last night… It didn’t go too well, but I don’t think I made it too far before I could do any real damage. Thank god, the whisky didn’t make me that ambitious. I swear no one should edit in that state.

I’m planning a massive read of chapters 5-8 and an angry letter to the Creative Factory about still not having read 1-4. You know it’s bad when even your best friend can’t make it through 4 chapters of your writing… I’m desperate for criticism. Like even something scathing would be great. Anything. I’d kill for someone to just read it. Right now, there’s no one (at least not anyone with the time and/or relationship hanging in the balance). I’m like a day away from sending this stuff to my mom, that’s how desperate I am. I’m going crazy because no one is telling me anything.

The worst news is no news. Someone please help me!

Day Two: And Then There Was Alcohol

Hi, today was very successful writing-wise. I wrote the ending of my book. Good job me. So then I tried to drink wine, but realized that at least one of my six corkscrews is not here so instead I drank whisky and made up names for characters.

Let me just tell you, it is very fun to name children that don’t actually exist. Also, people will name their kids some vey weird things. I have just spent the past hour on a baby name site. I’m writing like sci-fi, so really I can name characters whatever I damn well choose, but I havent even had to make up a name yet because there is some crazy stuff out there. By far my favorite so far is
probably Tömörbatar or maybe Eustaquio. Those are going to be some great charcaters. I may rewrite the whole damn thing and just call it, The Epic Adventures of Tömörbatar and Eustaquio! I’d read that book. Definitely.

In other news, I should like paint stuff or hang up clothes, but to be perfectly honest I am still wearing my pajamas and it is Friday night so… nah.

Also, in another strange turn of events I have gone back to college mentally and started eating Party Pizzas again and I would like to take this time to write a strongly worded letter to the Party Pizza People and say that I ordered a pepperoni pizza tonight and it definitely had sausage on it. I am very upset. It’s not that I mind sausage,it’s just like, Yo, where is my pepperoni?



Ok, I just checked the box and realized it was a Triple Meat Party Pizza so I will not be writing that letter today.

I am drinking whisky out of like the cutest class you have ever seen. How is it that I don’t own a wine screw but I have a goddamn appertif glass? What is wrong with me. This is not very Hemingwayian. Also, fun fact, Hemingway did not write for children. Children are weird. Am I facing some sort of genetical mid-life-mid-life crisis. OH well. I get to write about someone I just named Joosseppii. Life is great.

This is that cute glass I was talking about:


You know what would be fun? Why don’t you guys name some people for me? Yeah. Ever known a really great name? Send it to me and I’ll name a character in my book that. I’m not even kidding. Mostly I need girls names. Just send me a crazy-ass grills name and I’ll put it in this damn book.

I’m going to post some pictures so you guys can see my life. Ok, friends and people. I’m gonna keep making up names for people. One day people may or may not call me a genius, but you guys. You guys will know the truth.

Also, please observe the wreckage that is my pantry. You know what they say about on’s pantry being a gateway into one’s mind?


Ok, they dont say anything about that. But how am I supposed to live like this?!

(Actually… see that tiny jar right there in the middle? That’s something they call Cookiebutter which I am most upset to find out exists only this week, but my dad bought me at Trader Joe’s and let me tell you, it is the key to happiness… so really I’m doing just fine.)