sleep inside of this machine


my friend Kevin recently shared this most accurate article on Brand New’s The Devil and God are Raging Inside Me, a record that at nearly twenty-nine years of age, I still can’t shake. you can read the article here.

Ryan Bassil’s words penetrated my thoughts and set my wheels turning. I’m pretty thankful for that considering I’ve had plenty to say and no real inspiration to say it. I vividly remember purchasing the CD a few months after my dad passed away; I would sit in my car for hours, looping that record until my ears couldn’t bear the weight of the words. I’d fall to sleep with “Jesus/Jesus Christ” on repeat and wake up to “Welcome to Bangkok.” I really couldn’t get enough no matter how much it hurt me to listen to it. The entire thing blends, echos and separates so much love, loss and pain. It’s still hard for me to listen to it (but I do.)

This notion got me thinking: what else do we cling to in this way? My initial response to Kevin was the idea that I connected to and rejected the record every time I listened to it, and it’s true. But why? What else do we treat this way?

I’ve spent the better part of this Brand New morning talking over coffee with friends,  in seemingly distant reflection, and it may have just served me more than I realized. That tends to happen when we aren’t really paying attention. Personal reflection is luxury I don’t often take these days because I’m never quite sure what I’m going to find there. Maybe that’s why I’ve avoided my voice here for so long because I’m not sure what will come out. Today, I’d like to sing.

In regards to the record, and the time it landed in my hands, I’d surpassed “teenage angst” and launched full-fledged in to “mad at the world.” Brand New’s 2003 record, Deja Entendu was really what fueled all of my wildly out of control emotions all through high school; there’s just something about listening to that kind of poetry. It’s inspired me to write similarly nearly every time I sit down to write.

I’m not sure if those sort of innate things ever go away, but perhaps, change shape and intention. I’m still slightly angry at the world, especially now with all of the extra hate and violence and general heartlessness, but my will to do something about it has stemmed and blossomed.

Bringing back focus to my actual point with this random ramble: Do songs ever leave us? Does anyone else believe that they shape who we are? The way we communicate? Let me hear your thoughts; mine are everywhere.




do the write thing


I decided tonight would be the best night to get it over with; let my fingers meet the keys with no real intention at all, to figure out what the hell I’ve been doing, and where I’ve been for the last few months. It seemed like it was just March and I was making a mental note to write that short story about things I’ve read, make that one correction to a piece I started in February, draft that outline (a singular novel about my father.) And now here it is, middle of October, and I’ve done nothing. I’ve been avoiding this chair like the plague. Today, it caught up with me. This will make little to no sense at all, and without a doubt with serve no other purpose than to empty my thoughts of these thoughts, so please feel free to skip and scroll down to the song I’ve left you if that doesn’t sound alright.

I was antsy with the thought of how good it was going to feel to sit here and write something profound and well-stated for my mid-term paper, but those thoughts can’t come out until the rambling ones do.

The notion to write has been there, the inspiration and all that. I’ve got more characters in my head than I possibly know what to do with, each adding a little layer a day at a time, filling future books with all sorts of excellent nonsense. That’s if and when I give it much thought; it’s either all at once or nothing at all, and it drives me up the wall. It occurred to me that I may be dwindling my own craft by not putting pen to page, as it were. I saw another pen-plagued friend the other day, and it reminded me why we do what we do, and how well we do it when we finally decide. A decision not easily arrived.

It’s a heavy thing, this pen. The strength which it takes to pick it up is not a burden I’m inclined towards, some days. You have to sort and sift and bury and camouflage and that is so hard after you’ve been about the business of living all day. Other days, like today, I cannot get the words out fast enough, silencing the organized-chaotic around me.

I am shaking my head as I type this. I feel positively drowsy with inspiration sometimes, which makes me avoid it all the more. It’s a commitment I begrudge because I do love it so much, almost vainly.“If I start, I’ll never stop.” I wish I were kidding, but I think if I allowed myself to just sit and write all the pieces I wanted, I’d be in this chair for four years. FOUR. YEARS. I’m sure someone is sitting there, interpreting this as a humble brag, but I am really distressed at the thought of having to organize and manage these individual thoughts for longer than a minute. Hell, four minutes is agony, I can’t imagine more.

I’ve really missed the noisy corner of my mind, but the accidental quiet was a nice surprise. When you spend a certain amount of time with your characters, you sort of lose your wits a bit; much like when we get lost in a book we’re reading. – I just finished The Keepers of the House by Shirley Ann Grau and it was absolutely wonderful. If you haven’t, you should. – But the writing process is longer and so much more treacherous. Why did that character say that? Why did she phrase it that way? Does that sound feminist? Do I want it to sound feminist? Do I need to switch gears and go in a different direction? I hate this. I’m deleting the whole thing. I wonder if there’s coffee in the pot. I hate heating up old coffee. Caffeine. [walks to coffee pot] OH! I KNOW WHAT I CAN – [walks back to computer]SHIT! What was it I was going to say?! FCKKK!!! It really is annoying and wonderful and I have truly missed creating space with words.

I suppose the real issue I’m circling here is: what comes next? There are a few scary things I want a write, and I want to make a collection of those. I’d love to finish the follow-up to The Anchor but I don’t want to spend too much more time there, not now. I’ve been in Beulah for too long to want to visit so soon. But what next? The short stories, I feel, won’t be satisfactory and I have too much going on to write another novel, which seems twice as appealing because I can’t do that at this time. I’ve got the itch so bad and I am not allowed to scratch. So, what is this? Writer’s block or indecision? Or can I just not commit?

feel no ways (all ways)


something strange happened tonight. I didn’t know it was happening while it was happening, but I somehow managed to seamlessly and mindlessly unblock my write brain.

I have said many, many times – and maybe it jinxed me – that I have been fortunate enough to avoid the feared writer’s block. I wrote an entire book – I can’t say “first novel,” it feels pretentious – in a span of five months, ideas constantly flowing, shaping and reshaping the story. I’ve written whimsy pieces since then, short scary stories and a few travel blogs. But nothing of substance.

Tonight, my relentless question of “why?”-  for literally everything – got the best of me.

I was pouring a cold brew this morning before I knew what my hands were doing, mentally making notes about Mrs. Peach (a future character from a maybe-novel). I randomly found myself at Marshall’s after work, smelling candles for forty-five minutes, attempting to find the perfect scent. I grabbed a fancy-schmance macchiato from the best barista in town on my way home, purposely lingering to avoid getting in my car. I found a podcast to shut my mind up, but I couldn’t silence  Madeleine Peyroux’s voice, crooning in my ear. I “forced” myself to eat left over samosas before I sat down in the chair. I painted my nails, watch some trashy TV, cleaned up the bathroom and neatly organized my clean laundry into a body-pillow. <—— all the things to keep me from sitting down to write this pour-over.

Once I finally realized what was happening, what I was dying to do but didn’t realize I wanted to do it, I began asking myself a series of the questions, in a rather shouty, British voice: Why are we killing each other? Why are we hateful, on purpose? Why do we hang on to shit that’s two or thirteen or twenty-five years old? Why is a celebrity running for PRESIDENT? Why did it take me so long to read Harry Potter? Why are we constantly trying to defend ourselves?

Y’all, I just don’t know. This is really just a free-flow conversation, I want to know what the hell is happening out there? How is it hard to come to some sort of peace, in any given situation? It’s mindbending to think that we’ve managed to digress. I’m genuinely plagued over the well-being of society and where we stand morally as a group and as individuals. I am free-spirited and open-minded and yadda yadda until I can’t see straight, but I’ve really got the blues.

It seems that everyone I talk to is facing some sort of larger-than-life adversity and I just don’t know who to talk to about it. Is there someone I can see or speak to about all this? The thing is, I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Do I start with student loans or the fact that we’re still having an issue with everyone using the same bathroom? Or how about how women treat women and how men treat women and how almost everyone is actually shitty and limited in emotion and honesty?

I promise I’m not flinging myself off an existential bridge or anything, but if we’re technically responsible for our own happiness…WHY THE HELL ARE WE SO HARD ON OURSELVES? ON PURPOSE!!??!!!??? WHY CAN’T WE JUST LOVE EACHOTHER?


Ugh. Okay, I’m sorry. Pen down, I promise. Rant over. More to come in a more cohesive, less (or more) caffeinated frame.

feel no ways


oh baby, i was bound for mexico.


I’ve been home two weeks and just managed to get my suitcases off the floor. All of my clothes from the trip have been washed and dried several times; I put some back in the open-face suitcase just so it looked a little fuller, the rest have formed a nice body pillow on my bed. It’s like I can’t mentally let go of this trip. I feel that if I really unpack, put my clean laundry away and store all of my tiny, TSA approved toiletries, the experience is over. I can’t deal.

In my mind, I see the low, burnt, orange peel of a moon that guided us from Alexandria to Shreveport, through to Dallas and on to the bright, freshly squeezed sun of Cancun, and I smile. I should have known that the rare moon symbolized how unique and unpredictable the trip was going to be. The group trip, my first real trip with more than my family and a few friends, to Tulum, Quintana-Roo was new nostalgia, permanent memories that have only crossed me in my dreams ever-so often, but not quite enough.

Last night I stuck my mouth under the cool faucet for a rinse after brushing my teeth, a feeling I reveled in like never before. We couldn’t do that in Mexico, not where we were (though I wouldn’t recommend doing that anywhere. I think my stomach is still pissed for the few sips that seeped in.) That refreshing swish reminded me of how easy we have it in America, the simple luxury that is pure drinking water; we’re spoiled. The word germophobe seems like the most asinine term in the dictionary; we know nothing of germs, disease, or real poverty here. In Tulum, I had to wipe and throw my toilet paper in the trash, as there is no real sewage system. As you can imagine, this wasn’t pleasant for the first day or so, but we all got used to it. Well, kind of.

The simple act of being unable to flush my poop humbled me, though I was humbled over and over throughout the trip, and thought constantly of how I hoped my attitude towards the place I call home would change.I am here to say, my perspective has been thoroughly and forever reshaped; the United States, and the people in it, will never be the same in my mind. It’s one thing to read about countries like this, it’s another to see it; while we definitely do have an impoverished, homeless population here, the face is totally different from the one I saw in Tulum.

Our Riviera Maya AirBnB surpassed spectacular, though I wasn’t positive I was going to feel that way getting there. I’ll admit it, I was being judgy. After arriving in Cancun, we had to find transportation to our home in Tulum, which was about an hour or so away – technically two but there is one speed in Mexico and that is fast: the speech, the food, the taxis. All the speed of light. We drove through Cancun in all of its over-sized, Americanized, touristy glory. We drove past dwarfing entrances to exclusive resorts, spas and – what I assume to be – rehabilitation centers. And then, just as I was nodding off, weary from thirty hours or so of awakeness, we entered Tulum.

The roads were dirty and only lightly peppered with people, a sight I am always happy to see, especially when traveling; crowds aren’t really my thing anymore. We zoomed through what I mentally labeled “Bohemia” and eventually slammed in to the residential area that backed up to the jungle – yes, you read that right. I didn’t know what to think, so I surveyed the area in a decaffeinated haze: overcast sky, trees everywhere, many stray dogs. Isn’t it supposed to be sunny? Where’s the beach? I was promised beach!!! A faint stench in the air filled my nose – trash and salt, mostly – not a great smell but my senses adjusted quickly. Late twenties early thirties men stood at all levels, working on various houses. Some looked on with friendly faces, others whistled, while the rest just stared and laughed at the group of Americans trying to count pesos. – We didn’t get very good at this until the third day of the trip. And by we I mean everyone else, because I would just melt in to a weeping, margarita puddle every time we had to figure out what we owed. I learned I am not good with currency exchange.

Our host greeted us a few minutes later and upon opening the door to the casa we could only stand with our jaws on the floor or meander around in wonderment. The house was three stories high, ground floor hosting two more than reasonably sized rooms, a large kitchen and dining space, and a patio/swimming pool to boot. Second floor was the master suite, which include a giant office/multimedia room, and the top floor was designed for open-seating and hammock swinging. We were in paradise, and we hadn’t seen the beach yet!

I immediately tossed my bag on the floor and began exploring the house…the massive, amazing space I’d only seen in my dreams or magazines on airplanes. Our host, a lovely Scottish chap, completely designed the place himself and lived a few doors down in an equally impressive casa. I could do nothing but drink it all in; two hours in to Mexico and I’d already mentally filled half of a notebook with observations.


third story swingin’


After we’d settled in to our spaces, the seven of us set off in search of tacos, because what else would we want after landing in Mexico? We found tacos, we found the best tacos straight out the gate at a little hole in the wall, La Chiapaneca. I think everyone was picturing dinner at a beautiful, patio-style restaurant with a menu pages and pages long. Instead, the seven of us huddled around a table just big enough to fit us all, were served drinks with no ice and ordered tacos by the plate, which were served plain. I was so excited I got to decorate my own tacos with: hotter than hell Habanero sauce, cool jalapeno sauce, lettuce and sliced radishes. I was in taco heaven.

I promised myself I would eat fifteen tacos on the trip, though only made it through five; I had to branch out and try some other things. Authentic Mexican fare was just too good to pass up.


Other fresh delicacies that couldn’t be missed? Local markets that were filled with amazing fruits and vegetables that we would eventually chop up and snack on all week.

I have to take the time to mention the freaking spectacular mojitos at a local bar named Batey’s (Ba-tay.) Seriously, if you’re ever in the area, this is a must. We were ushered in by the friendliest staff in town and served mojitos so fresh I looked around for a mojito tree. The large glasses of the sweet drink were packed with homegrown mint, fruit of your choice (I chose watermelon, for the first few)and completed with a raw sugar cane. Can you say perfection? The evening was just beginning as our first round of drinks arrived and Maria and her husband – a 60+ professional flamenco dancer/guitarist duo – took the stage. We were entertained by the charming couple for a few hours; long enough to catch a thick buzz that would lull me in to the sleep of the dead.



Our first morning in Tulum was cloudy and gorgeous. I was surprised when a cool breeze hit me in the face as I walked up the steps for an early swing in the hammock. Everyone else slept while I took in the quiet sounds of morning. I rocked back and forth and thought about how just hours ago I’d been on American soil, feeling overwhelmed by the arrival and passing of summer. Life is constantly pushing us forward, and sometimes, rather quickly.

Through my contemplation, I heard the arrival of the men building new houses in our neighborhood. I heard one talking loudly, a voice so close I thought he was behind me. I said, “Hola,” to the faceless voice and heard nothing, then out of nowhere, a tiny hat and pair of dark brown, smiling eyes popped up over the edge of the house and the voice greeted me, “Hola, senorita.” I smiled back, waved and headed down the stairs as the hat disappeared.

Other voices were exchanging random dialogue as I meandered back in to the house in search of coffee. Here’s a thing about Mexico that I don’t like: instant coffee. Though I didn’t understand why then, it has donned on me since that instant coffee uses less water for preparation; makes perfect sense now, though I still don’t enjoy it. To satiate my coffee craving (craving = addiction) my loving boyfriend and his sweet sister took me to find a cup of hot coffee. We walked through the quiet streets scouting out potential supper spots, noting where to rent bicycles, and who had the best vegetarian menus. I popped in to a few small Bodega in search of “non-preparado” coffee, with no luck at all. They really drink this shit like this?! Impossible! I’m coffee snob, no matter what country I’m in.


the perfect macchiato. i’m still drooling. 


The night before, on our short trek home, Krishna pointed out a little spot, Burrito Amor. I made a mental note that we should try it out, “how bad could it be? The word ‘burrito’ is in the name!” I’m so happy I love burritos so much and can be lured in so easily; it was hands-down the best decision of the trip…well, maybe. There, Neil found an iced coffee, Krishna an iced latte and a hot macchiato and a bag of coffee the size of my forearm for me. I was so so so pleased that I didn’t have to “suffer” through instant coffee for the rest of the trip. We brought burritos home for everyone, which we quickly consumed before heading to the beach.

Here’s where the trip becomes one long series of sunrises and sunsets for me. I don’t remember much of the details of each day because I was in such bliss. Our cab ride to the beach filled me with such wild anticipation, like I’d never seen a beach before or something; really, it was slightly ridiculous, but I didn’t care. The beach, any beach at all, is instantly my happy place. There’s something about the cohesiveness of it all: the sights, the sounds, the smell. I take it all in for as long as I possibly can, like a vitamin. This beach, Tulum, was no different; in fact, it was more.

FullSizeRender.jpgWe were dropped at a public beach, which if you’ve ever been to Pensacola or Destin, is beautiful but slightly overwhelming because of the crowds, nearby resorts, etc.

This beach was completely untouched, and I mean that when I say it. No resorts, no restaurants, no nothing aside from the small tiki bar that was serving up coconut drinks and fresh fish all day; talk about glorious. Upon walking up, it took everything in me not to drop my things and immediately run in to the water like a child. Sand, whiter than snow, ocean, bluer than any ink or paint I’ve seen on a palette. I close my eyes and think of it now and all I can do is sigh. How something like that can seem ordinary to anyone is beyond my comprehension.


The next few days were filled with long strolls through the jungle of Tulum to get from point A to point B, separate cab rides since vans were hard to come by, and random explorations of different parts of the city. I ate gorgeous fresh food, drank exotic coconut drinks and slept better than I have in years. It was equal parts vacation and work and I loved it. Working for your fun is totally worth the semi-headache.


 I’m really a mermaid.


I think my face was actually in water more than it was out and I’m pretty positive my hair was only dry while I was sleeping. I snorkeled in a cave! A CAVE! I did yoga in the middle of the jungle, taught by a woman who spoke more Spanish than she did English and then, I snorkeled some more. I felt like a living mermaid the entire trip and really gained some perspective about what’s been going on in my life and the world around me. It’s easy to feel small when you’re floating above a stingray that could cover you like a blanket.

FullSizeRender (3)

post snorkel snap



Mexico, for me, was about understanding that we need less than what we have and that we should be thankful every damn day that we’re immeasurably blessed with more. Growing up, I always stayed in resorts and had every little thing handed to me when I wanted it. I adored traveling that way, but even then I felt like I was missing part of the puzzle of these amazing places I was experiencing, and I was. I wouldn’t trade those memories for the world, but I’m glad to have to opportunity to immerse myself in different cultures in a fresh way.

One thing I can’t get over: when we went grocery shopping, we filled an entire basket full to the top with all kinds of things I knew we’d never eat in four days. What would have cost $150+ here was a whopping $70 there. I think about this every time I go to Wal-Mart/Target/wherever now. There were people just waiting for us to leave so they could go through our trash to see what could be salvaged. Could you imagine doing that? I know habits can’t change overnight, but this part of the trip humbled me in a way I can’t explain, and I am definitely making a conscious effort to clean my plate when I eat.

I realize I’m leaving out so many parts of this excursion of a lifetime, but I couldn’t possibly write it all down without it being lengthier than it already is. Tulum will always be this dream trip, where I swam with exotic fish while holding hands with the love of my life. It will be me looking over my shoulder on the ride back to the shore and seeing the Mayan ruins staring back at me. It will be the schoolkids buying tacos and ice cream from the cart outside their playground. It will be the long walks to nowhere and back, in the sun and in the shade. It will be sunsets, sunrises and the freedom, promise, and gratitude of more.



coconut dreams at the dive



happiness is real. 





until we meet again…

silent as the grave


I didn’t realize I’d been silent here for so long. I’ve had plenty in my head, just no real will to write it down and I don’t know why.

Sweeping nostalgia and melancholy drown my coherent thoughts; heavy rain tends to encourage this. I unearthed some old writings today, by a click of dumb luck and I’ve been at the coffee shop reeling for the last hour or two.

As I sit here with my empty cup of lavender tea, I wonder: will I always handle self-reflection best with a pen in my hand? It’s like the feelings aren’t validated unless written by my hand. I must write all of my emotions down with whimsy, veracity and honesty so biting I won’t be able to help the eye-roll when I re-read my own words.

I’m thankful for the awful music and loud chatter in here, it’s aiding in keeping my brain at bay…the things I read today could really use analysis and this isn’t the place.

Or maybe it is. Until I can muster up the courage to summarize the things my eyes have seen today, I shall contemplate the various ways one could illustrate the phrase “silent as the grave,” because sometimes zipped lips are better than loose ones….ships sail longer that way.

The Anchor


Well, well…I’ve managed to get my ass back in the chair long enough to shout at the rooftops, “I’M PUBLISHED!  WE DID IT!” My first novel is now available for purchase on Amazon, e-book format only. Wild, no?

you can buy The Anchor here.

I am more nervous now than when I hit “upload.” The idea of my closest friends and family, and complete strangers, reading the longest thing I’ve ever written is mind-boggling. What if they hate it? What if they love it? What if I didn’t say the right things, put the words together the right way? Well, it is what it is. 

I have made it abundantly clear, to myself and those around me, that I will more than likely never write something as fluffy and romantic ever again, though I’ve already written the first 10 pages or so of The Anchor’s intended follow-up. It was a wonderful process, one I’ve gushed about many, many times on this platform (please feel free to go back through archived stuff for gushiness concerning my first novel; it’s incredibly sweet.) I just feel like this project is so…bare; so reflective, open and completely honest about a time in my life that I tried to keep as private as possible; emotion hidden even from myself. I don’t think one feeling has been left out..that’s a lot of feels, y’all. Regardless of how ballsy and daring, I felt as though this project needed sharing, if only for the personal realization that I CAN do this. Aside for sharing my love for yoga and music, writing is what I want to do; I’ve finally landed on a niche.

I’m already working on my next project, and “far from romantic” is an understatement. I hope to release a brief synopsis within the month. I will once again relentlessly submit my words for representation, but I like the unconventionality of self-publishing.

Instead of leaving you with a blog-track, I’m going to leave this playlist here. I’ve always believed that books should have accompanying soundtracks because you hear music when you read; though you may not listen to music while reading, you may recall certain events when you hear certain songs. These “Honorable Mentions” are scattered throughout the novel and close to my heart. Please enjoy!

The Anchor: Honorable Mentions

Thank you to those who have continually read my blog, who looked at The Anchor before it was what it now and to my amazing counter-part who not only designed all of the fabulous artwork, but co-edited with me as well. I say we did pretty damn well for two “unprofessional” publishers.

I am so incredibly thankful for this writing life, regardless of how tired I am.

a little risk


If you know me, you know that I am pee-in-my-pants-excited to say that as of Thursday, I’m a semi-self-published author. I am excited, really. But I also feel extreme relief.


My writing is nowhere close to where it was when I started the Anchor, not even a little. I think I will dedicate my life to the darker side of writing, the creepy, the cringe worthy. I think stretches my imagination more, allowing me to focus on creating worlds people only dream of (or fear.) I feel so removed from the girl who started writing this sweet southern romance, though I appreciate and thank her for starting the project, she lit the fire. I still love the characters, they will always remain close to me. I am happy to finally feel confident enough to let them out of my brain and loose in the world. I spent the weekend wondering if I will feel this way with all of my characters? Forever tied to them but capable of healthy separation? Is that possible? As an artist, I wonder if I’ll ever move past what strikes and moves me, or if heavier things will always remain my inspiration; an answer I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to put to words.

This book changed me forever.

If you read any form of this book previously, I ask you to toss out what you remember or know, and read this book as wholly new, a separate piece from the thing before. Walter’s voice is so so sooooo different now. I was trying to work with three empty voices I couldn’t hear correctly instead of focusing on one; a trait of the times I suppose. I hadn’t quite found footing on independence in the beginning of this story, but once I grasped it, Bridget was able to find some freedom as well.I surprised myself with the changes I made to this book over the last few days/weeks. I left things in I probably shouldn’t have; everything is transparent. I’ve been dealing with that lately, what it means to have people read your work, even if it is complete fiction. I’m as open and honest as they come, but having someone read a larger piece of work means more room for criticism. Your work is a direct reflection of who you are and that’s completely frightening; not only are you subjecting and inviting others to see you, you have no choice but to see yourself. I’ve been working on my confidence with my words, but I wonder if my skin has been weathered enough.

Either way, I’m diving in. Larger than life thanks to everyone who has listened to me yap about this book for the last two years. Thank you for being supportive when all I wanted to do was ask about what sounded logical or “dude-ish.” Thanks for allowing me to be a complete zombie at work because I’d spent hours on my book the day before. Thanks for imagining these characters with me, and all of the others I’ve thrown at you since. I hope the new version of The Anchor finds you well.

This is nerve-wracking, but what’s life without a little risk?

Buy The Anchor