A Writer's 21st Century Memoir.

Writing

Eyes Without A Face

Eyes Without A Face

Eyes Without A Face

Sometimes I find myself missing literature that I have not and probably will not ever read. I find myself daydreaming of the non-existent day when some kind stranger returns the series of poems that my mother wrote and lent to a friend to read. I sit in the immaterialized section of reality hidden deep within my conscious to see the book of poems—forever lost—that I will never see.

I regard my mother as a brilliant writer able to make points, sway opinions, and write beautiful poetry and prose. She can spin stories with a pen out of thin air, but you can rarely capture her in the act. My mother said her love of writing poems died the day the book of poetry she wrote was lost under the guardianship of a friend who left them on an airplane. She would tell me that she had documented her entire life, up until that point, in prose. (more…)


A Christmas Message From The Cat

Christmas Message

Christmas Message

I watch as my key slides into the lock on the front door of my apartment. I listen to the clicking and clacking of tumbling parts working to grant me entrance to my apartment. I open the door, and I am greeted by a very loving gray long-hair cat purring and rubbing up against my black vegan leather ankle boots. As I unfold my body back into an upright standing position after gently petting the friendly feline, my jaw drops in horror as I witness the spirit and the aftermath of Krampus. (more…)


The Unused Mug

writer's mug

writer's mug

I refuse to use the grey mug sitting in the corner of the room. I glance over in its direction and watch it staring at me with its handle pompously held out and elevated to resemble a dramatic stance from a person who has their hand on their hip. At first, I felt as though the very existence of this particular mug sitting on a ledge in my room was an attempt to mock my efforts to achieve set goals, but I am beginning to see the mug as a visual reminder and tangible motivator outside of completing my intended task of writing a book. I do not want to use my National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) mug until I finish writing the rest of my novel. (more…)


Taking The Leap

Coffee and writing

“I have a London Fog with almond milk here on the bar.” The man behind the small coffee shop counter set down my reusable thermos filled with scalding tea and milk and smiled at me.

“Thanks,” I said adjusting my reading glasses and grabbing the cup. I brought the beverage over to the uncomfortable couch where I was sitting and placed the lid on top. I picked up my laptop and began typing up an article where I had left off.

It was part of my weekly routine. I would walk into the loud local coffee shop downtown and write for an hour or so after work before going home. It was the only way I would be sure that I got some writing in, and the only other opportunity where I could relax while eavesdropping on people. (more…)


What’s Woven Into The Fog

fog, foggy mist

fog, foggy mist

I opened my door one morning to a vaguely thick layer of frigid gray fog. My charcoal-colored car, which was parked out front, barely emerged from the winter-like surroundings. I thought to myself that it hadn’t been this foggy this far inland in a while.

As I made my way down my apartment steps towards my car, a felt a small smile creep onto my face. It felt like it was now officially autumn, and not what felt like the perpetual summer, with brief pauses that allowed a chilly breeze, that most Southern Californians were accustomed to experiencing. I didn’t want to jinx it by grabbing a jacket, but I did think about all the sweaters I could now break out of the small “winter” section of my closet. (more…)