The one where I go back to my roots

Not mine, but it speaks to me. Much respect to the artist.

I started writing as a poet. A bad one. Yeah, I’m sure that’s a surprise to everyone.

Pimply, round. Lonely. I could only express myself through words packed like a fist from the mouth of a volcano. On paper.

I have gone through a divorce, as clean and fast as anyone I have ever heard of. The emotional cost, however, has been vast. It has taken a toll on my creative side. Every time I get to something emotional, something real, I shy away like an animal faced with fire.

My health is improving and now the emotional rebuilding has begun. My temper has been bad as of late. Adversity is no longer a mountain to be overcome, but a punishment from a fickle and uncaring god. I can’t live like that, and that means a change. I can only hope those around me will cut me slack when I need it and be hard on me when it is called for. I have also decided to go back to the beginning.

I need to start writing. For my sanity, for my future, and for my… To have a purpose again.

So, back to the beginning. Bad poetry stuttered out from an embarrassed pen.

And by that road, I will get back to where I need to be.


It Survives

I am told that my love is water.

And I worry.

For water, tempestuous and tossed,

It swallows and it storms.

And shatters the heavens with electric fangs.

It uses knives made of its own body

to carve stone from the mountain face.

And to rush down valleys sweeping everything from its path.

The voice inside me, it knows these truths

And it burns with the cold of a thousand fathoms

Feels the pressure of merciless depths of my passion

And I wonder who will plumb me.

To know me even where the brightest sun cannot see

But who would want to,

And who would dare

To swim in the uncounted



Where the brightest sun cannot see.

But then I remember that the sun does shine

And it dances on the surface of my adoration

like angels at play.

And though it can rage, it can also heal,

Falling gently on living things

Bringing life to the moonscape

and health to the wilting.

It can fulfill any vessel,

And quench any thirst

Brave enough to press lips to sip

And it may be frozen

Locked in prison for millennia

it may be buried in the shifting sands,

too far for mortal hands to reveal

But though it be boiled on desert rocks

Or tossed into the sky on thousand foot drops

It may be smashed into vapor, trod into dirt,

It may be beaten and left and forgotten

But my love is water

and it will sneak into the sky

And form dragons and wolves and lions

It may turn black and threaten

It may scatter the sunlight into beautiful spectrums

But it never dies

And it never fails

It cannot be destroyed

For it is my love.

And it always, always survives.

Even where the brightest sun cannot see.


Painful days

You know what is the worst day in the life of a writer? It’s not the days when you have 3,000 – 4,000 – even 5,000 words out onto paper, and this after a full 8 hours at the day job. Those days hurt, a good hurt like giving birth out of your eyes, but it does hurt. The worst days is after a week of overtime and a deadline looming large when no matter how many times you, beg, bully, or crack the whip, your characters just sit around on the page like they’re at the beach. Getting out 300 words feels like cleaning out the Aegean stables, and you don’t add a lot to the plot or charactarization, and thus after 6 hours of pouring over the laptop you delete said words as more harm to the story than good. Those are the times that really feel like you got mugged for a wallet full of time you didn’t have to waste.

The important thing is that you are at it again the next day, because deadlines do not care if how much you think this is what you should do for a living. Deadlines can only tell what time it is, and they care about nothing else.

And I have another distraction that may or may not happen.

Blizzard is runnning a short story contest, open to everyone, where you can win several pieces of swag, or even a visit to the Blizzard offices. That’s cool and all, but I’m looking at this and wondering how much exposure I would get by winnning. Could this be the flashpoint moment I need to get enough people reading my books at one time that I can make the leap and do this exclusively, or at least primarily? I can’t say, but that means I will be diverting myself from other projects in order to gamble on supposed exposure… if I win.

In any case, I am not one to keep such things for myself, so if you are interested, find the details here:

Also, some recognition for work well done by Mrs. Ackley-McPhail and the crew of Bad Ass Faeries 3: