Panic and a writing playlist!

Yesterday after work, I finally was able to get my hands on Lauren Oliver’s latest, Panic! :D (I say “finally” as though it hadn’t just come out the day before, but I couldn’t help being extra-impatient for this one.)

I started reading it on the train home. Kept reading. Got home. Curled up with my cats, and kept right on reading until I’d finished the whole thing a few hours later.

I’m going to do a proper review of it here soon, but for the time being? Let that last paragraph stand for itself. :)

(And if it still doesn’t suffice — then in a word, love.)

Yesterday was a damn good book day.

And on the writing side of things… I finally got around to making myself a writing mix, too! Not a playlist for any piece or project in particular, but rather for my writing life in general — songs that inspire me, songs that I feel suit the mood I go for with my prose, etc.

And after much fussing, I think I’m actually pretty happy with how the whole damn thing turned out.

So, if any of you lovely folk would like to have a listen and some fun music to go write to yourselves (or for the hell of it)… ;)

Feel free to pop on over to look up: a writing mix!


Love, bookslutting about, and a writing announcement amidst apocalypses!

Happy Valentine’s Day/International Book Giving Day, my lovelies!

And because I cannot personally tackle you all with love and glitter and libraries (yes, entire libraries, shush)…have an announcement today, instead!

Come April, barring explosions and/or sudden death or dismemberment, I plan to release my first ebook, titled “& the galaxy is you: love stories at the end of the world.”

As the title would suggest, it’s a novella-length collection of shorts, all based around the theme of (surprise!) love at the end of the world.

A tiny snippet, as an example!

What I remember most are the lights on the water.
Buildings were falling all around us, the once-familiar skyline suddenly the world’s most expensive set of dominoes. Cars were crashing, from panic and debris both, making piles of themselves as if in some attempt to fill in the skyline’s new gaping holes. People were screaming, high and guttural and pained and raw. There were prayers, a constant litany of all faiths — and no faith at all, but rather desperation instead — blurring into one single background hum.
You stood beside me and held my hand.
We stopped, quietly, in the middle of a bridge. The city was clearly no longer safe, no, but neither was there anywhere left to go. The roads were as dangerous as the city’s heart, now, and as for me I think I’d rather die standing on my own ground.
I’d rather die beside you.
I’d rather face this down.
So we stood there, on the bridge, and I breathed in time with your pounding pulse, and our fingers both grew white with our own tightening grips as if in practice for becoming bone.

And, perhaps most excitingly of all… I was lucky enough to have my darling friend Fishie, who is fabulous and talented to a truly ridiculous degree and many other positive adjectives, agree to do the cover design for me!

And the mock-up of it she put together today?

Jesus Christ on a crawfish. It’s so beautiful I literally could have cried:



For all that I appreciate all of the books and cute things strewn about today, damn if I’m not looking forward to spring, and I hope you all are too. :)


BOOKMEME: Top Five Favourite Fictional Female BAMFs. (And the quotes that made me love them!)

(Disclaimer: I could probably have just put Hermione Granger down five times in this list and called it a day, but that seemed a bit like cheating. And we all know she wouldn’t be having that.)

5. Eowyn [Tolkein’s The Lord of the Rings]
“Begone, foul dwimmerlaik, lord of carrion! Leave the dead in peace!”
A cold voice answered: ‘Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye.”
A sword rang as it was drawn. “Do what you will; but I will hinder it, if I may.”
“Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!”
Then Merry heard of all sounds in that hour the strangest. It seemed that Dernhelm laughed, and the clear voice was like the ring of steel. “But no living man am I!”

4. Marianne Engel [Andrew Davidson’s The Gargoyle]
Eve’s sin was to eat fruit, and for this she was punished with the Fall of Mankind. For the transgressions of your life, what atonement is necessary?
That is not for me to decide.
But it is. Your path has taken you from the Life of God and made you the hand behind a death. Do you repent?
No. Even in the Eternal Godhead, I could remember my life with you. I may have betrayed my monastic vows and I may have betrayed my prioress and the Lord God in doing so, but I have never betrayed myself. I have remained true to my heart, and I will never repent my love. It is the one great thing I have ever done.

3. Molly Weasley [J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series]
“Not my daughter, you bitch!”

2. Minerva McGonagall [J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series]
“We teachers are rather good at magic, you know.”

1. Susannah Dean [Stephen King’s The Dark Tower series]
“I kill with my heart, motherfucker.”

Who are some of yours? :)


[Short Story] “My own body might as well be your grave.”

My brain is like some horrifying hybrid of the Energizer Bunny and Billy Mays.

By which I mean that it keeps going, and going, and going, and going…and just when you think it may finally stop for a breather BUT WAIT THERE’S MORE.

And so it also has a penchant for suddenly vomiting a new narrative at me out of complete and utter nowhere, and refusing to shut up until I finally give up and start writing the damn thing down.

This happened again the other night, and perhaps stupidly, I fought it like hell. I already have roughly 2934875 writing projects going that I need to work on and decidedly did not need yet another, and in particular I really did not want this one.

At all.

This one, see, is a girl writing to her best friend. Her best friend, who has just committed suicide.

You can probably understand why I didn’t exactly rejoice when her voice popped into my head without any warning, ahah.

But in the end, maybe the only thing actually more stubborn than me is my own damn brain, and of course, it won. I gave in, and all almost-1,500 words of it tumbled out in a writingfit that night, despite my own initial protests.

Fair warning: This really is not at all a happy sort of thing.

But apparently it had to come out, so here it is.

April 27th
You bastard.

I wrote those words on my own skin when they first called to give me the news, did you know? I dropped my phone onto the floor and I could still hear her talking, could still hear Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you there? and instead of picking it back up and answering with No — No — God I wish I could say no for that too — I picked up a pen.

I picked up a pen, and I half-wrote, half-carved the words You bastard into my skin.

You bastard you bastard you bastard you bastard you bastard —

Again and again and again.

I wanted to scream those words into your face instead, but of course by that point your face was probably already covered by a sheet, and anyway I could barely even breathe.

And so my own skin simply had to do.

I suppose it will always have to do, from now on.

You motherfucking bastard.

You motherfucking bastard.

Come the fuck home.
April 28th
April 29th
April 30th
May 1st
May 2nd
May 3rd
It’s been a week now, and there are still profanities lingering all over my skin, thanks to you. It makes me even angrier to think of how hard this fact probably would have made you laugh.

To be fair, I’ve barely moved from my bed this entire week, let alone bothered to shower. (And this probably would have made you laugh too, your hands pointedly ruffling my greasy hair…)

And I still can’t think of any better way to express myself right now than this.

You bastard, indeed.
May 4th
I wish that I could actually hate you.
May 5th
I refused to go to your funeral. Did you at least know that? Did you get to watch, could you scan the crying faces, did you look for me?

Do you miss me, too?

Do you miss me at all, even though you’re the one who chose to go?

Maybe the answer to all of those questions is yes. Maybe I’ve made you sad.

But I still think that you would know me better than that, even now.

And even now, I think that I know — fuck, knew — you well enough to know that this is not what you would want. Everyone standing around, crying, crying over a now-immobile sack of muscle and skin packed inside a wooden box that they are now lowering into the ground, a buried box of decaying biological matter that they will mark and continue to come and cry over for years to come…

Funerals are stupid, I remember you once said. You had wanted to be cremated, to be burnt to millions and millions and millions of almost-microscopic bits of ash and then thrown into the sea. Life is the exact opposite of clean and controlled, you said, and at the very least people deserved to have that when they died. Maybe there isn’t a heaven, you said, maybe there is no such thing as eternal life and absolution, but there are furnaces and fire and that one beautiful moment when you are scattered into the air and free, and maybe that will have to be enough.

But you didn’t bother to leave behind any sort of letter, and so I was the only one who knew, and your mother was so desperate for a wooden box in the ground (with a rock overtop it where she could go and sob at the mere sight of your name) that she refused to listen to me when she and your father made the arrangements for you.

I guess that’s what you get for not even bothering to say goodbye.
May 6th
I don’t need a hole in the ground to remember you.

My own body might as well be your grave.
May 7th
They think that I’m in denial, because I refuse to go and see your grave.

I know you’re gone.

I fucking know.

And I know that if you’re fucking gone then that means that you wanted, more than fucking anything, to finally be fucking free.

Free is not a fucking box in the ground.

You sacrificed me for your chance at freedom, and I don’t need to be reminded that you failed, that it all was in vain.
May 7th
I still wish that I could hate you.
May 8th
I want to hate you, because maybe that kind of intensity could actually get through, could actually reach you, wherever you are.

Clearly, love did not.
May 9th
It occurs to me that I want to hate you so that I can maybe somehow catch your attention long enough, get you to listen to me for long enough, to tell you that I don’t hate you.

Christ, how much sense does that make? I want to hate you so you’ll listen to me when I say that I don’t hate you?

Maybe losing you has fucked up my head even more than I’d realized. There’s a scary thought, or at least it would be if I could be bothered to care.

But love wasn’t enough to make you hear when I told you that I did love you, that it would be okay, that it would get better, that you weren’t alone. That you would never be alone.

Except now you are alone, and so am I, and so maybe love is nothing but a lie.

So would hatred be strong enough to get through to you? Would hate make you hear me?

Not that it would make any sort of fucking sense, being that the only thing I need you to hear is I don’t hate you, which would make this whole process utterly moot, but hey. I’m desperate here.

I’m desperate, and I have no idea what in hell to do.

But I’m so terrified that you left (“left,” I know you’re gone but I still can’t bring myself to say the D-word, I can’t) believing that I would hate you for what you’d done.

If you didn’t think I would hate you, then why didn’t you leave me a letter? Why didn’t you tell me goodbye?

I don’t hate you.

I do not hate you.

I don’t I don’t I don’t; I cry myself to sleep every night now and I’ve actually cried so hard I made myself throw up on more than one occasion and I wrote profanities all over my own body and people think I’m going slowly insane and okay maybe I am and my room is still a disaster from where I broke half my shit throwing it at the walls during one of those lovely crying fits that ended in vomit, but I do not hate you.

I do not hate you.

I love you, still.

You are still my favorite person, even if your body is now trapped in the ground.
May 10th
I miss your hugs.

I miss pretty much everything about you (not the way you’d always steal my headphones, though, just for the record), but I think it might be your hugs that I miss the most. You hugged hard, like everything was all over-dramatic and you were holding onto me like I was your only proverbial port in a storm, and…fuck.


I wish that I had never ever been the first one to let go.
May 11th
Even if I somehow had the chance, I think that I would be too terrified to ask you why.

Not why you did it, why you must have felt that you had no other choice but to do it; all that, I already knew. It’s not like you ever had to explain yourself to me. (I was your best friend for a reason, dammit.)

I knew, and even if I didn’t understand well enough (clearly, if I didn’t see this coming, if I didn’t realize that you actually would)…I still understood as best I could.

What I want is to know why you did it without telling me. Why you did it without telling me goodbye.

But I’m almost grateful that I can’t hear your answer.

If you even have one. If you can even hear this question at all.
May 12th
Let’s try an easier question.

Here: Do you remember when we had to read Romeo & Juliet, our freshman year? Do you remember how much we laughed at it, at them? How stupid we said they were, how stupid everyone who cried at them was, how over-dramatic and unnecessary it all seemed?

They suddenly don’t seem so stupid, now.

Any ending is a happy ending, because at least it means that you get an ending, that it’s done.

And I guess even they did better than we are, right now. Ironic, that.

I wish that I could laugh.


[Forgotten] Snippet Sunday: ‘But — but — you’re on fire!’

My brain, it seems, is a damn strange place.

And not to mention a rather crowded one.

It happens on a relatively regular basis — I’ll suddenly find a random snippet of something that I wrote, that I no longer remember writing, and half the time I no longer even remember what it is.

And this happened again recently, unsurprisingly enough.

I’ve sat on the snippet for several days now, in the hopes that something about it would come back to me, but nope. Not a thing. No idea what it is, who the characters are, what the setting is, why on earth this woman is on fire…not a single thing.

Complete mystery, this. And I’m amused.

So I figure I might as well do something with the damn thing, while I continue sitting on it and trying to work out what it is.

Ergo…Snippet Sunday!

The hand then returned to carefully swat at her hair, putting it out without so much as wincing.
He gawked.
‘Calm down, Mister Man,’ she said, and wrinkled her nose as the smoke met her tongue. ‘It’s just my hair.’
‘But — but — you’re on fire!’
‘Thank you. That is a compliment in your vernacular nowadays, is it not?’
‘Not when the woman in question is literally on fire!’
‘I fail to understand why your appear to be far more concerned about this fact than I am, when I am the one who is, as you so kindly pointed out, on fire.’
She finished putting out her hair and gave him an unnerving sort of smile, framed by her now-singed curls. ‘And as you can see, I myself am suffering no particular ill effects, apart from that horrid smell.’


Friday Fictioneers: This place is like a precipice.

It’s Friday, and the Fictioneers are back!

And this week, we come with a very hearty congratulations for Friday Fictioneers creator Madison Woods on her wedding day, which was September 22nd! :)

copyright: E.A. Wicklund

copyright: E.A. Wicklund

This place is like a precipice — proverbial, but there.

The ocean beats endlessly against the shore as though it were a pulse, as though it were the only bridge between one life and the next.

Perhaps it is, in more ways than one.

I realise now that I came here for you, that you are the other side that I came here to find. You are the undertow, my direction and my drowning.

You may just be the end.

And you are beautiful, like pink-tinged waves and a seagull’s strident cries —

You are the proof that I’m still here, alive.

What are you waiting for? Now go check out the other responses! ♥


Friday Fictioneers: Here is the truth: I would stay for you.

Iiit’s Friday, so it’s time to be a Fictioneer! ♥

copyright: Rich Voza

copyright: Rich Voza

Here is the truth: I would stay for you.

But these are not words that I can give (though every syllable inside of me, you already own); not a promise I can yet make (though I will hold myself to it fiercely all the same).

So I make you art, instead, that says all the things that I cannot.

I have taken to dismantling abandoned houses, carrying doors out into fields, then painting them pretty colours and standing them upright in the ground.

They can no longer be opened, you see.

And hinges are irrelevant, because you are my home.

Now go have some fun reading all the other responses! :)