Miscellaneous Writings and Musings


A genie and her rock band

(Novel and Short Stories)

Steal Tomorrow

Steal Tomorrow
Murder, Mystery, First Love, and the End of the World

(Novel and Short Stories)

My Books and Stories

My Books and Stories
Where to Buy, Read, Download

Exciting News!

Writer's block is an ugly thing. When you identify as a writer, live and breathe your characters as if they were your closest friends, the loss of that escape is more traumatic than the loss of a lover. Since finishing Maelstrom in 2008 I've struggled, unable to complete a work of long fiction. I wrote flash - some good, some just sort of meh, but it wasn't the same. And here lately I've written a lot of poetry, most of it tolerable only because of its brevity.

I've spent a large part of the last two years depressed, going through the motions while I wondered if I would ever have that feeling again of being on a wild ride with my most exciting imaginary friends, thousands of words a night flowing onto the page. I wondered at times if there was nothing left inside to give to my writing endeavors and if I should just give it up and go back to painting, dancing, long course triathlon, or whatever. I even wondered if life itself was worth living, since I had nowhere to escape to any more.

So when a story idea I'd had for awhile suddenly insisted I drop everything and write, it hit me from out of left field. I knew what that call meant, though. I knew I had no choice but to follow wherever it would lead.

As with any work of long fiction, I can't say how it will turn out or if it will be finished at all, but I've written 13,000 words in five days and my characters are still pestering me to tell their story. They whisper when I'm tired and nag me when I have to do the job that pays the bills. They're jealous of my time and for my part I wish I could give them all of me.

Even now, right this minute, they're wondering why I'm even talking about it when I could be writing their story...

Web Serial: Points of Departure

In case you haven't been following along, we're up to Chapter Ten of my newly serialized novel Points of Departure: http://points-of-departure.blogspot.com/

Vanity of Vanities

The mirror holds a warped reflection,
fun-house style,
of fading charm,
need and ego.

Pride is an ugly master.

The sun burns and wind obscures
but in the blue haze of your evening
the touch of your hand comforts me,
soothing insecurities for the night,
leaving bruises by morning.

Time is the cruelest of friends.

A thoughtful gesture,
a kind word,
and I'll keep all your secrets.
I hope you'll be gentle with mine.

Love is suspect.
Memory is counterfeit.
All is vanity.

Perfect Disguise

What costume should I wear
when I'm with you?
I size you up,
but I'm not sure.

What armor will keep me safe
in this great world?
Surely there's a way
to deflect
your bullet to my heart.

If I cloak myself in perfection,
assume the ideal disguise,
when you come with knife drawn,
you'll hurt my alter-ego,
but not me.

And if some day I'm naked,
reveal my secret identity,
will you speak or walk on by?
Will you recognize me?

Don't answer.

I'll take these trappings from a box,
be who I'm supposed to be.
Thieves and liars lurk nearby,
waiting for their chance.

This is a Sunday Scribblings post.

Many Worlds

Time runs on narrow tracks


Like two strangers in a room
not talking.

Where do the other rails lead?
I see them in the mist outside my window.
I can follow them for awhile,
led down a different path,
but my course always pulls me back.



I think I know where this track goes
but I’m probably wrong.

I wonder if  the other lines are illusions,
a mental game
made up
for fun.

If it’s not real, then nothing is
and maybe this isn’t my reality.

The cat is dead.

Schroedinger lied.


A fortress built on sand
offers a lovely ocean view.
And inside its thick walls
is a place to hide,
declare peace,
proclaim detente.

This refuge offers safety
from sea monsters and sirens,
from great green tempests,
and pirates hungry for treasure.

Hide everything.
Bury it deep.
Defend this rickety castle,
molding bricks
and all.

Let stone and mortar serve 
in place of a courageous heart.

Let the ocean cry your tears.

But remember:

A fortress built on sand
cannot last.
And walls might keep your heart safe
but they will not make it

This is a Sunday Scribblings post.