Happy birthday, prairie queen.
If you live in Nashville, join my bi-monthly gang of writers.
1. You come with a project (any project)
2. You set a two-hour goal
3. I enforce this goal for you
4. We drink vodka Red Bulls, we eat fancy appetizers, and we write.
5. If you do not complete the goal, punishments happen.
Now I know why people scream, because I think I’m going to
— Shirley Jackson | The Haunting Of Hill House
The past beats inside me like a second heart.
— John Banville, The Sea
Another one of my girl Charlotte Bronte.
The flowers are tormentils, they grow wild on the moors of England.
My Charlotte Bronte tattoo. I got it done at Kustom Thrills by Brandon Henderson in Nashville, TN. More pics later!
Rarely have I seen a better title.
GPOY. It’s like the wicked cousin of Anne of Green Gables. Ornery BISH.
And if my heart be scarred and burned,
The safer, I, for all I learned.
— Dorothy Parker, Sunset Gun
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
When we don’t know who to hate, we hate ourselves.
Why does reading freak people out so much? Sure, I could be pretty antisocial when we were on the road, but if I was playing a Game Boy hour after hour, no one would be on my case. In my social circle, blowing up fucking space monsters is socially acceptable in a way that American Pastoral isn’t.