Goblins and Wild Hats

O this month, thou doth weary me to the gosh darn bone.

Drama queen set aside for now, I am starting a new job. It’s already stressing me out and we’ll see how it goes whoop de doo.

A poem of mine got nominated for an award. A tiny little poem, really, about an imaginary goblin that lives in my pumpkin patch. Yeah. I was surprised and gratified to find that email. I needed it. I needed some slight nudge that, yes, I should keep writing and sending out stuff. As the rejection tsunami is rather daunting at present. Ouch. Ouch! OUCH.

Might have some new and revised novels coming out this year. Malheur Baby, Owyhee Days, The Adventures of Grumpy Odin and Sexy Jesus are ready or almost ready for a publisher to go over. And, gasp, Oregon Gothic, a collection of short stories, might get a revamp and some stories added into the mix already there.

My cat is doing well.

Finished Peacemaker and enjoyed it thoroughly. Fun, raunchy, sad, action-packed and gets better and better as the series toots along. It might not be everyone’s cup of peppermint, but that


[cameo from the Justice League made me snort and giggle. ]

Mrs. Maisel also started up again. I am not so charmed with it…for some reason. Mm. I dunno. Will I still watch it? You bet your best wild hat I will. I loved, loved, loved Imogene’s hat in ep one, with the pink flowers all over it. My grandmother wore such hats. I do love the clothes of that time period, they’re so gorgeous. I want Susie to win or have some sort of story beyond propping up Midge all the time. And I want season five to be where Midge doesn’t make it. Where she has to keep on doing standup for peanuts in shitty places. You know, like real life? Except real life seems tinged with actual blood and human screams anymore…yikes. Downer!

I need to go over Malheur Baby, again. It needs about ten thousand more words. It’s sitting at 48 thou. But it clicks along so well now as is. Maybe it’s a novella? Maybe I can pair it with Army of Flamingos. odd pairing but…! Found baby and man fighting back against the slowly awakening lawn ornaments of his mother. Mm?

On My Writer’s Journey

I’m waiting for my country to implode. Maybe that event has taken place, and it hasn’t reached my Twitter feed yet. Bwhahaha. Ha.

If I laugh at everything, nothing can be that bad, yes?

I’m writing in fits and starts. I write a bit, read over it, despair at the utter savage awfulness of my words, start over. That’s my 2022 writing pattern so far.

I’m getting conflicting advice from every direction on what being a writer is.

Write every day. Don’t worry about when you’re not writing, after all, blah dee blah. Force yourself to write. Take time off from writing, take up a hobby. Thrust yourself into every writerly space or else no one will take you seriously. Relax, you got this!

Fuck me running, you writer advice-givers. Be militant robots spewing words no matter what or be slack underachievers telling yourself you got this over and over as your coffee cools in your slogan-covered mug.

Make up your collective fucking minds already. Which is it?? Force yourself to write every day, like a machine or because you need product to sling. Or take it easy, breathe, just be, just let your fingers dribble those thoughts onto the page and hey, everything will be okay, you got this.

I can feel the depression creeping in. Maybe that’s a giant chonky block in my writer’s journey. I just made myself vomit a bit, BRB.

Writer’s journey??? What would that even be? I wrote some crap during my lifetime. Some people thought it was good crap. Most thought it forgettable fart breezes oozing from unmentionable orifices. I died alone, very poor and utterly forgotten. The end.

Until twenty years after my death! Someone Important suddenly decided my writing was the bee’s knees. Sales of my obscure stuff become world-wide classics that….Grrrrr. Grrrrr!!!

If that happens to me, I am returning from wherever and I am bringing Jesus with me to start that whole End Times fun.

What month is this? February? Hearts and groundhogs.

I am tired. I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to do anything at all. Motivation is zilch, zero, DOA, MIA, KIA, all the letters that spell dead in the water already. I’m trying to revamp short stories to improve their chances. I think I’m making them worse. Ever been there? You try to ‘fix’ your artistic project and holy bells of hell, it becomes a nasty mess of edits, compromises galore and sheer hesitation over trying to write nicely instead of honestly. Or maybe I’ve run out of words.

Oh dear.

Babbling away. I tried to make pancakes this morning and the pan just drove me bugshit insane. Would not cook them. They stuck, no matter how much oil or spray I used. I nearly just threw that so-called non-stick pan away.

So I baked the rest of the batter in the oven in a cast iron skillet. Yes, I was cursing the entire time. I threw in some apples, cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice, called it an oven pancake surprise.

I can’t write and I can’t cook right now. Go kill yourself with a chainsaw, 2022. I’m off to nap until there’s a new year, a new motivated brand sparkling new me and a brave new world that doesn’t want fascism to be their new lord and savior. For fuck’s sake already, earth. Have you learned nothing at all?