All posts filed under: Random Posts

If You Have Writer’s Block, Watch this TED Talk.

We’ve all been there. Your initial kernel of an idea is stuffed with endless possibilities, and you write for weeks or months with the focused intensity of a lion chasing down its prey. Your words flow faster than monkey diarrhea, and you’re riding the high like a fevered junkie. Feels fucking good, amirite? You start thinking that maybe you’ve got what it takes, that this writing thing is easy peasy, because you were blessed with the right idea at the right moment, and you must’ve done something good in your past life, because the words are clicking together inside your brain. Gaiman and Rowling and McCarthy ain’t got nutting on you, baby. Then one day, while you’re eating pancakes at two in the morning, it all goes to shit. Maybe your plot gets snarled up tighter than fishing line or maybe your characters refuse to cooperate or maybe you realize you’ve unintentionally copied the storyline of Marvel’s latest movie. Aaaand…cue writer’s block. I’m not talking about the ol’ I don’t really feel like writing today because …

On Being Left Behind (pangs of a childfree life)

I used to have an imaginary friend. I’d see her while riding in the back of my parent’s car. She rode a beautiful white horse that ran alongside my window, and no matter how far we drove, she was always there. I’d roll down the window to reach for her hand, or if we were on the freeway, I’d press my face up against the glass to be as close to her as possible. Sometimes, I’d pretend I was her. I’d cease to exist, and my body would flicker into dust in the wind. My friends are all growing up. They drive their own cars with their own children riding in the back seat. I look into their cars and see what my life might’ve been. Each car is a different story driving down a path I cannot follow. Other childfree women embrace their lives with flare, but I only feel broken. Seeing a destination I will never reach hurts me. “That pang is about feeling out of step with the stages of life more than of having …

Coffee Shop Etiquette that Really Should be Common Sense But Still Happens Waaaay Too Often

This was originally published as part of yesterday’s The Moka-Lattay-Cheeno-Presso Writer, but I decided to make it a standalone post instead. Mondays are made for humorous rants (and coffee). Believe it or not, the events below are things I’ve actually seen happen. So, here we go. Coffee Shop Etiquette that Really Should be Common Sense I don’t care how nicely manicured your feet are. Please do not take your shoes off. While sitting on a shared wall seat, don’t shake your leg. We can all feel the seat move. A single should not sit at a table large enough to accommodate four or six or even eight. I don’t care how many books you have. Don’t hog bandwidth by playing Starcraft or watching porn. Support your local coffee shop. Buy something. Don’t bring fast food into the establishment then get huffy when you’re asked to leave. Use the outlet by your table. Not the one on the other side of the store. Don’t let your children run around screaming like banshees. Their toys do not belong all over the floor. …

On Solitude

I lock myself inside the car. Music set to repeat. If I sit long enough, the car’s chassis becomes my body and the music becomes me. If I sit still enough, the world goes away, and I am finally, finally alone. “Teach me how to love you like I wrote. And say it like I mean it when I don’t.” —Teach Me by Keaton Henson “I consider myself a writer,” Henson once said, “but being a performer is a vastly different thing.” Sometimes I forget they aren’t the same. It’s easy to smile, easy to mean, hard to feel. Matching your insides up with your outsides seems like an impossible task. It’s better to be alone than to behave. But solitude and loneliness are two different things. I like who I am when I’m on my own. I like who I am when I’m writing. No one has to see me for me to exist, and I get to live in the space between words. A valediction of self poised on the edge of meaning. Source: …