Bar none, the best and most gratifying aspect of self-publication has been getting to hand pick the group of people I wanted to work with. Not that I’m a complete control freak or anything. As it turns out, this isn’t so much about keeping full artistic control as it is about relinquishing it on yourContinue reading “Formatting THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW”
I’m twenty-seven. I’m in a bathroom stall at the local shopping centre, in the ladies’ room – of all the fucking ironic places. Don’t worry, my pants are on, this isn’t that kind of story. I’m just crying. I’m in the ladies’ room, in a bathroom stall, and I’m crying, and I’m typing frantically on my phone.
My best friend is on the other end.
I believe it was last year that, on a whim, I picked up Wranglestone. Prior to that, and for about half a decade, I’d been unable to focus long enough to finish a novel. I read Wranglestone from cover to cover in three days.
Moving up along the lines of his ribcage, I hit the hem of the binder. It was biting into his skin, more so at the sides, and I thought nothing so soft and fragile should ever be bitten into like that. A confused impression of inadequacy came over me. Felix was graceful. He was refined. Those hands were a pianist’s hands. That skin deserved bedsheet and pillowcases. Real ones. Hundred percent cotton, organic or fair trade or some shit.
At this point, I’ve come out so many times it’s entirely possible I’ve overstayed my welcome. Surely there’s only so much introspection allowed before you slide into self-indulgence. Might be that you’re sick of me. Might be that I should keep myself to myself. After all, it’s not like you need to know every littleContinue reading “Just a little thing.”