"Another Time 'Round"

A story for the New Year! Belated by a month, I know, but hey. There were circumstances. Of a crunched-wrist sort.

Again featuring my folks Shauna the former-detective-turned-paranormal-investigator, and Casey the patient taker of her abuse, former MP. I do hope you enjoy.

WARNING for some strong language. And snarkyness. ;P


Thanks for reading, ducks. <3



--
Copyright 2012 J. Coate

Original Poetry (from a time shortly following surgery)

"Scudding"



I have not the strength for poetry now
and the earth is swollen today, rain-bruised, the
raw bones of its rocks gnawed out to trundle down your frostbitten hills. today
I saw one of those cardinals, all shivers and skin, he waits for the crushed sky to pass on and I
should do the same, lie over my floorboards
with the cracks sealing my spine, let the seasons fold and pass before my eyes
like the slide of your words or your hands on my waist, soft.
but I have not the strength for poetry now





--
Copyright 2012 Jennifer Coate

*something stirs*

Hmmm.... so it seems I've been hibernating for... all of winter, perchance? I probably should post an explanation.

In case you missed it, I broke my right wrist about a week before Christmas in a dramatic awkward roller-blading mishap high-speed bus-top duel versus an evil space dictator who broke my sword over his knee before I clocked him in the gentleman's region, hurling him off a cliff before tearing open the bus with my bare hands, boxing the dinosaur henchman who was driving it like a maniac for control of the wheel before bloodying his nose and parallel parking the thing like a boss before gently leading screaming children out of the blazing remains, shooting down the paragliding fish with their own machine guns with one hand and writing a FANTASTIC and award-winning screenplay about it with the other. I just happened to somehow, at the end of all this, end up on a smelly and dusty wooden floor while young people twirled circles around me and Britney Spears' "Toxic" blared on the loudspeakers, curled up on my arm going "Hey. Heeeeeeeeeeeey Naaaatalie, t-this? Something wrong. This wrist, it is not right. Ow. Geez. Haha owwwww. It's not's like it should be. It's all weird, owww."

(At least part of that is true. Probably the dueling-the-space-dictator part. If only you guys knew how safe my day job keeps you.)

(And yes, in case someone wants to know, I am right-handed. Or at least was. Having that arm out of commission was somewhat inconvenient.)

Anyhow, after spending some time engulfed in bandages and a strip of plaster from knuckles to elbow, and less in a brace, I've been ordered by Bone Dude to set my arm free and try and do stuff. Which, of course, makes me miss the brace. Fingers are fing-ing okay, but it's stiff, and many things cause pain, and my arm doesn't flip over and my wrist certainly doesn't like bending and turning. Still... I'm out of excuses. Online accounts are like a garden, you gotta tend 'em. Er. I don't know if anyone missed me THAT much, but hey! I should do stuff, and it's good exercise, typing.

What has everyone been into, in the meantime? I can tell you, I've been digging sweatpants (no zipper! is easier on my hand, though I still can't bring myself to wear 'em in public), Tylenol, Mulan, BBC's Sherlock, Kindle Fire, G.K. Chesterton's The Man Who Was Thursday, trailers for the first Hobbit movie, Benedict Cumberbatch in general, the badass four-inch scar along my right forearm, and Claire Yaxley's english rendition of "Isn't it Beautiful / Suteki da Ne". Among other things.

Right then. On to writing again. :)

Original Poetry

"Birthplace"


When the wind moves through our trees, that's when they tell me
to think of Africa.

there's something different—
it's a soul drummed into withered slabs of ex-crop;
footprints of cattle, birds in every aching joint.
you were Wilberforce's song, across this ocean, but even I can't taste
you—perhaps you'll pluck my eyes in
and leave me for your buzzards, the lightheaded
spiral and buzz of insect wings, and famine like pain in the back
of my skull. the dizzying sear of salt-etched soil and bison birthing; I'll never lose sight
of the fragrant brush of long grass, but here in my history I am little more than trees. trees and
damp sky, but I still think on your thunderstorms

and the way your heels would strike the ground like rain, your screaming in the lashing wind

And the pounding of your souls in the dust
to sting my sight of you, the kind to cloud my
lungs and cake my nostrils, aye

A shroud of sun-tossed dust
and your harsh breathing
and Africa
and the way you ran with
your eyes at the mountains



--
Copyright 2011 J Coate

"Girl in the War"

Paul said to Peter, "You gotta rock yourself a little harder.
Pretend the dove from above is a dragon and your feet are on fire."
"But I got a girl in the war, Paul, her eyes are like champagne.
They sparkle, bubble over, and in the morning all you got is rain..."

-Josh Ritter


I think my general rule of thumb is to do more research for each individual story than what may even show in the final product. Leading up to my writing this last night, I had tabs open on my browser on everything to bus schedules to CTA military discounts, what's on a dog tag, tattoo logistics, etc. Tends to make the computer run all wonky slow after a bit, but I guess that's the price I pay for trying to be a perfectionist. :P

Casey Rockford's shown up on this blog before, she's one my very oldest characters and I feel bad for making her cry, but this was not a good day for her.

Anyhow, I'm entering this in a contest, the prompt was to create something inspired by a poem or song lyrics. Josh Ritter's "Girl in the War" is amazing and powerful and beautiful and I thought it fit.
--

http://fc00.deviantart.net/fs71/f/2011/242/8/9/girl_in_the_war_by_judah_leonardo-d48dh8k.html

--
This work is copyright 2011 J Coate and can not in any way be used without my expressed, written permission.

"Girl in the War" song and lyrics are copyright to Mr. Josh Ritter.

Regular and Thoughtful Updates? Pssh, eat me.

The following journal update is brought to you by sleep deprivation and corn chips--hmm, that's possibly not right (but not unduly entirely inaccurate). I think it's probably time for a change or summat though?

I've noticed some peculiar trend with internet sites that I've posted on (deviantArt, livejournal, fb, whatever)... I tend to introduce myself to all and sundry fairly seriously, if not formally, so going through archives reveals regressively more pretentious entries--fact being, after a few months I get tired of pretending to be pretentious and instead let comments and entries get increasingly (dumb) (stoopid) casual.

So really, I'm just sayin', if you weren't aware of it already, I'm a big pile of ridiculous who stabbed m'self in the eye with mascara when the VA earthquake did get around to rolling her way. And then I caught crap for going right back to makeup but sheesh! Clearly it was an earthquake the instant the rumble started, I already went and stood in the doorway for like, two seconds, before I got bored and went back to business (okay, maybe there was a little swearing involved, but c'mon.).

Okay, yes. I've got the earthquake thing out of the way, yes indeed I was there and no, it wasn't too exciting after all. Five bonkzillion people were a-callin' me afterwards, but I'd gone to the bookstore with friend Natalie (Wife Of Corey The Man Of God) and would've been all "Guuurl, I'm looking at BOOKS" but our phones didn't work so there you go. But I've posted about it, so since it's on the internet it's official: it happened to me, too. I reckon the same might happen with Irene.

(Re: Hurricane: Stay safe, kids! If any of you duckies live on the east coast, be good darlings and wear your rainboots and DON'T DRIVE THROUGH THE BIG PUDDLES OKAY.)

Hmm.

I realize that I've unintentionally started a weird thing with updates here, I mean weirder than what I said above. I only tend to update when I've got exciting news because these makes me look like more of an exciting person than I really am. I assure that I'm really rather unproductive, a lot less happens in my life than it looks like (which might be a little sad, aha). Anyhow... book!

That woodcarving book I talked about a couple journals ago ([link])? I HAVE AN ADVANCE COPY AND IT IS GORGEOUS AND YOU SHOULD BUY IT. Seriously! It looks so pretty! If nothing else, go look at the pretty, glossy pictures of Jim's hands doing the step-by-steps, it looks way cool and makes my text look unimportant. The ultimate release date looks to be the 24th(?) of Sept., I might therefore be yoinked away by the Boss Lady for a book-signing.

Okay. I'm clearly demented tonight, sooo... I-Imma stop typing soon, 'kay? I'll try and do stuff at some point so I can update with more interesting things. Also, I refuse to apologize for my chronic fear of answering/replying to anything--or did I just do that? Dang.

<3

Today's been quite the day!

And when I say a day, I mean a day. Seriously, there are days and then there are days, and I haven't had a day like today in many a day! But you know what they say, tomorrow is another day... so does that leave me right back where I started? :P

Well, it's been an interesting week. For one, I have a new job now! I'll be an assistant to a wonderful portrait/event photographer local to my area. She takes gorgeous pictures, guys! Boy oh boy, will I be eyeballing her and her work as I'm being a gopher-slave. I'll be hauling equipment and fetching and holding lights and wrangling children etc etc, but still. It's awesome. Just... awesome. Imma learn so much, yus I will.

I met Josh Ritter last night! He was super awesome and signed his book for me. He was actually rather excited when I told him how much his music meant to me as a writer, it was really fun and totally awesome. Friend Natalie (Wife of Corey The Man of God) also talked, got pictures taken with, etc. He signed her journal telling her she was "scrumptious". Oh heavens. That man... is just amazing. We got three hugs each. It was glorious.

(And on the way back we did not get nearly as lost as we did on the way to, which is good, because when D.C. was a bitch in the daytime I did not want to see what it could do to us at midnight. When the great iPod search proved fruitless in the end, except for the banana taking up its space in the cupholder, we talked about deserts and continued to discuss Airbender. This is my kind of night.)

Also, waiting in the booksigning line at the store (Politics and Prose, if anyone is curious) I bought the Brother-Creature a birthday present, being a mug with historical mustaches emblazoned thereon. This is exciting because he will be home from his missions work to receive it... six months go by fast! We're going to pick him up at the airport tonight. I'm sure he'll be very tanned, skinnier from all the walking and prayer-walks, and pretty considerably hairy. His girlfriend has been relentlessly cleaning her house. How strange it is.

Has anyone done a long-distance thing with family/friends/significant other before? I don't mean just for university unless you're across the country or something, I mean something like this where you do not see them (except through the very infrequent skype) from six months or longer... the person starts to feel more abstract, if that makes any sense. I don't particularly like that. My siblings and I, my immediate family and surrounding circles are rather close. I'm wondering, partly out of curiosity and partly because he might feel Called to Africa or something next, what happens after six months? Do you this image you hold combined with the voice you hear every so often on the phone become something you just ease into, and it eventually does feel more comfortable in the space where Brother/Sister/Parent/Friend/Lover/ect used to be? I'm pondering distance these days, it's very fascinating in a physical sense, but the possibilities are ever more endless when you account for spiritual, emotional, and mental distances as well. It'd be interesting to hear some outside thoughts on it.

But yes. Clearly, I should write a poem on it, I think there's actually some good lines in there! Amidst the babble, that is. ^^; I beg yo' pardon. In the meantime, I should drink some tea and relax, I got very little sleep last night and I don't think I'll be getting much tonight, either. Brother-creature's gonna be four hours off and wanting to tell stories. Good gracious. XD

And, in closing, I want to write a story about decompression sickness.

<3

Oh, hey, wow. There's, like... a journal here.

Well, hey everyone, I guess it's been long enough that I should stick something here so that this space doesn't look so sad and empty. I've got a few updates worth mentioning, so I figure it's worth posting something.

Firstly, I've gone and actually made an attempt at organizing this place--witness the sparkling new tags and gadgets and marvel their tidiness. Such tidiness. You must marvel. Go ahead, I'll wait.

I've been keeping busy in the long interim with a bit of writing, lots of ideas and some poetry. Lots of jewelry's been in the works as well. A few of my prayer beads are now for sale at local Christian Shoppe, and I've got a couple of commissions in the works.

More on the writing front, the non-fiction book that I wrote this past summer for master carver Jim Calder, "So You Thought You Couldn't Cut It: A Beginner's Guide to Woodcarving" is now in the long, slow process of drudging its way through publication. The publisher and I are anticipating an early summer release, which will be good for all those parents of young'uns who are trying desperately to find something for their young lads (and lasses) to do. If you happen to know one of those or just want to pick up carving yourself, you can order the thing here:

http://www.communityvoicemedia.com/jimcaldercarvingbook.html

Shameless self-promotion aside, I am also (slowly) working on collecting and writing poetry pieces for my envisioned collection, currently under the working title of "Tapwater Tides". Sporadic updates will ensue, I am sure, as work on that front progresses. I am also very tentatively about to dip a toe back into the novel-writing front. Very likely a fly-or-die situation, but I'm holding onto hope for now.

Final thoughts! My very lovely friend Kestry and I are also embarking on a co-authored novel-writing adventure! With cryptids and crazies and awesomeness included! Haha, it's currently under the working title "Mark of the Hunted", though I think it could more accurately be called "Grumpy Monsters and Demented Detectives Are Slowly Driving Casey Insane". :P

And you can find characters from this project here, in this little test blurb that I whipped up:

http://judah-leonardo.deviantart.com/art/This-Shouldn-t-Be-Normal-201988198">

Is this a suitable length for a journal entry? I think it's a suitable length for a journal entry. Take care, folks.

Eheh.

ETA: Cut-text, you have failed me. Either that, or my complete inability to code has failed me... nevermind. I'll figure something out! XD

My apologies for the unintelligible post-spam, my 3-4 readers, I am attempting to code the ability to include cut-text into my posts here (ugh). Bear with me as I continue to test... in the meantime, new post should be up shortly. :P

(As in, yes. I'm pretty sure I'm not dead. Probably.)

"Tuesday Morning"

Before you ask... yes, the title was inspired by the Nathan Rogers song, posted below, but as I think it bears extreme relevance to the piece I would not necessarily classify it as copyright infringement. If you disagree, feel free to tell me... it's only a working title.

And yes, this is somewhat of a coincidence. I don't constantly have this subject on the brain, the nature of my blogging just makes it look like I do.

This was written for my portfolio. It was difficult to compose and that's really all I have to say about it.


--

http://judah-leonardo.deviantart.com/art/Tuesday-Morning-196159949

--

*Mac and Angela are not based off real people. I did not want to take liberties with actual lives. This is not a strict account of history, it is simply a speculation and an exploration of human emotions.




Copyright 2011 J. Coate This work may not in any circumstance be used without my expressed, written permission.

So I'm a bad blogger. Did we already establish that?

... I need to get back to my posting-every-Thursday routine. Or something like that. I'm not going to apologize for the prolonged silence (life happens), so have some original poetry instead.


"Northern Passage"

Silver boatman, sing to me
eyes on the horizon, wrapped
in a shroud of the morning wind.
Grey the sky and grim the rain,
trickle-down ice over
the wilderness of wounded water,
Russian frost that cracks the air.
Chains in a cloud-churned sky.

Sing to me, silver boatman.
As the sunlight turns to ashes, let
it touch my upturned face,
whisper from Cherubim burning.
Tracks like tears down a sallow cheek,
let me taste the homeward lifting,
shifting of numb fingers on the
side of my little vessel, storm-tossed, wanderer. Sing to me.

Silver boatman, let me be.
O moon of winter,
toss your stars over the moving water, your
shadowed cape drawing o’er sight; bury the dead.
The bells of Skellig over rock and wave.
Let the gulls cry, words for me, shriek my soul what
cannot be said. O God.

Silver boatman, take me there.

Nine Years.

I was one of the lucky ones.

Though the destruction was horrible, it didn't touch upon my life directly. After all was said and done, things went on as normal.

I wish it could be said that everyone could say this.



**************************************************************


"Tuesday Morning"

Roaring sirens in America completed their living entombed
So our times are times long over now?
Close up the windows?
Darken the room?

You reviewed your whole lifetime in an instant from birth up to death: every day.
One morning the images took you to a little corner office in a city far away.

We went walking out in this Prairie night to watch fireflys dancing bright.
You can't explain the way you feel.
You'd said you'd had a vision and what could be more real?

Distant calling in the memory, fulfilling our fate in its turn.
But our hearts are hearts so parted as to be made to seperate and suitable to burn.
The morning that we didn't believe in Karma, in the summer we got stung by a bee
When you had a most singular, amazing vision.
We sat on a hillside, you gave it to me.

Well, we went walking out this Prairie night to watch the city breathe a new, clear light.
You can't explain the way you feel.
You'd said you'd had a vision.
We are living out the vision and what could be more real?


--Nathan Rogers

Waiting Game

The first draft of "So You Thought You Couldn't Cut It" is complete. Turned in, and I've yet to hear from my publisher about any revisions that need to be made. Have I achieved the mythical perfect first draft? Ha, somehow I doubt it. It's only a matter of time before some boo-boo is discovered, and I am sent back to the drawing board.

In the meantime, I wait. I wonder how long it will be, until the book gets published. Until I can say that I'm professionally a writer. It's no small thing, aye?

I've been writing like a mad thing these past two weeks or so--knocking off a new piece of flash fiction every day. I'm averaging 2.5-3 pages a day. It staggers me, but I love it all the same.

Perhaps it's a bit of affirmation that I'm meant to be a writer.

I'd love to boost my followers here, purely to develop a base of supporters to help me as I start this journey. Any of the current followers feel like helping me out? Spread the word, post on Facebook. Let's make this a team effort, because I know I can't do this alone.

Ah, but I'm in a sentimental mood after having written a short romance today. I feel like sharing this, I do. So be at peace, readers. Be well. Tell someone you love them today.

<3

Monday Afternoon, 3:53 PM. Thoughts.

The water is cool and trickling over my fingertips, my wrist, and I hold the icy metal Sigg bottle still against the lip of the fountain. Tremors in my right hand make the push of the button unsteady--the water rises and falls in a graceful, dipping arc and I find myself doing a little dance with the bottle to catch it all.

The vessel is filled; I want to linger in the lobby. It's hot today, 91.3 degrees outside, and this foyer is the only spot in my building with AC. The tiles are cold beneath my bare feet, a blessing. I walk on my heels right now because I blistered my soles, walking without shoes on burning sidewalks under the sun. I shuffle like a bear to the doorway, and wave my card-carrying wallet before the sensor to gain access to the hall.

My dorm, right there. The roommate's gone, it's just me and there is quiet. Lights are off, shadowy the way I like it, and that is good. Fans running, also good. I'll get used to life here, somehow. I did it last year.

I sit here typing and I hear the blare of a TV from the next room. My roommate likes the TV running, too. I've never seen her watch it, it's just a background noise that fills the air with the subtle sounds of drama or cartoons that wiggle on plastic-bright backgrounds while I work.

I finished Saga of the Volsungs, at least, as far as I need to read it. It's full of brutal people doing dumb things. Why do people in stories always do dumb things? Violence and incest and revenge and beating each other to death... McTeague was full of that, too. When I write my books, I at least want them to be less incest-y.

Little McCoy figure is standing guard next to my fan, his plastic medical PADD held at the ready. I like that. He's keeping an eye on my health, you know. Mono can't stand up to Space Doctors.

Empty fishtank on the other side. I intend to fill it soon. If the fish is red, the name shall be Rasputin (everybody sing! Ra ra...). Purple, he'll go by Donald McGillavry. I don't look for color though. I alway choose the angriest one I see. The one with the most life in them. Those are the ones that live. That's what Leo was. A fighter to the end.

I want to write something. I'm not sure what. Aside from rambling (boring) blog posts, does anyone have a prompt for me? I'm taking requests.

Original Poetry

Memento.

It’s like forgetting something
like your mind
stifled in a bare room somewhere-where
scenery
shifts
falls
slips into

It’s like forgiving
something like your
self it’s like arranging a
room full of mirrors where
a single breath can
shatter
shave
shiver
I will quiver into

It’s like redemption but
without the taste

It’s like rain pattering
garbage on an empty waste

It’s like a sad song reaching no
one’s ears

It’s like a poet that nobody hears.



************************************************************************
Copyright 2010 J. Coate

One of my favorite poems...

The Writer

by Richard Wilbur



In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.

But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which

The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.

I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash

And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark

And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,

And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,

It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.

It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.

"So You Thought You Couldn't Cut It: A Beginner's Guide to Carving"

That's it, ladies and gentlemen--the name of my latest project. It's a children's instructional book, detailing the basics of woodcarving, starting with using sweet potatoes, of all things, as a beginner's material for carving.

As an aside, I should point out that sweet potatoes actually do make an ideal material for carving, especially for young children. They're quite easy to move a knife through. You can use a regular kitchen knife or pocket knife to carve them. After a few weeks, they harden into a woody, clay-like substance that lasts forever and yet still retains its shape. Neat, eh?

I'm actually rather humbled to have been chosen to participate in this project, along with master carver Jim Calder and photographer D.W. Maiden. Both are extremely talented artists, and I can only hope that my words can measure up.

At the moment, however, I must confess that the project's also my biggest headache right now. I'm trying to write out the steps for the potato carving sans pictures, and it makes for difficult going considering that I don't yet have anything to aid me. Unlike Jim, I am by no means a carver of any level. I can't just remember what it is I'm supposed to write. It's a tad frustrating.

But whining aside, I'm sure that this book will turn out just fine. I just need to get what I need and get myself together. Once I figure out what I'm doing, I'll be just fine. In the meantime, I'll write what I can and hope for the best. That's all I need to do, right?

I console myself with listening to Owl City and writing some fiction. But I shan't put off this project for long.

Well, I'm off to write some of the bits and pieces that I can do. Cheers!

Writing Sample--Contest Entry

Early in June, I summited my entry to The Schizophrenic Writer's blog-sponsered writing contest, under the prompt of "unexpected voices". What do you know, I had the fortune of taking first place and winning a little cash for my efforts!

Here is my winning entry for the contest, an untitled piece clocking in around 320 words.

************************************************************************

Four dollars and forty-six cents.

For all that these box cutters are going to alter things irreparably, it’s a surprisingly small price to pay. She wonders if it’s a sign.

Mallory crouches behind the dumpster soundlessly, sobbing through her teeth. She rips the package open with her nails. Slides and clicks the razor blade into position.

She’s alone, she’s messed up big time, and in a few moments, it won’t matter anymore. The scars from her cesarean still ache with raw freshness, and her parents, states away, aren’t even aware of anything other than her college bliss. Knowing nothing of David. Or the baby. Or the fact that she’s arranging the blade so delicately over the whiteness of her wrist, like the needle above a record.

It won’t matter. It won’t matter. So very soon, it just won’t matter when…

Her hand is shaking. Cursing, Mal takes a little breath to steady herself. Looks up.

City streets around her, damp asphalt beneath her knees and crumpled paper, neon signs that flicker in the twilight haze. She can see one now, for a restaurant, it says “DON’T GO HUNGRY”.

But the later bit is blinked out, you see. Mal squints at the flickering green.

DON’T.

Flicker.

DON’T.

A single voice. So meaningless. So empty. Nothing in the grand scheme of things, it’s a sign, a stupid sign, not the kind she wants, not the human contact she so desperately craves. It’s a coincidence. Nothing more.

But still. But still. Under its light, she can’t do more than scratch herself.

Choking, Mallory hurls the blade away. Lets her body heave with gasping, mewling cries. Draws her legs to her chest and rests her face there, until the knees of her jeans are soaked in tears. She can’t even commit suicide properly. How stupid, how utterly worthless, how…

The sign flickers above her. DON’T.

DON’T.

Beginnings...

Hello, world.

It's been a quiet, rainy sort of day today. Worn, almost. Sunny spells and scattered showers. As I sit here typing by the warm glow of my lamplight, I hear the crickets chirping outside my window and the soft strains of the TV in the next room. It's an evening touched by something calm, some yawning sense of ease and a peace on the tips of my fingers.

I am thinking about how strange it is, to be blogging.

But I've been advised to do so. For various reasons, but I won't burden any soul with the nature of my wandering into this apparently magic world. It's not important.

I'm a young writer, poet sometimes, and romantic at heart. Above all else, it's my dream to "make it" in the world of publishing and be able to write fiction full-time. For now, however, there are other things in the works. I am currently working on a project with master carver Jim Calder and photographer D.W. Maiden to create a how-to book for children on the basics of carving. More to come on that later.

Fiction's been put on hold for the moment, but my other projects do include a police thriller, of sorts, and of course the epic fantasy that I dream of being a work of true art.

I like to think I'm different than other young writers, in that I have every intention to accomplish my dream, a drive that consumes me day after day. Writing is what I do. It gets under my skin, swims my veins. I can't sleep for it sometimes. I've been given a gift, a talent, and my gut tells me that it would be wrong to do anything but use it to its fullest.

Maybe I'm slightly crazy like that.

If you haven't picked up on it yet, I've a great propensity for scene-setting and ceasless rambling. My bad (or, as the Brother-Creature would say, "Oopsie Poopsie"). But if there's anything I do love, it's sharing my passion with the world and reaching out to others to hear their voice as well. Which means, of course, that you must stop in and say "Hello"! I'd love to hear from you. You've met me and you've heard my dreams--who are you and what are yours?