Helen: First Installment

This is what I’ve written so far. Not as much as I would have hoped, but enough to post anyway. Most passages from novels I post here will be essentially unedited – point out any grammatical errors you might find, and all constructive criticism is welcome. This will be different from most other Trojan War novels, as it actually is about Helen.

Chapter 1

Anticipating Tyndareus’s return from peace negotiations in Troy, his daughter barely slept all night. Her legs twitched and bounced into the early hours of morning, and by the arrival of dawn she was certain that she had not slept for a second. Now, knowing that her nurse would be in to start readying the princess for her father’s return as soon as the sky had turned thoroughly pink, she saw no reason to spend any more time trying to sleep. She threw her silk bed covers off and ran out to the balcony.

In the gray light of dawn, the sea was still dark blue. She liked it best when the water was clear and green and she could look down from her high balcony and see things swimming below. She imagined that they were nymphs, mermaids, or sirens, even though she knew that sirens only lived in the deepest sea. She would fantasize about being a siren, and at the first sight of sails she would hum quietly, imagining that it was her father’s ship that she drew to her with her song.

Sometimes, she thought that if a siren were to beckon her, she would follow the voice creating the most beautiful music, as she had always heard it told, and live in the ocean with them, singing and playing.

She climbed up on the wall, her legs dangling over the side, to watch the sky and sea grow brighter. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the salty breeze and the early morning sounds wash over her. But for the gentle waves breaking against the cliff above which her bedroom sat, the world was quiet. The sun, growing warmer on her face by each moment, told her that this would soon change.

And just as she thought; very faintly, she could hear evidence of movement in the kitchen. Cooks and servants would be getting everything ready to begin meal preparations. In order to feed everyone who lived and worked in the palace, they would have to work all day.

The water rippled with the sun’s reflection, causing the young girl to squint. No sight of a ship yet. No song of sirens either. She started to hum tunelessly, stringing random notes together as if they were a familiar melody. He’ll come home, he’ll be home. She peered down the cliffside at the brightening water, deciding that the amorphous shadow twisting below the surface was a dolphin. She waved to it.

Looking up again, she frowned. Dark clouds were just beginning to drift in, far to the right. If they moved into her father’s path, they would delay his arrival, and they had already been expecting him for six days. She took up her tune again, willing the ship toward home and the storm away.

The door opened and then shut. Her nurse’s light, quick footsteps – the most efficient she had ever heard – made their way to the bed, which, of course, she found empty. Immediately, she would look to the wood-framed arch leading out to the balcony. Through the half-drawn gauzy white curtains, the seven-year-old on the stone wall was easily visible.

“Come eat breakfast, Helen,” the nurse requested sternly.

She swung her legs back on the balcony side of the wall, jumped down, and ran to her nurse, who led her by the hand to the round table. Bread, fruit, and olives waited on a plate for her hands to search for the pieces that looked best to her. Beside it sat a painted clay cup full of fresh milk. Helen climbed into a chair, folding her feet underneath her, and stuffed her mouth full of bread.

“I’ve told you not to dangle your legs over the wall like that, it’s very dangerous,” the nurse chided her. “And I wish you  would wear your sandals when you walk outside, even if you’re only out on the balcony.”

“I know,” Helen said, between swallows. “I forgot.”

“Never mind for now. I have to mend your dress before you can wear it, I’ve just found a tear. I don’t know how you manage to put holes in all of your clothing.”

“The one with the gold threads? Does that mean that he’ll definitely be home today?”

“Your father will surely arrive before the night.”

Bursting with happiness, Helen sprang from her chair and skipped about the room, shouting with joy.

“Helen, calm down! Finish your breakfast! You shouldn’t skip around so. Behave like the princess you are.”

But Helen’s radiant good mood would not be quenched, nor would her energy. She picked food from her plate as she passed by, taking bites and crying “He’s home, he’s home!” between chews. The nurse shook her head, smiling, and sat down to mend her charge’s dress.

Helen ran back out to the balcony, still barefoot, and leaned over the wall. She peered hard out over the water, hardly moving, until she at last spotted sails. She smiled widely. Because she liked and feared the god of the sea, she quietly said, “Poseidon, let them arrive safely today.”

She saw, or imagined, a swirling pool of light some way off, a phenomenon she had seen or imagined many times before – a sunny ray that seemed to emit from the ocean, turning the water nearest to it a pure emerald color. She thought of it as Poseidon waving to her, indicating that he had heard her. She pushed herself off of the wall and ran back in to tell her nurse, “Poseidon will not delay their arrival anymore. My father will be here today.”

“That’s nice. It’s time for your music lesson, Helen. Put on one of your day dresses, and you can come change into this one before the King arrives. I shall finish mending it before lunch, and I doubt they will have docked before noon.”

She laid out a lightweight white dress, with which Helen obediently dressed herself. She ran out the door while still tying the white cord around her waist, chased by a shouted request to wear her sandals. She did not go back for them, but hurried to the room of the music tutor in bare feet.

Teaser from Helen of Troy novel!

I started today, at last, on a new writing project. I haven’t written enough yet to post a selection a few pages long, but here’s a snippet of what I have done so far:

Sometimes, she thought that if a siren were to beckon her, she would follow the voice creating the most beautiful music, as she had always heard it told, and live in the ocean with them, singing and playing.

I’m fairly certain that this sentence will not look the same once the rewriting happens, but for now it’s an image I like. Helen as a girl dreaming of being an enchanted sea creature.

If you’d like to see more, I might post the results of the next few days’ writing over the weekend.

Making Plans

As I reread a wonderful novel written by Virginia Woolf, her pure talent for writing inspires me once again to want to spend all of my time writing. For some reason she stirs up my desire to create, which often gets lost when I feel satisfied simply appreciating the words of others.

Of all the ideas I store in my head, part of my Helen of Troy story rises to the top, and fills my mind, and aches to bleed onto a virtual page through my keyboard. I tend to do lots and lots of research before delving into such a project, but I think that this time I might just start with what I already know and then, later, fill in the parts that need to feel more authentic to the time in which it is supposed to take place.

My idea for rewriting the Helen story is simple: I want to make her a warrior. The idea came originally from an episode of Xena Warrior Princess, believe it or not. In that episode, Helen was very nearly a non-person. She barely had a personality at all, and she was quite incapable of doing anything for herself. It annoyed me so much that I said to myself, “I’m going to write a version of the Trojan War that portrays Helen as a strong character.”In all likelihood someone has already done something similar, but that wouldn’t stop me.

I have yet to decide whether she will be Helen of Troy, Helen of Sparta, or both.

And, rather unrelated, I’m planning to participate to some extent in NaNoWriMo this year. If nothing else, it would be pretty awesome to get a whole first draft of a novel done in a month.

The End

One night the stars fell into the lake. Side by side we watched, wondering if the world was ending. I thought: if this is the end, at least I’m holding your hand.

Note: This is one of my favorite microfictions that I have written. If I ever publish a collection, I plan to put this one first.

Newest Blog Addition!

In the second column, under “Pages,” find my in-progress author bio! I was intending to write something about the forms my writing usually takes, but I decided to revisit it later. For now, I like the way it came out. Check it out, please!

The Christian Mysteries

A swift, sweeping glance over the arena told Alce that none of the other spectators had seen it. The arena was drenched in murmurs, quiet conversations heavy with confusion and wonder. She thought that she might have imagined it – she was more prone to daydreaming than she ought to be. However, none of the condemned Christians had been affected, and the panther only paced on the other side of the showground, its sleek black fur glistening in the midday sun. Alce had not been to many of these executions, but she knew that the animal was supposed to attack the people within the ring. The mere fact that it was now lying on its side as though to sleep inclined her to believe that her private vision was real.

Armed, uniformed men emerged from openings below. Some cautiously approached the panther, leading it easily from the arena. Others strained under the weight of a large cage. Inside, an enormous bear growled and lashed out with its claws. One guard remained behind to unhinge the cage, and then quickly joined the others beyond the exit. Alce could not resent this; she would not want to face a feral bear, either.

She sat up straighter and leaned slightly forward. Rapt attention was the only option if she wanted to verify what she had seen. If it happened again, she would know that her mind was not playing tricks.

The bear thrashed in its cage until one side collapsed. Free of its restraints, it charged toward the people in the ring as soon as it spotted them. Alce ripped her focus away from the beast to stare at its intended victims. They were too far for any sound to reach her, but she saw their lips moving. It was not uncommon to see such a thing. The Christians were sending a prayer to their god before their death – so it seemed.

Just as before, the air surrounding them shimmered and bent. Looking closely at this hurt her eyes, but she refused to miss this strange event. It would be worth the reward of knowledge. So she continued to stare, and watched as a flash of white light repelled the bear’s teeth and claws from the Christians’ skin. She saw the air bend around the bear, and when it retreated to the opposite end of the arena, the shimmer followed it. Alce recalled that it had continued faintly around the panther as long as it had been in view.

Again the guards emerged, this time taking the Christians away along with the bear. The execution had failed. They would kill them later on using more conventional means, but the show was over. The Christians were ruining the reputation of the government by preventing their own public deaths.

The spectators began to leave the arena in a slow trickle, the same buzz of conversation streaming from their mouths. Some were still exclaiming over the curiosity they had just witnessed, while others disappointedly muttered that they had been deprived of the entertainment they came for. Alce’s thoughts hovered far beyond such simple concepts. As the crowd conveyed her out into the street, she attempted to reason out what had really happened.

Hours of debating inwardly prevented any productivity during the day. Alce made a little money by her skill as a weaver, and she had planned to finish the blanket a young man had ordered. It sat half-made on the loom. She lay in bed and gazed at the brown fabric as she tried to fall asleep.

She had organized a conclusion by the time the gray light of early dawn crept across the city. The Christians were not saved by the work of god, at least not in the way they would define it. It was not a miracle that occurred because those who were condemned were “worthy”. Not a miracle; a magic spell. All magic came from the gods, and so it was through a god that the Christians had survived their public execution. Since they had to invoke the power themselves, it was not divine intervention – a miracle – but their own skill that had saved them. They had found a kind of magic that did not seem to require obscure ingredients or preparation, one they could call upon at their convenience or necessity. She had heard them claim that magic was evil and should be purged from their lives, but that was nothing more than misdirection. In fact, they were reluctant to share the secret of their power.

Alce considered this for the rest of the day. She splashed some cold water on her face to wake herself up a bit, ate some bread for her breakfast, and stationed herself at the loom. Her fingers moved automatically, adding more fabric to the flawless weave of the blanket. The task left her mind free to contemplate the Christians’ magic.

The more she thought of it, the more sense it made. How else would they be able to banish demons no one else had managed to eradicate? How else could the man they worshipped, Jesus Christ, and certain ones of his followers, have healed all those people? How could he have turned water to wine, if not by a spell? How else could he have fed thousands of people with only a few loaves of bread and several fish?

She had once seen a man who tried to rob a church run frantically from two priests, who drove him away by holding their hands out in front of them and chanting. She had never known what they had said, but now she realized that they were performing a spell.

Why she had been unable to see the essence of the magic until the previous day, she had no idea. Alce knew that she had no talent in that area – and if she had, it would have manifested long ago. She decided that it was not important, especially if she could never arrive at a solution. She was tired of thinking about this, and she had not slept for more than a day.


A persistent knock drew Alce out of her slumber. She pushed herself out of bed and rubbed her eyes as she stumbled across her modest hovel. Opening the door, she was greeted with the statement, “Have you finished the blanket?”

“Come in while I take it off the loom,” she answered groggily. To judge how long she had been asleep, she asked the man, “How many days until market day?”

“Three,” the Customer responded, looking around her home. She had slept through the night. She thought she would feel more rested, having fallen asleep before sunset. As she took down the blanket, she did not attempt further conversation. The Customer must not have been accustomed to silences. “Did you attend the arena two days ago?”

“I did,” Alce said.

“I talked with my brothers about it for hours. We were completely stumped.”

“The Christians used a magic spell,” she told him calmly.

The Customer said nothing at first. Then, “What?”

Alce explained to him what she had seen, and how she had come to realize that it was magic. She gave him all the details she could drag up. He listened without interrupting, an expression of awe painted onto his face. When she finished, she handed him the blanket and took her small charge. In a daze, the Customer headed out, clutching his purchase.

She had not seen the last of him that day, despite her worries that he would walk off the edge of a mountain in his amazement. An hour had barely passed when the Customer returned, this time with four other men who said they were his brothers. They implored her to relate the tale of the Christians’ magical spell again. Their eyes never left her. All five of them, though one had already heard her explanation, were like four-year-olds, and her story was a basket full of sweets.

Within a few days, the story had spread throughout the city. The Customer’s brothers gathered her loom and other meager belongings and moved them to their house. They owned a small cottage-like home and a barn, for which they had no livestock. Alce was given a private bedroom, though the brothers did not have the luxury to spare it. Each of them was involved in some trade or other, and they provided her with food and other items with seeming ease. They bought her colorful material of varying softness for her loom and trinkets to weave onto them. People Alce had never seen came to beseech her to give them the knowledge that she had accidentally obtained. She would weave as she spoke, creating pieces at which her small audiences could not help staring as they listened. Scarcely aware of the momentum of her discovery, she found herself at times standing on street corners, or near temples, saying the same things she always said when someone came to her at the Customer’s brothers’ house.

There were those who waved off her story, thinking that she was lying or mad, but many were all too willing to believe her. Alce gained an impressive following in no time. They brought her gifts, which she nearly always gave away again. If she went on an outing, she was constantly surrounded by an excessive escort. Some of them, she noticed, became far more invested in her ideas than she. Zealots concerned her; she had seen too many examples of prejudice and persecution based on zealotry. She learned that she was right to worry. Soon enough, things spiraled out of her control.

She was asleep in her bedroom one afternoon, nestled under a self-made green blanket, when the sound of screaming awoke her. A few years before, she had seen a man tortured. The screams sounded exactly the same. Alce sprang up and followed the pained cries out to the barn. When she entered, she found that several of her followers (who had begun to call themselves Alcenians) had a man tied with ropes to the rafters. He was stripped to the waist, and blood stained his skin in numerous places, mixing with sweat. His legs barely seemed to hold him.

“What are you doing?” Alce asked the men and one woman scattered throughout the barn. They all turned to her at once, ignoring the man they had been torturing a moment ago.

“We apologize for disturbing you, Alce,” the woman said.

“Never mind that. What are you doing?”

One man pointed with a long dagger at the captive. “He is a Christian. We got one on his own and brought him back here. We were trying to get out of him the method for performing the spells of the Christians. He says that he does not know, but I think we are convincing him that it is in everyone’s best interest if he tells us.”

Alce held her hand out for the blade. The man handed it to her eagerly, excited that she wanted to participate in this task. She was their leader; she would undoubtedly succeed. Alce advanced on the Christian, holding the knife before her. He watched her approach, no fear but a strange blankness in his eyes. She halted a few inches from him, lifted the weapon, and cut the ropes that bound him. “Go,” she told him.

He needed no urging. He staggered across the barn, fell out the door, and disappeared. The Alcenians did not attempt to question her, or to stop him. Every single eye in the room followed the Christian out, and when he was gone they all rounded on Alce.

“You thought you were doing good,” she began, her voice quietly reprimanding. “I can forgive you because you were not trying to do evil. However, know that I will not welcome you again if anything else of this sort occurs. What kind of message do we want to send? That we will extract their knowledge by any means? No. We want them to share their power: we do not want to take it from them.”

Alce dropped the knife and stalked from the silent barn. She was hurt that her followers would resort to such measures. Did they really listen to her at all when she spoke, or did they take her basic ideas and twist them to suit their own needs? Her mind in turmoil, Alce curled up under her green blanket, but she could not manage to sleep.

It did not take long for the consequences of her beneficence to reach her. That same week, she was out telling her story on the street again, several Alcenians in tow. She had barely begun the third retelling of the day when a crowd of men with a dangerous appearance approached. The air started to shimmer around a few of them, warning her that these were Christians. The Tortured Christian, whom she had set free, led them. He showed no signs of magic – perhaps he had been truthful when he said that he did not know how to cast spells – but he shared the angrily calm expression that the rest of them bore. He pointed at her and said, “She’s the one, the leader. She’s the one you’re looking for.”

She felt a pressure around her. A glance told her that the Christians had used their magic to separate her from those who would defend her. She had counted them when she noticed their advance, and knew that she had no chance to resist them on her own. Two of them took her by the arms and marched her along with them. She did not bother to struggle.

People on the streets stopped to gawk as the Christians compelled her through the city. Some of them she recognized. Some were her followers. Some came forward purposefully, apparently intending to free her from the Christians’ clutches, but they were repelled with bending, glittering air.

Alce was not exactly afraid, but she wished she knew what was going to happen. The uncertainty of her fate at their hands made her uneasy. She felt her heart beating wildly as they took her to their largest church, a small distance from the outskirts of the city. An extraordinary number of Christians were gathered outside the church door, but they merely watched her as she was propelled inside. The heavy wooden doors closed of their own accord after Alce and the Christians had entered, blocking the spectators from view.

The gang that had come to collect her brought her into a menacing, high-ceilinged room. Against every wall there was tiered seating, and every available space was filled. Deacons, archdeacons, subdeacons, priests, and other Christian authorities of all kinds gazed sternly down upon her. Alce was lead to a simple wooden stool in the center of the chamber. As soon as she was in place, the room emptied but for her and those seated above.

“Are you Alce?” one of them began.

She nodded.

“You have been spreading a tale that Christians use magic and that we call it miracles when we do so. Is that correct?” another asked. She could not tell where the voice originated, but it hardly mattered. None of them gave their names or allowed her to identify them in any way.


“What we are most interested in at the moment is finding out who told you this.”

“No one told me,” she said.

“Come now, Alce. We know how these things work. We know far better than you do. You see, in order to learn this magic, one has to be initiated into the Mysteries of Christ. Not all Christians are initiates. Those who remain outside the Mysteries have no knowledge that this magic exists. The only way you could have learned this is by the mouth of an initiate.”

“You see, woman, revealing any of Christ’s Mysteries is punishable by death. We must know who told you. We are more interested in finding the traitor out than in removing you.”

Removing me? thought Alce. What does that mean?

“Who told you?”

“No one.”

“That is not a name, woman. We are not playing games here. Either you tell us, or we will have to get it out of you some other way.”

“I already told you.”

“The person who revealed this secret to you must be dealt with.” This Voice was different from the others. It was deep but quiet and wispy. Alce thought that this man must be much older than any of the other priests. “You are the only one who can aid us in meting out justice.”


Another Voice answered. It seemed the Old Voice had taxed itself. “By telling us the name of the person who revealed our magic to you.”

“No one revealed it to me,” Alce repeated. “I found out on my own.”

Silence saturated the chamber. Alce shifted on the stool, more from the itch between her shoulders than from any discomfort in the seat. She could feel each eye boring into her, and it seemed that there were hundreds.

“You discovered this without any outside influence?”

“Yes. I saw the magic, when I was at an execution of several Christians. They cast a spell to keep the beasts from them.” She did not know why it surprised her that she was able to recall that day in the arena with perfect, vivid clarity.

“Can you describe to us what this magic looked like?”

Alce took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Their questioning was beginning to put her nerves on edge. “There was a shimmering around them, and the air bent in a way that air should not bend. Then, when the animals tried to attack them, the shimmer transferred to the animal. It happened first with the panther and then the bear, two different times.”

“How is it that a misguided Pagan is able to see the divine magic of Christ?”

Alce shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. That was the first time it ever happened. I could not explain it if I tried.”

“This is quite a story, Alce. However, we are no country simpletons. Tell us now, who disclosed this sacred magic to you?”

The Old Voice spoke again. “We are no longer asking the right questions. She is not lying; she did discover the magic by use of her eyes. We must turn to our other most imperative responsibility in regards to this breach of the Mysteries.”

“Of course.” This Voice was the same that had called her a “misguided Pagan.” He spoke with a rough, cold tone. It very nearly made her shiver. “Have any others of your little cult, dubbed Alcenians, witnessed the magic?”

Alce shook her head. “No, not directly. None of them know anything of it but what I have told them. They do not have any physical proof.” She probably would have said the same even if it had not been true. She could not purposefully endanger her followers.

“Good, good. You are their only firm link to this knowledge.”

There was a murmuring and a rustling from above. The light had been arranged to let them see her, but did not illuminate them. Though the light obscured her vision more than assisted it, she knew that they had risen in unison. Her blood chilled. Whatever came next, it would certainly do her no good.

“This little story of yours diminishes us in the eyes of all infidels. You realize that we cannot allow the continuation of the Alcenian belief.”

I suppose they are going to remove me now.

The priests, deacons, archdeacons, subdeacons, and other Christian authorities struck up a frightening chant. Alce stood because she did not want to feel so small, but did not try to leave the room. She knew that the attempt would be futile. The chanting continued for a while, her sweat growing colder every minute, until blackness closed in.


Eventually, it reached them all that the woman they all looked to had been fabricating tales in order to gain power. It had not seemed so at the time, but retrospectively every Alcenian saw the sense in it. People had followed her blindly after they decided to trust her. She was given countless gifts; others provided the necessities of life for her, leaving her free to spin yarn, either on the loom or from her mouth. She could have used the force of the numbers she had gained to begin some sort of mock-invasion.

As this circulated, those who had once named themselves Alcenians with pride returned to the lives they had led before meeting her and denied their contact with her. They knew now that her account had been false, and the miracles of the Christians deserved that label. It took years, but they all managed to forget her name. In too short a time, a few colorful garments and a creaking, dusty loom were all that remained of Alce.

Notes: This was my creative-option final paper for a history class I took my first term at Bennington. I did not reread before posting it. The title and content makes slightly more sense if you know about the mystery cults of ancient times. They did things like summoning gods and used something like magic. Here’s a wikipedia article about it…

Greco-Roman mysteries

In Progress

Here are two short story projects that have been sitting on the shelf (figuratively) for ages now.

1. Cleopatra’s Barge – a story about a young homeless woman. I’m now thinking that it should be split into two stories; one strictly abstract-ish, from the woman’s point of view, and the other in the style of reporting, explaining why she is homeless and written as if by someone observing her. A third-person omniscient. It wouldn’t be specified in the stories that they’re connected, but it would be fairly obvious to anyone who read both.

2. Creme Brulee – relating the narrator’s experiences with the dessert compared to her relationship (or lack of one) to a certain love interest.

One has a completed draft, but needs a lot of work before it can be allowed to see daylight again. The other barely has a page written, and also needs much work before there would be any point sharing it. I very much like the ideas of both of them (a good sign). Sound interesting?

Coming Soon: an author bio page. Look for it under “Pages.”

The Writer

She bends the world to her imagination.

She turns pictures into art. Turns them into stories. She makes clouds, waves, red maple leaves, gowns, emeralds, murals, and she makes spirits, faery rings, unicorns, firebirds. She holds them in her mind, streaking glimmers of color across her inner sight.

Ink and paper create her scrying pool. It is the only way for her eyes to see what her mind conceives. And once on paper, her ideas live.

She finds it easy to turn these things into words, but she can’t explain herself.

One day she meets someone.

She thinks he sees her. She wills him to see her. But he does not see as deeply as she first thought. She watches him walk away over and over again.

In her mind, maybe he sees her fully. Maybe their bodies meet. But those images remain there, not put to paper. Too vulnerable, too raw. They remain with the other thoughts she cannot bear to see inked. This, because if she does see it, she wants it to be real.

(First draft – freshly pressed. Comments – can/should this go anywhere?)

St. Francis of Assisi

The humble statue of St. Francis has fallen face down in a winter storm and found that the earth is indeed flat. Not a smooth surface, but most definitely flat, clear in the fact of his post-fall stillness. Once, he fell on his back, and watched the sky swivel and felt the earth move. Wondered, if the earth is flat, why does it seem to go round and round and round? St. Francis died eight centuries ago believing that the earth he walked remained in one place. Now he does not walk. He’s cold, on snowy ground, holding a tiny stone bird beneath his body. He has become as still as the earth used to be, and the earth has eclipsed him as the mover.

A Real Live Writing Blog?!

While my most recently created blog (started last August and hanging on by a thread) was intended to be used in a literary way at least part of the time, I have never had a blog devoted to writing alone. I recently decided that the best way to get myself to write more, and possibly get feedback from complete strangers on pieces I post, would be to get one. WordPress was the obvious choice. Now, after a week of contemplation, here it is.

None of the writing I share through this blog has been published. Most of it is first or second draft, ripe for comments and critiques, both of which I welcome happily. I want readers, and I want to know their opinions. If I’m writing something – story, novel, flash fiction – and no one seems to like it, that tells me that it’s either time to scrap it or rewrite it. But if I have no outside opinions to work with, how do I know to do either? I don’t. I write for me, but I also write for you. Other than Emily Dickinson, I can’t think of a writer who kept their words hidden from foreign eyes (although there must have been a few others). I made this blog to be clear: yes, I am a writer. And I am here to find an audience for my work. I want to spread like Nutella on a freshly toasted waffle. I want to be the book you borrowed from a friend, which they had borrowed from their friend, and so on. So if you like what you read, tell a friend or two. Or ten.

P.S. I write what I write and I don’t apologize for it. I don’t try too hard to be tactful, but I don’t try to be offensive either. If you take something in my writing personally, that’s more about you than me. I’m just a writer like everyone else…

Creative Piece Coming Soon