Irregardless, it’s the way I write


I never found the rigidity in our language, never had time for it. While others debated the rules of “who” vs “whom” or if a comma should be come before “and”, I was  writing poetry on the bathroom walls.

There stuffy air discussing arbitrary rules like an Iron Maiden, a mute screaming.

I hug irregardless, wrapped him around me like a warm blanket. I write in prosetry, told every genre to shove it as I picked them apart.

And I’m not going to stop.

Language is Google directions, we writers blindly follow.

For a while, you need them, those first fledgling timid steps , just learning the skills need to navigate.

After a while, it’s time to toss them out the window and just drive.

Language is the roads we cruise down. We should take the detours, swim around in under-discovered canyons while basking in the glow of our own imagination.

After all, rules are only rules because somewhere along the line, we decided they should be.

Nothing is set in stone.


A laugh because Mondays suck

Let’s face it Mondays usually aren’t fun. The alarm rings too early. The day winds on too long. And worst of all, there are four more days of it left. imagesCAUCEXP82

So before you hit repeat on the work week, I thought I’d provide you with a few laugh links.

I’m not a grammar Nazi by any means, but a misplaced comma always brings a smile to my face,  especially with the newly formed unintended meanings.


1) A homoerotic pickup truck 

2) 25 phrases the needed commas 

3) A pleteria  of hilarious  mistakes

Have a little faith in me (An artist’s rant…)

Over the weekend, I had what I consider to be a dangerous and disturbing conversation in what I consider to be a trend of dangerous and disturbing conversations of late.

It always starts the same way:

I mention that I am an artist and that one day, ideally I’d like to make a living that way.

The person freezes for a moment to process and then the person I’m talking to gets that look.

The you are a moron look, what the hell is wrong with you look.

Followed by 12 seconds of “Oooooooooh…..”

“Do you know how hard it is? You will be poor for the rest of your life. How delusional are you? “

In short, you want to be an artist, what the hell is wrong with you?

I have had friends whose parents destroyed their art, threw away their note books and told them in no uncertain terms, if they want to be an artist, they won’t have parents.

My question is why? Because it’s hard and a waste of time? Because I won’t make it.

Well to that I say…..
Life is hard.

Being a doctor is hard. Most things worth pursuing are hard. Does this mean you shouldn’t give it a try? And what if you don’t make it nationally, if you are only a local artist, or don’t make it until you are dead? What is making it anyway? If it it a fulfilling hobby that isn’t harmful to a person, shouldn’t it be encouraged.

I am reminded of my teen years, when my friends and I used to get in trouble with the cops because we would walk around town starring at stars (mine you we were 18 and had no state curfew) and discussing life’s mysteries. Still, every time would walk around, the cops would pull over and hassle us. This enraged me because I came from a small town and they knew us. We could have been drinking, doing drugs, sleeping around, things that may be harmful to a person, instead, we spent our time productively exploring the universe.Still, because we were easy to harass. We were docile and available.

It’s the same with art. I could be doing a hundred different destructive things with my life but instead, I decided to channel my life in a productive way. What is so wrong with that?Some people play DnD.Some people build cars.I write.

Life and worth isn’t based on money.
Hey I get it, you need money to live. And having a stable job does make it easier. However, many artist, most artist, such as I, do have a full-time job. We make money during the day and at night and on weekend, we are warriors, typing away in our dungeons.

But if I, an adult, decide with my life to pursue art with no thought of money, isn’t that my choice to make? Does accumulating wealth make life more worth-while?

Should people never be missionaries, nuns or priests because they don’t make money? What you contribute to this world, I hope can be measure in more than dollars and cents.

Art isn’t about money.

I was a college athletic. And let me tell you, by the time you reach college, playing sports becomes a lot less fun. You have no free time, between class, practice, conditioning and games. You come home late at night from a game and have to stay up for hours doing homework then have to wake up early for practice or class. And repeat day after day.

There are times you hate it, hate the thing that once drove you.

But you do it. Because in the end, you love the sport. It’s part of you.

It’s the same with art. Being an artist isn’t always fun. It’s a huge time contribution with little or no payoff. And don’t get me started on the rejection…..

But, even if I never tried to have a single thing published, I would continue to be an artist until the day I die. It’s part of who I am. I could stop as easily as you could stop breathing. And if I don’t write, I feel an emptiness inside, a nagging voice that is screaming for me for release.

Art is a beautiful thing. It lets know to look into the void and scream, you are not alone. I hear you. I see you. I feel what you feel.

So yes, I do know it’s hard.

I know I might not ever make money and that I might not ever be famous.

And I’d have it no other way.

And I’m ok with that. Have a little faith in me. I know what I need to do to feel fulfilled in this life.

Walkin’ in the shoes of Mr. Darcy

For those word nerdettes like me, who are obsessed with all things Pride and Prejudice and, of course, all things related to Mr. Darcy, Radio Times Travel has a treat for you. They have mapped out the ironic walk Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet took in the BBC’s 1995 adaptation.

If you read my blog, you are well aware that I dislike this version (sorry!). Colin Firth and  Jennifer Ehle’s just rub me the wrong way. But even though I prefer the 2004 and 1980’s adaptations, this has just been added to my bucket list. Now, I just have to find my way over to England……

Even if you aren’t a fan of the book, you should take a look at the article. The the walk has some beautiful sights that would entice any nature lover.

So lace up your shoes! It’s time to follow in some great literary footsteps.

Walking with Darcy

Sleep Drunk and the internet

In a perfect world,  I would have all of my poems done for the poem a day challenge, find time to write new material while editing my old material, surf the web for interesting literary post to share with you and still manage to have some fun free time. All of this of course sandwiched in with work.

But alas, the world sometimes is just a kick in the teeth.  I’ve work a little over 50 hours (35 at the school and the rest tutoring), and managed to get some meager writing in during breaks at work. Also, I had one day of fun, going to see Henry Rollins at the Caste Theatre which was amazing. Overall this week has left me lagging on free time, sleep time, writing time and blogging time, leaving me in a sleep-deprived induced drunk state.

However, the internet has provided me something amazing that has boasted my spirits, a literary fingerprint!

Book patrol goes into more detail, but the idea is pretty simple:

The artist sends you ink and some cards
you stick your thumb in the ink and apply to card
mail inked cards back with
a list of up to 50 of your favorite books

and you get your thumb print!

It isn’t exactly cheap (400 bucks) but it is pretty awesome way to record your literary lovers, and for you DIYers out there, I hope I just inspire a new project!

Well anyway I’m off to nap.

Keep on reading in the free world!

Writing, the ups and downs of finishing a novel…..

Maybe it's why  we write tooI think this is why we write as well, to touch other people, to reach out from the void and scream, I am not alone. I am here. I feel what you feel. I see what you see. We are not always, sometimes, we is.

That being said, it’s time for a rant….

Have you ever worked on a project so long that you just hated it? That’s how I’m starting to feel with my novella.

It all started 3 years ago, when an artist friend of mine wanted to do a graphic novel with me. Young, and naïve, I full heartedly agreed though my boyfriend (now ex) warned me that he might have ulterior motives.

I spent all summer, working a crappy job at a water tower theme park  (I sold tickets and gave a tour up an elevator that was frequently break), writing during the dead times until I had banged out a sort of script for the graphic novel.

Then I waited…for anything, some sign of him working on the project. I complained. He drew a view mock-ups, but eventually he complained that I wasn’t dedicated.

In reality, I told him we would never have a future (romantically) together, and thus he scraped the project.

For the next year, I let it sit. My world was in chaos and I wasn’t about to sit and retool a 100 page script thing.

And then one day I realized I wanted this idea to see the light of day.

But I hate it.

It isn’t yet what I envisioned.  I keep trying to rework it, but it isn’t yet what I want. I’m not sure it will ever be.

Part of me wants to scrap it and walk away, but still part of me is in love with it.

Maybe it’s because I don’t usually work in the genre or maybe its because I envisioned it in pictures.

Maybe it’s not any good.

But I know I’m going to just keep going, no matter how much I complain.

I guess in the end, It might not be perfect but it’s my baby and I need to give it the life it deserves.

Here’s a short excerpt:

Chapter 1

The arching skyline rose, casting a shadow over Santana Cooke, blocking the little light left from the rising night’s sun. The faux-goth architecture, arches and ornamentation, mated into awkward, menacing angles, dangling precariously over her head, threatening to crash down, a fierce hellfire of fused limestone and metal. Goblins, angels and gargoyles, their cameras tucked away, eyes stone-cold, stared down at her, fleetingly stealing glances of life and soul. Santana shivered, pulling her black leather jacket tightly around her Guns N’ Roses T-shirt.

She could feel the world on her, burning, the sun on a summer day.


She’d lay for hours in her yard, listening to her mother’s humming through the kitchen windows, reaching for the clouds as the laundry hung over-head, waltzing back then forth with the breeze until her father returned home from work, a candy bar in his pocket for her to sneak before dinner.  Anything was possible then.

Santana shuttered at how quickly things changed.

Turning down a side alley, she paused, the pulse of the city lost in the cobblestone. No one noticed her in the herds of people muddling along to chew their cud, find a lover, or jump off a bridge. Thoughts collected, she ran on until the building Tek described came into view.

He better not be lying. I paid a pretty penny for this information.