*Tap* *Tap* Is this thing on???

I barged into my daughter’s room today and said, “Jesus! I can’t believe how much this month sucks!”

“What month?” she said. “It’s only been ten days.”

Which did nothing for my mood.

I don’t know what is it about April. Something about this time of the year always makes me a little…crazy.

I don’t know if it’s the tree spooge pollen getting up inside my brain meats. Or maybe it’s the changing of the season with all the rain and sun and rain and sun and rain and sun. But it’s the same thing. Every year around about this time I find myself getting a little…weird. Like, unfocused weird….I can’t think or stay on topic for more than a few minutes before my monkey brain has jumped to another branch.


I haven’t written a single word on my Crown of Feather project. I’ve been buying time by trying to find the perfect journal and the perfect pen and…oh, my yes! More and more research materials to help feather the nest.

But we all know that’s procrastinating bullshit.

And the script for my new podcast idea, They Done Her Wrong? I got about three pages into that and……yeah.

This little fucker

I’ve often said that writing is like jabbing yourself with a needle, over and over, each time the tip getting a little duller, as you try to find the right vein that will shoot you up and over into La-La Land where words burst out of your fingertips like bolts of golden lightning. It’s magic when that happens. The Story takes over and everything is fucking AWESOME.

But, until you find it, all you’ve got to show for yourself is an arm full of holes.

And a brain that is getting duller and duller with each passing day.

I’m not alone in this. Many of my creative friends have been experiencing this since the Great Shut Down of 2020. I, as usual, the eternal late bloomer, have just now arrived to the pity party.

But that’s ok! It’s all ok! I can do this. I’ve wrestled with Aprils before and I’ll bust through this one.

I’ll see y’all on the other side.


Behind the Scenes

Brian caught me cutting up some strips of paper.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m letting Fate decide,” I said.

“Exactly what now?”

“See, I’ve been driving myself crazy trying to decide what year to set my new story in. I know I want it set in the early 1900’s but I need to pinpoint what year.”

“So, just pick a year.”

“That’s what I’m doing! I have listed a year on each piece of paper. Now I’m going to ball each slip up and then draw one. Whichever ball I pick, that’s the year of my story.”

“Ooooh no‚Ķdon’t ruin the magic for me.”

*I toss the tiny paper balls in a bowl, swirl them around like hot potatoes and, finally, pull one out*

“1908! That’s the winner!”


“Shut up.”


The Root of all my Anxieties

I was never a Disney kid. Something about Mickey creeped me out. I think it was his laugh. That was the laugh of a serial killer. And Goofy…what the hell was that? A talking dog that had a dog as a pet? How messed up was that?

And don’t get me started on the murderous intentions in Peter Pan. Those mermaids straight up wanted to kill Wendy.

I was a Warner Brothers kid. I loved Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Yosemite Sam, and all those crazy dudes.

As much as I loved Warner Brothers cartoons and their dry sense of humour, I have to admit that, looking back, I have to blame them as the root of most of my anxieties.

Do you remember the cartoon where Sylvester the cat wakes up to find that his family has left to go on vacation?

He’s left all alone. Kinda like that psycho rich white kid in that Christmas movie I refuse to watch.

And then the cat has an anxiety attack realizing that there is no food in the kitchen except for canned cat food.


For the next five minutes, Sylvester tries to open the cans. Explosions. Anvils. All the stuff.

And then a mouse comes out of the wall and twirls a can opener.

The chase begins. Cat pursues mouse and after much shenanigans, the cat comes out victorious with the can opener. He is saved from starvation!

BUT as Sylvester goes into the kitchen he sees that the cabinets are padlocked shut.

He hears a taunting whistle from behind him.

He turns to see a mouse, holding a key, and then he disappears into the wall.

Sylvester falls into a puddle, crying, starvation just around the corner.

That shit messed me up.


Measuring up

This will be a quick one. It’s something I want to say but I don’t have any other forum to say it so…here it is.

Today, someone commented that they had not had the success that I have had in regards to writing.

I was a bit thrown by this because….success? I’m successful? When did this happen? Why didn’t anyone tell me?

And then I heard a little voice in my head whisper, “Darling, what do you think success is?”

“I think success is a little bit more than $4 royalties from Amazon, for starters.”

I could almost hear my Muse take a long sip of ambrosia to calm their nerves so as to not slap me out of existence.

“Darling, the fact you have written stories and actually pushed them out of the nest IS a success.”

*long drink*


So, the moral here is that no matter how much of a third tier loser you think you are, someone out there might actually think you’re pretty cool.