Essays are polaroids of the mind. Some are posed; some are candid. When I write, I turn my insides out and hold them up for others to see. It’s quite painful.
A painter can hang his pictures, but a writer can only hang himself. – Edward Dahlberg
How true is this sentiment when an author begins to publish…and get rejected.
But it’s wonderful, too. Because after a season of hanging there all self-conscious and jittery, someone comes along and admires you. Someone laughs at your joke, cries at your character’s heartache. Someone tells you, “This is really good.”
Fiction is a bunch of polaroids I’ve cut up and rearranged. Some are snapshots of my own mind; some are borrowed. I love jumping into other minds and taking a selfie. That’s how my stories are born.
Stories can be temporary refuges, sandcastles that wash away when we close the cover. I want a story to rivet me with tension and excitement, but I also want it to challenge and change me as a person, to grow my soul. A great story doesn’t wash away, even years later. Books shape us individually and—should an author be so favored—collectively.
I wrote a novel called Trespass about a girl who acquires the skeleton key to every mind on planet Earth. I often wonder what I’d find if I could eavesdrop on a mind. In writing Trespass, I did it.
Some of me, Published:
Coming January/February 2019: Skeleton in a White Dress – Ink in Thirds
Coming October 15: The Outrider – The Corona Book of Science Fiction
Trouble – Zeroflash Anthology, coming soon