I read what calls to me and try not to limit myself because of preconceived ideas about genre or an arbitrary scale of literary merit. I’m writing a speculative/sci-fi novel. I write short stories and let them be as strange as they need to be.
two nights ago was memorabilia; last night’s dream was yesterday; three was a mistake
the night before I read about someone else with a slit in her back, feathers dispensing flying through the air the only indication tainted maroon of the encounter,
City Full of Rain
They are angels. It's the nearest I can get to labeling Penny and Mike. I think they're the wrong kind of angels, working for the other side. And this rainy city is perfect for them to hide. So many shadows and indifferent people here, indifferent to rain and shadows.
More than Words
I don't get jobs, I write, I don't get jobs, I write...there's a pattern here. Though, writing is a job.
Where Did You Come From; Vagina is a Province in China; There Are Philosophers Everywhere; The Last of the Mohicans
Golden Globe Awards. Guess who won. Everything went down hill after that, damn it. Too bad Sue Lyon didn’t live in Europe. In Hollywood, they say “What have you done lately?” whereas in Europe they think you're as good as
the best you've ever been...
Let’s Hear It for Databases
...: books are central to a well-lived life, but so is a warm childhood memory or a favorite brand of liverwurst.