What. A. Quote! Now, here we have the a monolith in name, diction, style, form, class, you name it who’s greatest achievement is rekindling the fire of what makes a novel a novel, or bending, no, rewriting the rules of literature and yet despite all that here he is claiming that all he’s written isContinue reading “The Grandeur of Ordinary Life: James Joyce on Literature About You, Me, And Everyone In Between”
“A line will take us hours maybe, Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought, Our stitching and unstitching have been naught. Better go down upon your marrow bones And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather— For to articulate sweet sounds together Is toContinue reading “That Settles it, “Writing is Hard.” -Yeats”
Writing a novel is a complicated equation involving a lot of variables and moving parts — not the least of which are the authors themselves. In fact, the process of writing a novel is so arduous and soaked in magical thinking that many writers struggle to explain the process coherently,
A strange thing happens when you begin to contemplate the end. It’s as if setting such a definitive goal opens the world to endless possibilities: a phone is buzzing,
“My sudden love of these two women came into existance upon two separate planes of thought
Like a split in the multiverse that is the self.
Shay. Shay is stability. Comfort. Success.
Whereas Ingrid. Ingrid claims the part of me which belongs to the world. A manifestation of my desire to roam freely and simply be.
But, I know in my heart of hearts these two worlds can not coexist.
For they, separately, are everything. Yet together, in the folds of life, they cancel each other out.”
–In Another Country
Novelist. Reader. Archaeologist.
After high school I hit the road. A spontaneous bus ride to Mexico City led me into the hazy mountains, the deep emerald forests of Chiapas where I discovered the beautiful and heartbreaking world of the Maya (yes, they still exist) and found something deeply rooted, down in my heart of hearts: A need to be part of something greater, to commit myself to people less fortunate.
Excerpt from The Outsider: A Memoir?
“The sky out my window is that fiery red which makes the heart swell with life and there it is again: that sensational expanding within my chest, rising to my throat, gripping and stinging my eyes.”
*unedited from rough draft (The Outsider: A Novel) I woke up one morning in a state of complete despair and found myself debating the absurdity of carrying on like this when I had options. They were clear as day and night and manifest out of who-knows-where: One, I could kill myself. Two, I could goContinue reading “One: I Could Kill Myself | Two: I Could Go To Africa –scene from The Outsider, A Novel.”
It’s that feeling like walking through a dream. When everything glows a soft infusion or orange, red and gold as if the world has absorbed the sun.