I, Cyborg

If you were to look at a cyborg PoV visual display, from my perspective, at mealtime, the text would read something like this:
CONUNDRUM: Raw vegetable more optimal for health / Cooked vegetable (with cheese) desired


SOLUTION: Exploit natural laziness


Thoughts, as I pack, of places and gods…

He sat down on a grassy bank and looked at the city that surrounded him, and thought, one day he would have to go home. And one day he would have to make a home to go back to. He wondered whether home was a thing that happened to a place after a while, or if it was something that you found in the end, if you simply walked and waited and willed it long enough.
–Neil Gaiman, American Gods

Love on the Strange

I was (and am) a huge fan of the podcasted audio drama Wormwood: A Serialized Mystery. I listened to that show through a transitional period of my life. I started during a time when I, in possession of a fresh Masters Degree, was back living with my parents, working a soul-draining graveyard shift at 7-11, and (with no other expenses) still not making the monthly minimums on my debt.

And I continued listening to the show when I landed a job writing for a video game company and was very suddenly thrust from Chicago to Oslo, Norway. The show was one of the familiar things I brought with me when I jumped far out into the big bad world. I followed the exploits of the occult detectives Sparrow & Crowe (you can now follow them in comic book form as well). In more than one culture, sparrows and crows are psychopomps, beings who guide others between worlds. It was no different for me.

One great thing about the internet (and you have to take in the great things, in the face of YouTube comments), is it sometimes gives you the chance to keep in touch with the creators of the things you love. And somewhere along the way, I got to collaborate with them. Twice! First was for a prose Sparrow & Crowe anthology, Weird Winter Stories (containing my story “How to Kill Santa”).

And now round two! I give you Weird Romance. It is another Sparrow & Crowe anthology, this time centering on theme of the strangeness of love. There is a lot of variety here, a lot of twisted gems, fathoming the depth of the oddity that is l’amour. My story is “Harlow’s Fairytale,” and I’m rather proud of it, rather fond of the character Harlow. You should sit down and read her tale. There’s a frog prince…but it’s not very Disney.



Creativity & Such

Suspicious Character

Back from an impromptu trip to Vegas. Stories and anthologies spinning like plates. Change in job title. Impending move from Montreal to Durham, North Carolina. More news to come.

Had a lot of fun doing an interview over at Writing & Whiskey.

Check it out:  Josh Doetsch: On the Creative Process.

Patrick Rothfuss! Charity! Prizes! Toe Tags! Goblins!

Appearing in a Patrick Rothfuss blog meets my definition of a fine day. The occasion? Worldbuilders! It’s a fundraiser run by Mr. Rothfuss to raise money for Heifer International (they impress me not for being altruistic, but for their competence in their altruism).

What is more, Lord Rothfuss has gathered a might confluence of books and related geekery. Donating makes you very likely to win some fine spoils. Giving and receiving meet in a wonderfully impossible alchemy.

But there is only one day left! Things shut down at 11:59pm on the 21st. Get thee there now!

Donate HERE.

See the remaining auctions HERE.

For every $50.00 donated, I will personally slay one invisible scuttle-goblin. They’ve stolen our car keys and socks, unopposed, for long enough.


Adventures in Winter Vacationing #1: The Wand!

My intrepid Christmas vacation journey is a blur of events. Since linear time does not actually exist (a wizard peddling goblin mushrooms in the subway showed me so), chronology…there shall be none. Post-by-post as sense stimuli occurs to me…

So! After the pirate ship, after crashing the rich peoples’ party, after the little girl threatened me with a doll and a sword, but before I drank my novel in beer form and lost a pound of flesh off my elbow, half-naked on the ice, there was the wand.

Wand 1

A dinner party at the awesome home of my good friends Matty and Sarah, and Matty says, “There’s something in the basement I want to show you.”

Like a good horror movie protagonist, I say, “Alright.”

They have a nifty basement, parts of which would be welcome on a ghost tour, or good for turning night-cams up at your face and screaming on Discovery channel footage of yet another episode where you almost find something. In a little workroom, Matty points to a table full of magic wands. He’s recently taken to the craft of carving them by hand, the unique properties of the sticks he finds guiding their creation (and we get into a little discussion about how creativity is often enhanced by restrictions and complications forcing the mind to problem solve).

“Pick one out,” he says.

Suddenly, I’m in a magician’s shop, in a novel! I give lots of careful, esoteric consideration (the uninitiated would call it
indecision). I at first avoid the black wand — it’s just too obvious! — but, as they say, the wand chooses you.

Wand 2

Matty explains how he originally envisioned making the length of this wand a smooth, tapering sort of cone, but a black, rotten vein in the center of the wood caused it to come away unevenly, so he was forced to adapt and give it a more organic texture. I like that better anyway, and a wand with a black-rotten core…well that’s just feeding the mythology my brain is already building around it.


Matty has begun selling them. CHECK IT OUT! There are a few up there now, including one that very nearly chose me. Perhaps it will instead choose you…

Wand 3
South Park Me

Honey, you should see me with sutures and a bone grafter...


I take a cackling mad scientist approach to life. I'm more intrigued with the people and things I help build up, and less about the stuff I tear down. Defining yourself negatively, as an MO, is pensive and gritty in the short term, but in the end you're left with only the shadows and empty space that accumulates in the crawly cracks between all the things you hate, that you stacked up in the DISLIKE pile, pointed at, and shouted, "Me!"

Grave robbing is fair play though.