What is it that makes a dream, a dream, and a nightmare, a nightmare? Is it anxiety that divides the two? A sense of helplessness? As an aficionada of those nighttime cinematic moments, I have some ideas and maybe some answers. Come along with me, fellow dreamer, as I buy a rocket launcher to kill a dragon, won’t you?
I broke Bluebird Blvd. again and nearly lost my mind. Does my hair look okay? Well, y’all, I broke Bluebird Blvd. for the 8th time in 7 days. I’ve never heard so…
On writing well, the publishing world, and more. Plus, a free manuscript consult from me IF YOU TRY the SEVEN DAY WRITING DRAFT CHALLENGE! (Read this guidelines at the end of this story carefully— this offer is open to new work only. All writing forms are accepted except student papers. To receive your free manuscript consult, you must email me by MIDNIGHT on Monday for the Northern Hemisphere.) (For the Southern Hemisphere, read as Tuesday, midnight, okay?)
*Whispering* Does anyone want to talk about art and money? One more question: Is anyone interested in reading my *full* writer’s bio?
Is art competitive? Is blogging competitive? Does competition make for good art? Good blogging? I have no easy answers— but I’d love to hear your thoughts today.
When I can’t sleep, I read Antonia Fraser’s histories and biographies about royalty. Let me explain why.
MY FRESHMAN YEAR of college I lived in an apartment near my favorite coffeehouse. It was not my first time to live in a transitory neighborhood. But it was my first experience with a wheelchair flasher and a SWAT team.
It’s calving season again in South Texas, so my mind has turned to the usual things: spring apples, new life, and the flourishing world of the subconscious self despite the tidal pull of a conscious mind. You know— the lighthearted stuff. <3
Lately, the minimalist aesthetic has started to crop up in certain circles. Having lived through the 1990s version of that old buzz saw of a style buzzword, I have this to say about that.
Why do we take self-portraits with our cameras? Why do I? Why do you? <3
Today’s story word is “choice.”
Today’s story word is “adventurer.”
Today’s story word is “directions.”
Oh, there’s more. I’ve taken a picture to spur on your stories today. Ready? Here we go!
When I write, I listen to music. Or, more correctly, when I listen to music, I write.
SCROLL DOWN for THIS WEEK’S FRESH STORIES! Or—
You think you can remember pain, but you cannot. What you remember is the idea of pain.
I’ve been going to thrift stores and junk shops for so long that I don’t know that I can even separate desire from habit.
Words have purpose. Words are tools. And words are weapons.
It’s loud now. It’s quiet now. It’s cold now. It’s hot now. And the now of five minutes ago is still now and will be now tomorrow.
I’ve spent enough years in and out of airports to consider the charming duplicity of their nature. An airport is, above all things, a building where people arrive and leave.
It’s late at night again, and writing isn’t going well. I stare at the page and the page stares back at me.
Harsh, yes… but the question is, have you picked your prince? Because that is what you do, you choose him, and you know what he is. And then, when you have chosen, you say to him—yes, that is possible, yes that can be done. Wolf Hall, Hilary Mantel
To commemorate the official start of the Bluebird Blvd. Silly Season—which will go through the end of August—I thought we could play a game.
A writing game!
Have you ever heard of an Exquisite Corpse?
As July unfolds into a spectacular display of heat and light, I find myself unfolding too— bursting, even, at the hand-sewn seams of my own desires.
In my office, you will find a 1930s bias cut silk wedding gown I discovered in a trashcan by the road.
Every Refrigerator Tells a Story. (AKA, The Blog Carnival We Accidentally Started Tonight, But It’s Totally Okay Because My Friend Meeka Is One Cool Chick.)
This refrigerator is the first brand new ‘fridge I have ever owned.
I don’t tell anyone how to write and no one tells me.
Starting today, I will begin my annual reading of Frank Herbert’s Dune. It’s a celebrated event amongst my friends and family, and somewhat of a joke, because Dune rhymes with June (hardi-har-haaaar!).