Querying my memoir has turned silence into self-diagnosis, and now I’m trying not to mistake fear for evidence.
Tag: grief
Scarcity Theater: What Was Never Mine to Fix
There’s a point in grief where reflection curdles into rumination. The what-ifs look like insight, but most of the time they’re just guilt in disguise.
I Edited a Book So Dad Would Finally Hear Me
I treated Dad like something to be fixed. I thought if I got the words right, he would be too. I didn’t know how to ask, so I wrote it like it was already true.
The Thirsty Elephant Problem: Am I Selfish?
Paralysis isn’t solidarity. Being Bothered from a place of safety isn’t the same as doing something useful. Anguish isn’t participation. Collapse isn’t virtue.
Permission Over Proof: Cutting Pages, Courting Agents
Small acts of disregard, stacked, become an avalanche. I need permission over proof, to finish editing p.iii, and to get this manuscript in an agent’s hands.
Holding a Firefly: The Chapter That Says Yes
The chapter that undoes me isn’t about loss. It’s joy—a memory glowing after everything fades. Editing it is like holding a firefly without crushing its light.
I Did It: Yes to Every Chapter
Turns out finishing doesn’t feel like triumph. It feels like setting something heavy down. I finally finished the first draft, and my body knows it.
Mannequin Skin (and Memoir Update!)
Mannequin Skin, a 3-part poem, written at the edge of goodbye. You don’t need the memoir to feel it, but soon, you’ll have it. Thanks for reading to the bone.
His-and-Hers: His Vodka, Her Permission
I hoped someone else was to blame. The math said otherwise. No fraud. Just a his-and-hers tab, a pattern, and the truth that hollowed me out.
Lit Ledger: Receipts for the Dead
After Dad died, I kept his ledger lit. Chasing closure with every transaction—proof, apology, a fucked up vigil, one last try for trust from the dead.