amanda jean writes

The wind’s changed. Dreary cold has been swapped for watering can sprinkles and anime daffodils. The birds have migrated back to their perches. The bees thunk mercilessly at the window panes, taunting the dog. With spring comes abundance, renewal, the promise of longer days and baby lambs.

My writer’s studio is gathering dust. The metaphorical studio, the mind studio. My actual studio, an aforetold dining table and adjoining chest of drawers, did get a declutter and reorganization a week or two ago. But the writer’s studio in my mind palace, that wood clad timber attic room looking over the ocean on one side and the forest on the other, with amble desk space and a collage of inspiration along each wall, that hasn’t been touched in a while. 

I’m not sure what prompted it, the Block. That great Block which all writers fear most (and some deny). But it came like the moody clouds that I welcome in the winter skies. It settled into the pit of me, this despair, this unsure footing. Each word I typed was worse than the last until it became a downward spiral of self-doubt and crippling anxiety. The Block came and then the Depression and then the Anger, or perhaps they were all rolled into one, a product of bad brain chemicals fueled by caffeine and social media. And the trauma that has been the Last Two Years.

January was relatively sound. A new writing planner brought forth inspiration in the form of shiny stickers and a barrage of New Year-New Me thrills. I continued slogging through my Dark Academia Ghost Story until somehow I got stuck in the mud I’d dredged, and after years of doing this, instead of calling for help, I think I just dug myself deeper. Knee deep, waist deep, until February came along in a wash of colder rain and less inspiration. 

Not less, just different. In February I’d managed a handful of 5k+ days. Inspiration struck, thank God!, and I powered through a handful of fan fiction short stories that I’m rather proud of. Those flew out of me like some life-force tucked itself under my fingertips and did the work for me. I hadn’t felt that in years.

But again, the Block swept me away again.

March was rough. March was a deluge instead of a mud pit. It was rapid waters with no boulders or sticks to grab onto. It was panic. It was grasping desperately for an idea, anything to come along that I could build a raft out of. And March dumped me into the ocean where I could tread water on short stories and the residual praise from short stories of long, long ago. 

I tread through the beginning of April, exhausted, needing a change. A change of pace, of scenery. I think being in the ocean made me realize just how little my life had changed in the past few years. It was a constant deluge of ideas followed by a drowning of overwhelm, followed by the disappointment of unfinished projects. I felt I was letting my friends and family down. I’d isolated myself to an island and burnt my boat. I needed something new. 

And then, as my head was beginning to submerge, a lifeline came. An idea. A buoy.

I’ve always loved film. If you’ve known me for any amount of time, years, a conversation in a coffee shop, I think you’ll recognize that about me. If I’m not quoting a movie, I’m asking you what your favorite are (and judging accordingly). If I’m not referencing a television show, I’m equating our conversation to a scene in my head. Movies have always been my life, my second love only to writing. Well, probably my first love, but movies are way harder work.

So after a particularly difficult day treading water, I talked to Sean and my Mom, and they suggested I search for freelance writing gigs. If something is going to get me out of my funk, it may be writing for others. I’ve searched before, several times over the years, and have always quit due to overwhelm, but it couldn’t hurt to try again. 

So I decided, this time, to whittle my options. I began searching for freelance writing gigs in topics I’m passionate about. Writing, obviously, and film. If you’ve been on the blog, or following my work for a while, you’ll know I absolutely love writing film and television reviews. It’s the perfect way to articulate how I’m feeling after I’ve finished watching something I enjoyed (or didn’t! Yikes!). And after a few days of searching, I found some options. I found my buoy. 

My course is changing, like the winds. Like winter to spring, I feel a new life breathed into my lungs. The birds have come back to me. The life-force has returned beneath my fingertips, and I’ve found myself writing again. I’ve found myself joyful again, the sun shining on my face, drying my hair and hands. 

I’ve dusted out my studio and thunked a stack of DVDs on the desk top. I’m writing reviews again, and feature articles, and my career path has changed, I think for the better. 

For those of you wondering, I am still writing fiction. I’m still experimenting with short stories and micro fiction. Every day, I’m finding myself thinking of the main characters in my novels, itching to write their stories again. Itching to get back to work. This new venture is just exciting me again, rejuvenating all that I’ve lost over the past couple of years, filling me with freedom and adventure and self-worth. All it took was a change of perspective. 

As for this space, and my YouTube channel, I want to continue to document my writing. I want to write about writing, because I love to do it and I love to talk about it.

The world has opened up again, and I want to write in my places. I want to see more things. I want to write about more adventures. 

So keep an eye on this space, is what I’m offering. Come back here to see how my writing’s going, to talk about writing, to be inspired to take little retreats and adventures for your own writing, or just for your own self care. Be with me. Float with me. 

Thanks, as always, for reading xo 

Hi, anon! I'm intrigued by this one sentence synopsis alone!

For zombie stories in particular, I think it's good practice to start with some action, really hook your readers in with the suspense of it all. Maybe your MC is doing something mundane like the dishes, and she hears an odd sound from outside her apartment door, and when she investigates, BOOM Zombies. But really try to drag out the moments before she realizes it's zombies. Try to pull on that suspense cord, so your readers are alongside her, wondering exactly what is going on outside and how high the stakes are.

Groceries

The refrigerator aisle buzzed a static just a frequency lower than the elevator music over the sound system. Yellowed floor tiles, a stark constrast from the bright and bold packaging of ice cream flavors clacked beneath her flip-flops, and she wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand before the sealant of the freezer door peeled open. On instinct, she leaned the upper half of her body into the frigid container, and she tried to prolong the reprieve by pretending to be indecisive about her ice cream choice. She’d come in on a mission for Rocky Road, but no one else in the store needed to know that.

Unfortunately, the heat and humidity sunk in too quickly, frost turning to condensation on the glass, and she grabbed a pint and tossed it into her basket. It weighed at the crook of her elbow, beside the potato chips and the bag of wine, and she two-handed it, shuffling toward the check out in a desperate act to get back to the air conditioning of her vehicle.

The full row of registers were closed, down to the very end, where a woman waved her down with a toothless smile and the twitch of someone satisfied by their recent smoke break. The woman wiped a sheen from her brow with the back of her arm and chuckled at the ice cream container under her palm. “Ooh, this feels nice!” She commented with a giggle, transporting it into a plastic bag.

The customer just chuckled a response and shoved her card into the reader.

“It’s a scorcher today, isn’t it?” The cashier wheezed, scanning the chips and pressing a handful of buttons.

“Sure is,” the shopper avoided eye contact, pressed the accept button, waiting for the screaming alert for her to remove her card, pocketed it.

“You stay cool, sweetie!”

She grabbed the bag’s handles and rushed for the automatic door, skidding to a halt before the sensor picked her up. She needed to brace herself. She needed to time it just right, wait for any cars to drive by that were going to. She had to sprint to her car and turn on the ignition. She could feel the melting of the ice cream against her leg.

With a deep breath, she darted toward the door, and they creaked open at her presence, letting in a suffocating gust of heat. She shielded her face, her lungs burned, and she ran for it. The keys jingled at her side, and she pressed the button for entry, heard the click of unlocked doors before she saw it, and she threw herself inside. At least she’d found a tree to park under, dead, void of leaves, burned to a shell of its former self. But in this year, with the sun’s heat as close as it was, any shade was better than none.

[[Author's Note: I wrote this in August, when it was probably a billion degrees outside and inside my west facing apartment. Now, at the end of December, the end of the year, I'm laying under a stack of blankets with Cozy cuddled up beside me attempting to keep me warm. Funny how we dream in opposites.

The optimism of last week has not quite leaked over into this one. The projects I was over-the-moon for have turned to something I dread going back to. They’ve become a mess of notes and character interviews, and it all feels like work, really, something I don’t want to do, but I have to because other people have expectations of me. Or rather, my own expectations are too high. I gave myself a project that would take too much work, too much research, and I’m intimidated by it. It doesn’t bring me joy like it did in my youth, like when I allowed my imagination to run wild.

So instead of working, I’ve been letting it percolate on the back burner of my mind while other projects step on and off the red spiral hot pad at the forefront. I feel like I’m trying to rediscover myself, as an artist, a writer, a woman nearing her 30s. What face do I want to show the world? How have I evolved over the past ten years of my life? How can I express that through my medium?

I have a lot of ideas. I’ve narrowed down the genres I enjoy, the themes, the moods and characters and relationships. I can feel the atmosphere of my mind, where I feel most excited and most comfortable (ten points if you guessed it involved rain and the woods of the Pacific Northwest, twenty if you guessed there are strong female characters and adventurous men and an element of something spooky, thirty if you guessed there’s a theme of found family).

My issue isn’t about that though, it’s about landing on a project and sticking to it. It’s about pushing down every exciting thought (or plot bunny) that bounds its way into my mind on a Tuesday afternoon while I binge-watch Jake Gyllenhaal’s greatest hits. My issue is that I want to do it all, and I want to do it now, and sometimes I just wish I could let my art flow through me without all of the internal judgement boiling to the top and spilling over the sides. Again, the expectations I hold for myself are rather astronomical.

All of this rambling to say, I’m feeling a little stuck, and a little lost, if lost is the right word. Maybe not lost. I’ve come to a fork in my path. On one side, there’s the twists and turns, ups and downs of a well-forged path. Dozens, hundreds, thousands of people have tread that way before me. I know what I should do, and it’s bit of a hike, but at least I’m not alone. On the other side, there are brambles. There are logs to jump over and sticks to break, and the chilling growl of wildlife lurking in the shadows, and I’m always somehow more attracted to that.

I’m doing a monthly Tarot deck challenge, wherein I pull a card to answer a daily prompt question. Today’s prompt was “What is lurking in the shadows that I should pay attention to?” The anxiety in me anticipated some form of negative self-talk, procrastination, anything of the qualities I know I need to be aware of, but The Fool came leaping from the deck.

The Fool talks of our inner child, of new beginnings, of the playful side. It encourages letting go and opening up, and diving headfirst into your heart’s desires. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. Of course, the thing lurking in the shadows would be calm, playful, following my dreams and doing the things I love. Of course I’ve been pushing my passions aside, searching frantically for a purpose and forcing myself into work that doesn’t bring me joy or comfort. I’ve been driving with anxiety, pumping the brakes all the way down the slope, hoping for a good outcome, when really, I should pop it in neutral and let my heart lead me to the things I love.

Wow, I get long-winded sometimes, don’t I? I guess I just am learning to let go. I’m learning to not pressure myself to upheld expectations. I’m learning to embrace my inner-child, to work on projects she would be excited about and proud of. The woman I am, going forward, is the woman I’ve always been, the girl that made me, the women of my past fighting so I could do what brings me joy and passion, instead of tossing and turning over the same stuck-to-the-pot stew, waiting to be tossed into a Tupperware.

Am I even making sense? Probably not. I’ll see you again next Friday.

Thanks in part to a global… incident (yikes!), and me hand-braking-in-vain through the last few months of my 20s (double yikes!), my life lately has been a barrage of weddings and the events that come with them, including, but not limited to: social gatherings that push the limits of my introverted soul, deep and emotional late night chats with my closest friends and family, and far too much Hard Seltzer.

Needless to say, my Writer’s Studio has collected some dust, and my subconscious is teetering on existential.

I know this all sounds very dramatic, but I think that’s just the way my mind works. I’m a storyteller at heart, and when I don’t have the time or mind capacity to sit and write, I spin tales to make my real life feel a little more fantastical. Don’t get me wrong, the weddings I went to this summer were stunning in every way, and I feel so blessed to be able to surround myself with friends and family again (God Bless you, Moderna!), but as a self-proclaimed introvert, I noticed myself teetering off the comfort scale. Who knew there was such thing as a work-life balance?

The past few months, I’ve been living on the “life” edge of the spectrum. Again, I’m grateful for that opportunity. I’ve enjoyed my time, but I did notice the further I was from my desk, and the more people I was surrounded with, the more I sunk inside myself. The artist in me was trying to claw her way out, pounding at the back of my skull for some sort of release, or at least a respite.

Which brings us to this stunning month, October. I have one more wedding tomorrow, yes that’s right, another, but it’s going to wrap up my marital festivities for the year. And with the leaves falling in coppers and burgundies and golds just outside my window, I’m once again starting to feel the lull of autumn and the inspiration brought in by big rain clouds soaking the asphalt below.

I’ve settled back into my writing chair, a stack of IKEA cushions formed to my shins. I have to sit on my knees because my torso isn’t tall enough to reach my keyboard (thanks, genetics!). I’ve lit a few woodsy candles, and started my ambient sound playlist, and poured myself a warm cup of tea, and I’m ready to write again.

Being away for so long, my mind is bouncing with an overwhelming number of ideas, but for once, I’m not discouraged by that prospect. I have so many stories to tell, so many things I’ve worked so hard at, so many characters I’d love to share with you all.

October is the month before NaNoWriMo, after all, and this year, I’ve decided to go with a very special project, one that’s rather close to my heart. I wanted to go back to my roots, back to the projects that made me want to write in the first place, back to the characters I love so much. So that’s what I’ll be working on for October, Preptober, as its known in the AuthorTube community.

So stick around, maybe I’ll share little snippets here and there, little behind-the-scenes fun fact. You know I’ll definitely be telling tales of my dramatic life and whining about any time I have to leave my hovel.

I’ve missed this. I’ve missed you. Please tell me how your mind studio is looking? Do you also have to dust off the creative shelves and find your roots? Please tell me everything.

Character building is a strange thing. Some writers may feel like sculptors, tapering and molding and forming human life onto the page like Michaelangelo. I feel more like Victor Frankenstein, taking an amalgamation of perfect parts and stitching them together, haphazardly, hoping to reignite the flames and breath life back into them. But maybe that’s because I feel like humans are a product of their environment, repeat stories told again and again.

Here, let me walk you through my process of building characters, specifically lead characters. A lot of times my side characters don’t have a name or a purpose until they’ve been put to the page, and I sort of go from there. But my main characters always start with an occupation. What someone does is the easiest way to tap into who they are and how they feel about life.

Let me use the examples of the main characters in my current WIP. Bernie, my lead female character, is a radio host. I came up with that concept a long time ago, again inspired by several other stories and legends. So being a radio host, you have to be outgoing, energetic. She can’t have a monotone voice. She’s lively and spunky, fiery. She has the mouth of a sailor, much to the chagrin of the radio station owners, but they don’t care because she practically runs the town.

See how easy it is? I just defined so much about her from her occupation alone. I knew all of that before I even knew her name. So after base-level occupation information, and an understanding of how I’d like the plot of the novel to go, then I do research on names. Which will be the death of me, honestly.

Naming characters has to be the most difficult part. I spend hours on baby naming websites, random name generators, baby name YouTube and Pinterest, you name it, I’ve looked at it. I write down contenders on pieces of paper and say them aloud beside the name of the other leads. If I have three lead characters and their names are Billie, Bob, and Ben, the novel’s going to get confusing.

I have such a hard time with naming that several of my characters have changed names throughout the course of a novel.

So the characters get occupations and names and basic storylines, and then I dive in for the good stuff. I like to write their motivations, their backstories, their current mindset at the beginning of the novel. I’ve downloaded several questionnaires to “ask” my characters about themselves, and I’ve learned that that not only helps me to get down to the nitty gritty, but it also really helps inform character voice.

Character voice is incredibly important in deciphering multiple characters, regardless of similar names. Especially in this novel, where I have multiple talking heads, it’s essentially that I write each of their perspectives with distinct voice and color that would match the characters inner thoughts and emotions. Using the example of Bernie again, she’s rough and tough, rambunctious, curses like a sailor. She’s also a radio host, so most of what she knows, or the analogies she would make, are all probably music related. Verses my other lead, Samson, who is a pilot. No doubt his relations would be mechanical, airborne.

If I don’t fill out questionnaires, I ask myself about their backstories. I need to know the relationships they have in their immediate family, their dating history, schooling. I like to know specifics. Every character has a signature drink, a cocktail or an addiction to lattes.

Also, maybe because I write horror, or maybe because I love a good angsty subplot, I really like to give my characters trauma in their backstories. It’s just realistic, isn’t it? Everyone has trauma in their past, everyone has dark spots their pushing through. Plus, it helps to add to their motivation.

As far as physical traits and characteristics, that’s either one of the first things I think of, or the last. Sometimes, I might not understand what a character would wear until I’ve written it onto the page. And we all know wardrobe can define a person. Some of the characters, I decide fairly early on. I’ll usually have a face claim, or an actor I’d love to play that character in a film adaptation someday (we can only hope!), so I’ll write the characters accordingly. Probably because I always see my writing play out like a film. That’s on years of film and television obsession.

Lately, I’ve really been enjoying building character mood boards, or a collection of photos that piece together my characters in their essence. I’ve been posting those on instagram @amandajeanwrites, so head over there and look at my story highlights if you’d like to see. I would also really love to delve into character playlists, but I don’t know if they’d benefit or distract me.

Anyway, there is a very basic idea of how I build my characters. If you’d like me to go into further detail on any process, just let me know. I love sharing about my writing.

For fellow writers, are there any other techniques you use to build characters? Please let me know. I love exercising new things!

I’m currently in Montana, sipping coffee roasted in Whitefish and staring out at the softly falling snow. It was in the 70s this weekend, sun shining. I wore shorts to a family Easter gathering, and now it’s snowing. But it’s almost soothing, the perfect writing weather. 

Before coming here, I felt stuck in my old routine. Walking the dog, making coffee, trying to get work done before I had to take the dog out again, feeling enclosed in my apartment, unable to leave the neighborhood and stretch my legs. I missed the coast, the woods, seeing other humans on a regular basis. 

Don’t get me wrong, I adore my home in Oregon, and I love my routine. It just felt stagnant after a year or longer in quarantine, away from my friends and family and the little things that bring me joy. Like going to a bookstore or cafe to write. Please, tell me when I can do that again! I miss it more than anything else in my life! 

So because of this stagnancy, I needed out, just for a spell. Sean had a few leftover vacation days at the end of the month, and we decided to safely road trip back home to Montana for the weekend. And I decided to coax my mom into letting me and Cozy stay a little bit longer, asking her to drive us home at a time that’s convenient to her.

So I’ve created a sort of writing retreat for myself. The first few days of April were chaotic, not nearly the start to Camp NaNoWriMo I was hoping for. I felt anxious. There was a whirlwind of dog hair and barking and seeing family I haven’t seen in months, and going back and forth into town to get groceries and see the sights. It all felt rather busy, not conducive to my creativity, and I felt anxious. 

Do you notice that? When you settle into a routine different than your own, is it anxiety inducing? For me, it is. I couldn’t find my place, couldn’t settle into a place to work or a mindset. But maybe it’s the snow that finally calmed me down. Today I feel good, settled. I don’t have anywhere to be or anyone to see, and it just feels right, like I’ve put my finger in the fish’s mouth, and my hand is itching to turn something to gold.

I knew this was just what I needed, space. There’s plenty of space in Montana, wide open spaces. I have countertops and tabletops and couches and recliners and a deck looking out on a beautiful lake. I have sunshine (and apparently snow). I have mountain views, and I’ve been rather fond of watching the tiny red birds feed just outside the window. I have cozy fireplaces, and an incredible sound system for watching movies. I have delicious coffee and two beautiful dogs to cuddle, and I have my mom right here to bounce ideas off of. I have my dad to teach me about woodworking and airplanes. I just miss my husband, but I do talk to him everyday.

I’m just happy. I miss Oregon, but I know I’ll only be gone another week, and I intend to get as much fun work done here as I can. I’m enjoying it, embracing it. Instead of focusing on a routine and a schedule, I want to relax, and do what my heart and head want me to do. I want to write. I want to take in the scenery and imagery and overflow with words and characters and all of the stories I’ve been dying to tell. 

Get out, is what I’m saying. Get out of your house, out of your routine. Go explore, go have fun. It’s important.

It’s International Women’s Day. This is my fourth attempt at this blog post. I wanted to write an essay, saying something nuanced about the blatant lack of female authors who are prominently advertised in the horror genre, at least those that are traditionally published. I wanted to say a few things on the anger I feel toward male authors making money off of the “Final Girls” trope, by publishing books from the female characters’ perspectives. I wanted to discuss Ellen Ripley from Alien and how she was the perfect example of what women in horror should be, until James Cameron took over and sexualized her for Aliens and added a dash of the maternal instinct every female character needs to have.

But I couldn’t figure out how to organize my words, so I think I’ll just candidly leave my thoughts as that. It felt wrong to discuss men on women’s day, felt wrong to criticize a community that has notoriously treated women in fiction poorly. Instead, I want to spend the time lifting up women in horror. 

Mary Shelley made strides for all women authors when she published Frankenstein. Shirley Jackson’s unforgettable prose for A Haunting at Hill House turned the genre on its head. Countless other women continue to forge on and try to make a name for themselves in this genre, fighting tooth and nail until one of them becomes the Final Girl, the one to make it on the shelf besides the likes of King. Why can’t we all have our place on the shelves though? There’s plenty of room. 

I’m clearly interested in reading horror written by women. I think it’s important to do research into the field in which you want to dip to your toe. Whenever I google great women horror authors, however, I get the same five results over and over again. Like these women authors have only written one book, ever, and that’s the one worth reading. When you google a male horror author, the search results give you his entire back catalog. 

I’m just frustrated is all. Maybe that’s all this rambling post is. I’m irritated and frustrated, and I want women’s voices to be heard. Especially in those industries which are dominated by men.

So I’m asking for recommendations today. If you know of any female authors in the horror genre, especially independently or self published, I would love to know what you recommend I read. I’ll be sharing responses on all of my social media platforms. Let’s get these names out there. Let’s read these stories. Let’s support the amazing, badass women in our communities. 

Hello, and welcome to my studio, a dimly lit living room covered in film memorabilia and dog hair. My desk sits in front of a sliding glass door, and I spend most of my day looking out over my neighbors as they pass by with a variety of dog breeds and athleisure. As we slip forward into March, and with it Spring, the sun comes out to play more. The temperature rises, and Cozy and I find ourselves wanting more and more to break out. 

We’re pushing a year of this Home-All-The-Time thing, as you are all aware, and I really can’t believe it’s been that long since I took a long writing session in my favorite corner of my local bookstore, sipping a coffee, mask free. It seems like much longer than a year, and also I can still remember the smell of the books, the taste of my favorite spinach and artichoke quiche. 

Thanks to the ice storm a few weeks ago, which took out several trees in our surrounding area, we’ve been nixed from our local park. So Cozy and I have walked countless times around our neighborhood, begging to break our borders for somewhere broader, and luckily, it sounds like at the end of March, we’ll be traveling as pandemic friendly as possible, back to Montana to visit our families. I can’t wait to stretch my legs in Big Sky country. I hope it’ll broaden my creative horizons. 

As far as my mind studio, I’ve really challenged myself these past two months to push harder than the Year-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named. I never hit more than 20K in a month last year. I know that sounds like an enormous word count, for those of you who don’t write, and I suppose it was for a depressing horrific year. But I knew I could do more, I knew I have done more. So I challenged myself to hit 50K every single month in 2021. 

And guess what? So far, so good! January, I slid in at the last possible moment, writing 6,114 in the waning hours of the last day, but in February, knowing there were fewer days, I paced tried to keep a higher word count throughout. And I learned that the more you write, the easier it becomes! Imagine that!

I worked on a lot of new projects, some fan fiction, some novels. I started counting my journaling, and I started journaling daily. For the last week of February, I also implemented morning sprints, where I write on my book before I even crawl out of bed. That little change in my routine has proven to be monumental! Sometimes I get my highest word count when I’m relaxed and free-typing, and I’m definitely going to continue this part of my routine into the rest of the year. 

As we roll into March, I feel more in tuned to my passion with writing, like it’s come back to me after all this time. I feel excited to connect with old stories, to revisit and look at them with new eyes. I’m excited to work things to completion. I’ve plotted and planned and nitpicked and tweaked for years now, and I’m excited to look back at those characters and make them work, because I think I have the tools now and I know how. 

I’m also looking forward to connecting with all of you, my readers. I’m going to be writing more and posting more. I’ll be connecting on social media, hosting livestreams, talking more about my passions and my projects and all of the things that bring me grief and joy.

Excited to take you on this journey!

Seven years ago, yes count those, SEVEN years ago, in late 2014, at the peak of internet fashion hauls and makeup tutorials, during the rise of YouTube and Pinterest and Tumblr, I moved from podunk Montana to the big urban areas in and around Portland, Oregon. Portlandia was airing, hipsters were growing mustaches and wearing plaid on a global scale, and I was ready to drink craft beer and breathe in as much pine scent as I could muster. 

I wanted to be a Blogger or a Vlogger. I wanted to talk about travel, but also film, but also also makeup and fashion because I was growing into my fashionista-ness. I wanted to infiltrate little boutiques and hold events and start social media campaigns, you know, really get ahead of the curve. So my first(ish) job when I moved out here was working as a sales associate for a tiny boutique.

Now, this boutique was a chain based in Austin or Houston or something, so I wasn’t going to head their social media anytime soon, and I was just working as a lowly sales associate at minimum wage, and I’m pretty sure I only worked about twenty hours to start out, but I had confidence in myself and my abilities to grow up and out.

God, I remember during my interview, I wore this NEON FLORAL swing dress that I’d bought in Portland with my Mom that July, paired with a neon sports bra that matched the colors in the dress, all topped off with a God awful cobalt blue cropped cardigan and probably some glitter-embellished shoes. For those of you who have grown to love and appreciate my new sense of style (emo-chic), you’ll understand how mind-boggling that would have been. Oh God, I probably also had matching neon lipstick and eyeliner or something.

The point is, I was young and adorable and confident in my skin and my outfit decisions. I remember panicking throughout the interview, noticing bright colors on the racks of the stock room over the manager’s head and just talking about how much I loved color… the ENTIRE interview. It’s honestly a miracle she hired me.

The reason I’m talking about this now, and the reason it’s all come surging back into my memory so damn vividly, is because Sean and I were walking through that little shopping center over the weekend (the entire mall has been and always will be one of my favorite places in my area), and we walked by this little boutique to see it’s Closing. We hopped in and bought four pairs of earrings as a last donation to the cause, and I immediately felt bitter sweet and melancholy and nostalgic for everything I learned and did there.

I talk about my outfits, my prospects at that time in my life, to reflect on just how much I’ve grown. I was so young, on the edge of 23, and I moved away from home for the very first time. I dragged my boyfriend along with me, and we overstayed our welcome at my Grandma’s. I actually remember driving the 40 minutes to work and 40 minutes back in the middle of the night, fog coating the road and my car, cranking One Direction’s Four album. (A premonition that Zayn was leaving, don’t we think!?)

I was experimenting with a social media presence, with blogging, with fashion and makeup, absorbing everything I could. I explored Portland and the surrounding areas. We went to the coast constantly. I just wanted to get out and see the world, be whoever I didn’t think I could back home. I was making new friends and trying to figure out who I was without college or Musicals or the country western bars or Perkins.

The biggest issues I had were suburban Moms from Lake Oswego that wheeled strollers through our claustrophobic boutique, knocking breakables off the gift table and then scoffing at us before they left. I spent hours irritated with my boss for being a controlling 25-year-old (an actual child). I clung to the drama of my past, not understanding how to be without thinking of how much my hometown had “wronged me”. Dear God, I was dramatic. 

I had prejudices, against suburban Moms! And against sex workers and against hipsters and against Big City people that didn’t understand Little City people and against Little City people that didn’t understand me. 

I talked too much and didn’t work hard. My only real memories of actual work from that boutique were untangling the God damn necklaces, which TRUST me was an 8 hour task. Mainly, though, we dusted the room for the 40th time and gossiped about senseless things like boyfriends that wouldn’t hurry up and propose already! (Sean did two and a half years later.)

I met my best friend there, unexpectedly. I remember meeting her and thinking she was way too cool for me. She’s stunning, hip, knows how to style a French tuck, and she seemed to rule the boutique in a way that I couldn’t ever match. The actual manager hated it too, always trying to undermine her to appear superior. None of us could live up to the grace and beauty that was Rochelle. 

We bonded over our hatred for retail and our love for One Direction and YouTube and conspiracy theories, and I’m so so glad we did. I also met at least three of my other best friends as an extension, and if any of you are reading this, I love you all. 

I took up writing again in 2014. First, little blog pieces, like I mentioned before. I wrote about my favorite products and all the places I wanted to visit in Oregon (some of them, I still haven’t crossed off my list. Sean? Get the car!). But then, something in me whispered that I needed to try creative writing again. I don’t think I’d written a story for years, not since freshman year of college when I’d write dramatic love stories about the boys I had crushes on. (Do you remember that, Aubrie? So embarrassing!) 

So I sat down, the day after Christmas, at my grandma’s countertop, and I decided to start writing a tiny piece of fiction every single day for a year. That was my goal, just a year. Until I couldn’t stop. I think I did just over 550 days, and even then, I never thought that someday I’d call myself a “writer”. I was still working retail, planning on social media management and fashion blogging, at a different boutique and a different stage in my life. But that’s a story for another time. 

I guess the point of all this, the reminiscing and nostalgia, is that if I could go back and pay that girl a visit, walk into that store and help her untangle those necklaces, I’d tell her her colored mascara is fierce and that she should keep at it. I’d tell her that someday, she would laugh at all of the drama from back home. I’d tell her that she’d move on to bigger and better jobs, and she’d kick ass at them until she realized her true calling. I’d tell her to keep writing because nothing will make her happier. I’d tell her to buy less furniture, because she’s going to be in that apartment too damn long. 

But mostly, I’d tell her that time moves on and people change and interests change and the weather changes, so just have a total blast with everything you’re doing right now, in the moment. I want to look back in another 7 years with twice the amount of fondness, knowing that I was struggling with silly, minute qualms that won’t matter then. Knowing how much I’ve grown and learned and shaped, I can’t wait to see how much I’ll grow and learn and shape in the future. 

Although, I do hope, in 7 years, I’m still wearing strictly black and white. Hahaha! 

What were you wearing in 2014? It’s important I know.

The room was dark, a cool grey, lit only from the one oversized window that exposed the land and the weeping grey clouds as they swept in. Rain against pavement created the softest ambient pitter-patter, which harmonized pleasantly with the flickering wick of the candle. As the ozone softened outside, the air inside became Earthy and warm with tobacco and cedar and spice.

A little table sat before the window, dark wood, with a cluster of paper and writing utensils that clattered against the wood with every breath of the breeze like a hand carved wind chime. The little chair was pulled out, inviting, draped with a warm cardigan. A warmed rice pad lay in the seat, waiting to be lapped.

A dog was curled beneath the table, tired and muddy-pawed from a good, long morning walk and several rounds of fetch, and she was more than happy to lay and smile and occasionally whimper a bark in her sleep. She was the perfect writer’s companion, well, her and the kettle, which squealed its readiness. Warm coffee was poured into a picture perfect mug and the words were ready to flow.

I suppose I hadn’t realized the perfect way to set the mood until I thought about my ritual, the things I always do before a writing session. I always pour a cozy beverage, coffee or tea, and always a glass of water. I always heat my rice pad to cozy temperatures. I always have Cozy, my dog, nearby in case I need a distraction and she needs endless doting. I like to light a candle, and I like it to be raining, but those things aren’t always necessary, they’re just nice.

It’s a mood. I like a mood to be set before I write. I like to read excerpts from other fiction I enjoy, other things that have put me into the moods of their stories. I love to emulate my story, to listen to ambient sounds of a rainstorm or a forest or an antique shop or a library. I light candles that bring me outdoors, or I’ll open the window in front of my desk.

I like to be cozy, that’s a must. But that may be because I enjoy writing cozy things, moody, dark, like being caught in a rainstorm in the forest or stumbling into an abandoned library after hours.

So no, I never really thought of it, but I definitely have rituals. What are your rituals? In what ways do you set the mood to work?

Words Written: 15,053 this week/30,672 this month/30,672 this year

Projects Worked On: Journaling, One Little Word, fanfiction, letter writing, novel, Dungeons and Dragons campaign, a secret project

Excerpt: -She swallowed back the tears that prickled, even months now after his death. She could still see his body, torn to shreds beneath new clothes. His face was too pale, his hand was too cold. She couldn’t stay for the wake, the celebration of his short, short life. She couldn’t breathe, had to get out.

She slapped her hands on the tabletop beside Dad’s knife to snap the hell out of it. She had work to do. She unstuck the blade and slipped it into the pocket inside her jacket. Next, she capped the holy water flask and handled a few salt rounds like shot glasses, pouring them safely into her duffle next to a mess of notes and images. She turned back to face the five victims, tied with rope around their wrists to chairs in spray painted devil’s traps. What a way to go. She always wished for a partner at these moments, dragging the bodies into a heap to burn. They smelled of settling fluids and final breaths, and although she had quite the upper body strength, dragging dead weight wasn’t exactly a cakewalk. Mom helped lately. They’d become quite the hunting duo, but Mom was out with a snapped ankle and these demons weren’t going to exorcise themselves.

Her car was parked just outside the warehouse, a beater Toyota that Bobby had lended to remain inconspicuous, and she marched to it to dump her gear and grab a gas can. She doused the bodies with her face in the crook of her arm, and with the flick of her wrist, they’d burned. The black smoke of cremation was different than a demon’s true form, but not in the way it made her stomach sink. Not in the way it made her heart fill with sadness for these poor, innocent souls and their families.

She’d finished up nearing dawn. The sun split the sky in roses and oranges, bathing the wheat fields and forest surround in a golden light. She took pause against her car, staring up at the pink clouds and breathing in some fresh air for once. She closed her eyes and leaned toward the sky, letting it spill over her and cleanse her, absorb all of the sins and the cries of those she’d hurt and lost. -

Author’s Note: Well, I doubled my wordcount this week, which is wild, but wonderful. I did my very first successful 10K day, which was a struggle, but ended up bringing me a lot of joy and pride in the end! I’ll definitely repeat that for next month. I’m goaling myself at 50K for the month, so I really need to push myself for the next ten days. 

Come talk to me, tell me what you’ve been working on. Tell me things you’re excited about. Let’s be in this together.

Words Written: 8667 this week/15,619 this month/15,619 this year

Projects Worked On: Journaling, One Little Word, fanfiction, letter writing, novel, Dungeons and Dragons campaign

Excerpt: -They retreated to the little cabin, snow stained ruby under their crunching feet. She stumbled backwards first, up the steps, more of a scramble, a crawl, and her fingers gripped the door handle, praying for a break. “It’s locked,” she moaned. 

“Okay, take this.” The man’s voice was gruff, insistent, and he handed her the oversized firearm.

She pulled herself upright using the bannister for leverage, and she leaned her bodyweight against the railings. He handed her the weapon. It felt foreign in her hands, too big. He positioned the butt end against her shoulder and warned her the kick back was going to hurt, but if she saw anything, pull the trigger. He didn’t have to tell her twice. He fished into his pockets for a lock pick and went to work on the cabin door.

“Do you think we’ll be safe in there?” She hated the tremble in her voice.

“I hope.” It was the softest he’d spoken since they’d encountered one another in the woods, since he saved her life.

She kept her eyes on the horizon, the moon illuminating the blanket of snow. Their trail of footprints and blood led from tree-line to cabin, the perfect shuffle of weak limbs up the hill toward their destination. Finding this cabin was a miracle, a God-send. She thought they’d be running forever, limping, staggering through wooded terrain.

The click of the lock signaled success and the man ushered her inside, slamming the door closed and locked behind them. The interior of the cabin was just as freezing as the outside, though dark, and her breath fogged from her mouth while the man stumbled around for a light. Eventually, she heard the sound of a lighter clicking open and the lighting of a small, gas lamp. 

“Looks like this place hasn’t been used in a few years,” the man sighed, propping the lamp on the only table in the room. Beside the table was one rickety chair, and on the other side of the room was a bed, with a sagging mattress and a dusty quilt atop. He retrieved a cell phone from his pocket and held it up toward the vaulted cabin ceiling. “Shit, no bars.” 

“Who are you?” -

Author’s Note: Hello, hello again. This week was a great writing week. I had another 3K+ word day. I’m starting to think Tuesday are good days to kick butt on the wordcount front. I’d love to do a 10K soon. The short story my excerpt is from is about Bigfoot. So that’s fun.

Come talk to me, tell me what you’ve been working on. Tell me things you’re excited about. Let’s be in this together.

Words Written: 3,668 this week/6,952 this month/6,952 this year

Projects Worked On: Journaling, One Little Word, fanfiction, letter writing

Excerpt: -“Your mom died, right? That’s what got your dad into it?”

 It still hurt. Fifteen fucking years later, and it still stung right to the depths of him. His fingers itched for a knife. He suddenly felt the need to hack at something. He looked out the oversized window, beyond the blinds to the parking lot. “Do you want to take a walk?” He asked. Without hearing her response, he made for the door.

Unfortunately, her groan of protest preceded her catching the door before it slammed behind him, and she walked beside him step for step to the vending machines. He pulled his worn leather wallet from his pocket and took out a handful of bills to feed into the machine. He slammed a few buttons for Corn Nuts and offered a hand for her to choose a snack of her own. She shot him an annoyed look before plugging in her letters. Peanut butter cup. Figures. 

They picked sodas in silence too, and although the cracking of tabs open and the fizzle of carbonation satisfied his senses, the sugary soft drink didn’t quench his need for something a bit harder. They leaned against her dad’s rust bucket truck while they snacked. The night air was crisp this far north, and bits of sledge had browned and started to melt along the curbside.-

Author’s Note: Hello, hello. I’m going to start posting these weekly, to hold myself accountable, and as sort of a virtual ledger. I’m going to be pulling my favorite excerpts as well. So if you want to read my progress, here is always a good space. 

Come talk to me, tell me what you’ve been working on. Tell me things you’re excited about. Let’s be in this together. 

I realized recently that I experience life through the lens of a writer. It makes sense, because I am one, and I’m constantly reimagining ways to describe the world around me, my views, my thoughts and feelings. But I realized that I’ve done this my entire life, from a young, young age. When I witness something, even something as broad and vague as a thick fog, my mind immediately starts swirling with how I can get it down on paper. I picture a thick blanket of cold, a weighted blanket, heavy, of fractals that caress your face as you walk through and bite your nose and block the trees beyond the houses. I see limited potential, sad clouds, too heavy with the burden of rain so they descend on the Earth, cloaking everything in damp and cold and mystery.

I’m fully aware that made no sense, but it all chalks up to say that I’m a writer at my core. It’s who I am. I can’t turn away from it. I can try creating other products, start new ventures, practice my love for film, but deep down, I write.

This is something I’ve really been struggling with this year, and I know we’ve all been struggling this year, with one tragedy or another, but I feel like I’m finally starting to grasp the root of my problems. I’ve spent the better part of 2020 physically, mentally, emotionally, politically drained, like the rest of us. But more than that, I’ve lowered the proverbial bucket into my creative well and found myself pulling up a heavy barrel of nothing. It has been ROUGH.

Recently, I watched a handful of videos regarding whether or not “Writer’s Block” as we know it exists or not. And the argument tended to be that no, writer’s block does not exist, you are just a lazy POS. Which I mean, fair. These words aren’t going to write themselves. But as I watched these videos and soaked in these points of view, I realized writer’s block, as a term, means something so vastly different to me.

To me, Writer’s Block is writing for hours a day, sitting and spilling words onto the page, and feeling nothing from them. Creatively, poetically unsatisfied and unfulfilled by everything coming out of you. It’s a lack of ideas, a lack of care and passion. It’s time feeling wasted and brain power depleted.

That’s what 2020 has been to me, a giant Writer’s Block, wherein I felt like my work didn’t mean anything. It had nothing to say and wasn’t important. High school English teachers wouldn’t be analyzing my themes and symbolism. I wasn’t providing a political stance, showing my worth by telling truths about this treacherous world we’re living in. And therefore, if my work didn’t mean anything, I felt disgusted by it, like my entire year had been wasted on writing meaningless garbage.

So I’ve turned to other projects, I’ve started (and ended) new ventures. Albeit, I’m incredibly proud of those new projects, but even after all the hard work, the blood, sweat, and tears, I felt so vastly creatively unfulfilled. I was depressed, beating my head against the wall, taking several walks and showers a day just to conjure up some sort of subconscious magic, but nothing came to me, and I got furious trying to quantify why it wasn’t working.

Then, yesterday, something struck me. As I was watching several videos on philosophical debates of passion verses monetization, I realized wherein my problems lie. In this world, in this country specifically, at this specific moment in time, it’s possible to monetize virtually anything you do. In fact, it’s encouraged. Sometimes, it’s required. If you want to live your life working on your passions every single day, you need to find a way to make money off of those things. For writers like me, that’s publication, that’s building a platform, that’s pumping out constant content. That’s exhausting.

Watching YouTubers discuss the changing of their content over the years to adapt to “social platform standards”, such as heavy censorship and cutting back copywritten material, etc., made me realize that that’s exactly what I’ve been trying to do all year. Entirely subconsciously, I’ve been trying to adapt my craft to mold it into something “marketable”. I’ve been hung up on my writing because I didn’t felt that it “said” anything or “meant” anything and therefore, if it couldn’t be mass produced and sold for billions of dollars, it wasn’t worth doing.

WHAT!? I’m sorry, but what!? If literally anyone else came to me with that information, I would have slapped them, would have told them that anything they create is perfect because it’s a direct reflection of the creator themselves. I love consuming entirely original content, without analyzing the “themes” or the “symbolism” or whether or not it’s on par with making outrageous political statements. I read and watch and listen to what other people have created because it fulfills me to know that people are out there creating magical and amazing things out of their own brilliant minds. Isn’t that incredible? That we can just spew words to paper and create an entire experience?

The rain absolutely pissed it down, a constant surge of spittle that hit every tile of concrete laid like bricks and splashed upward to positively soak the hem of her skirt and through her tights, no matter the denier. Her shoes made disgusting squishing noises with each step, toes wrinkling against frigid vinyl. The faux leather exterior would be ruined now. Cursing, she finally managed to hail the fifth cab that had flown by, and she resisted every urge to shake off like a dog when she felt the dry heat from inside. She muttered directions to her new address, and they sped off, windshield wipers unable to keep up, leaving taillights and curb lamps a blur of technicolor.

By the time they’d arrived, she’d opened her soaked bag just enough to pull out her phone and tip the driver via the app. He thanked her, wished her to stay dry, and she ruefully entered the frigid cold once again. She cursed the sidewalk separating his car from her flat, and with slippery steps, she slapped up the road and up the steps to her door.

The weather had stuck her hair to her face, curling it into the corners of her mouth and pulling mascara from her eyelashes. The report didn’t say it’d be this bad, or she would have brought an umbrella. She fumbled in her bag for her keys, only to drop them to the ground when a particularly large droplet soared downward and onto her wrist. She squawked in frustration, barely biting back profanities when she remembered the little boy who lived next door.

She threw herself downward only to meet a strange, soft, tanned hand grasping at her keys. Her eyes followed the hand to a well-suited arm, a wool jacket, relatively dry and well-kept under a wide-brimmed black umbrella. She realized, momentarily, that it was now guarding her, and the man handing her her keys flashed a too-white, all-teeth smile. “There you go, miss.”

“Ta,” she nodded, teeth chattering, hands shakily jingling keys into the rusted lock.

The handsome man didn’t move as the lock clicked, and she became suddenly aware of the impending danger of a stranger with an umbrella and an unlocked flat. She turned back to him, struck once again by his appearance, and nodded toward her house. “I’m going in now.”