monks meditate. writers brood. these are fundamental laws of nature, people.

writing pro tip: you don't need to come up with a satisfying conclusion if you keep your story going indefinitely ;)

a confession

last year, i published my first book.

it was one of the most nerve-wracking experiences of my life. i felt ashamed. terrified. instead of sharing the news with family and friends, i hid it, horrified that if any of them read it, they'd finally realize what a fraud i was.

writers, you know what i mean. creative pursuits and imposter syndrome go together like jam on toast, or ketchup on hotdogs, or... well, you get the picture.

lately, i've been trying to develop a healthier relationship with my writing. a positive one. creativity dies with doubt, it dies when we refuse to believe in ourselves and attempt to bury our flaws. life is flawed. it's imperfect. but there's beauty in coloring outside the lines, and so this is me practising what i preach.

this is me turning over a new leaf.

last year, i published my first book; a collection of short horror. seeing as it's nearly halloween, it seems as good a time as any to do my first real plug for it-- even if that plug is a year late.

CROOKED ANTLERS is a compendium of dark fantasy and urban legends. it blends the stylings of neil gaiman, chuck palahniuk and frank miller with the 'found footage' vibe of modern creepypastas to create horror for the digital age.

is it perfect? nah. but it is damn spooky, and that's all it ever set out to be. so if you're looking for a fresh tome of ghost stories, look no further-- i've got you covered.

oh? and if everybody else could plug their own work on this post too, that'd be great. let's tackle this imposter syndrome thing together. show me what you're cooking!

thanks and HAPPY OCTOBER!

i don't know who needs to hear this, but 'perfect' writing is a trap. all writing is subjective. what we create today, we may see as flawed tomorrow. what we see as flawed today, we may see as perfect tomorrow.

writing is the act of transmuting the human experience through words. and the human experience? it's a messy, chaotic thing filled with rough edges and uneven lines and mistakes and failures. you can erase all of that. you can. but then you're left with something sterile and artificial. you've effectively squeezed the soul out of your work, and i can think of nothing less appealing.

this isn't to say don't edit your work. please do. but keep it within reason, and make sure you're moving forward and not backward. momentum is key.

don't sit on an idea for three decades waiting for that dance with inspiration, or that dynamite first line, or that eureka plot twist, or the words to flow like magic from your fingertips. because it won't happen. and if it does, it'll strike like lightning and disappear twice as fast. the only surefire way to finish a story is to start.

so write. for the love of god, just write.

along the way, things will fall in line. i promise. and if they don't? then they already have. the magic of art is that everything we create is a snapshot of who we are at the time of creation. it's like a time capsule of human experience, and there's a beauty in that authenticity-- in the mistakes we make and the wrong turns we take. don't run from them. embrace them.

let their lessons flow through you and channel them into something tangible. if it's hard, then start with one word and keep going. don't erase it. don't start over. don't let yourself believe your story isn't worth telling because if you don't tell it, then no one else will. and that'd be a damn shame.

so one word a day. one sentence a week.

whatever it takes.

it might be tough letting go of the idea of perfect. silencing your inner editor. your inner critic. it might be tough realizing that your story will never meet your standards, not completely, but it won't be half as tough as looking back and wondering where all the days, weeks, and years went; that in the pursuit of perfection, you forgot to ever write a story at all.

so leave perfect behind. readers don't want it. why would they? they can't possibly relate to perfect-- none of us can.

instead, give readers a window to your imagination, stormclouds and all. you'll be surprised by how many stick around for the rain, how many relish the sound of your thunder, and how many cherish the worlds that only you could bring to life.

The lab’s under lockdown.

It’s been under lockdown for the last three hours. I’m in here alone. It’s just me, the broken vial of the last thing they injected me with, and the corpse of Dr. Blaise. I know what you’re thinking– how can he be a corpse if he’s standing there and pointing at me, eyes wide open?

Well, I know because he doesn’t have a pulse.

He’s doing his best impression of a manikin, but he’s definitely dead. Believe me. They’ve been killing me over and over. Bringing me back again and again. I’ve become pretty familiar with the process of death, the signs, but it’s never looked like this.

Never.

The alarms are blaring outside the steel door. I can see the lights flashing red through the tiny window with the crosshatched glass, see the labcoats running by and the lab rats running through them. Screams fill my eardrums alongside snarls and pleas. I don’t know what’s happening out there, but it’s violent. Bloody.

People are dying.

I prefer it in here by far, but if the smell wafting through the air vent is any indication, I don’t get a choice in the matter. It smells acrid. Like fire. There’s a gentle haze settling across the room, and it’s giving me an ultimatum– stay in here and wait for the smoke and flames, or run out there and risk the madhouse.

I try the door.

[TW: graphic, gore]

The house sat as a broken, teetering tribute to the dead, perched atop Cackle Hill like a crown of rotting lumber. It was an old property. Shambling. Many years ago, it belonged to a wealthy aristocrat named Erich Cackle. The story goes that Erich had a taste for delicacies. He imported fine foods from all around the world, everything from snake wine to escargot.

Why?

Well, he loved to taste things. He delighted himself with new flavors, new culinary odysseys. At one point, he decided to try human meat. And at one point, he decided that he liked it very much.

Today, it’s estimated that over a hundred different corpses litter Cackle Hill. It’s officially recognized as a burial ground. A final resting place for a legion of people with no name and no history, no record of their existence besides the occasional femur rising from the dirt. One Halloween in 1989 though, Cackle House added a new page to its book of nightmares. A page that our town would never forget.

That night, four children climbed the hill. They crawled through the thickets and thorns that encircled the mound, and then crossed into the home of Erich Cackle himself. The infamous cannibal. All four of those kids? Massacred. They’re still finding pieces of them today.

Ever since, the house has been closed off. Out of bounds. The authorities claimed it was out of respect for the deceased, for the dozens of unmarked graves that covered the property, but the locals knew better.

[TW: child abuse]

"I don't like him," Liam says, staring a hole into the ground. "Mister Gallows hurt my sister, and he tried to hurt me too."

The kid's young, younger than most subjects I've dealt with. He's witnessed an Event, and not just any Event, a serious one. It's something that could have massive implications. My bosses are calling it a situation, and they're telling me that I need to get his story, and I need to get it quickly because people's lives are on the line.

I'm an Interviewer for an organization known as the Facility. I specialize in working with juveniles who have crossed paths with the supernatural. Liam Hanesworth is one such kid. He's just shy of twelve years old, but he looks worn down. His eyes are framed with heavy bags, and his skin is tight to his cheekbones. He's also missing at least three of his teeth.

The forest is black. Pitch black.

I pound over the dirt trail, my feet turning the pedals like twin pistons. The bicycle bounces and jolts, shuddering as it rolls across the wooden bridge. There’s something in the air tonight. A chill. 

But it isn’t the chill of autumn. No, this is the chill of unease. It crawls up my spine carrying the deep-rooted knowledge that something about these woods, something about this trail isn’t right. It’s the unmistakable dread of being watched. 

Pursued.

the best part about being a writer is being able to erase your mistakes. the worst part about being a writer is never making any progress because you're too busy erasing mistakes.

it's all fun and games until your protagonist decides to throw the plot in the trash and go their own way.