Who the Heck am I?

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That’s a difficult question. It’s mostly because my eyes are not the rubber telescopes I would need to objectively examine myself with. All I can give is from the inside looking out.

Since you’re here already, you probably know I’m a writer. You may not know that I am also an artist (the piece above as an example,) and sometimes I even make music. But from the start, I have always been a storyteller. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

There is a breed of artist in this world that is very quiet. You can find them in caves or dark forests, and if you poke them with a stick, they will flee in an instant. I am one of these. My ideas form like moss under stones. The air must be still—the wind, distant.

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Spot Horrible Books Before You Commit to Them

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It’s no secret: there’s a lot of books out there, and no way to ever read them all. New books are published every single day, but how many of them are really worth your time?

It turns out the answer—though harsh—often times works to spare you a lot of misery and wasted time. This method, while not 100% effective, has dramatically increased the chances of me enjoying the books I invest my time into. It goes a little like this:

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We Just Wanted a Dog

There are plenty of sounds you would never want to hear. Sounds that scratch at your eardrums like airborne razors. I can’t stand the squeal of bicycle brakes, or the cries of my neighbor’s three-month-old child. Nails on a chalkboard? You kidding me? I’d take that any day.

That’s part of the reason we never had a child. My husband doesn’t see a father looking in the mirror, and me? The few glimpses of the future I’ve seen never had our own little thing that would grow up to be its own. I never could imagine it. But for that reason, a few years ago now, we adopted a whippet—Jeffers.

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