Story. I have this face. It attracts stories. I work with a woman who met Maya Angelou. She was an English major in college, in North Carolina. She wrote a self-described “cheesy” novella about a girl with a fatal illness, a girl who’d been cooped up all her life and never really lived until she […]

Ray is patiently breaking pine needles (the long kind) into small pieces and lining them up on the chair cushion.

Godfadda. I feel like walking around and talking like the Godfather today. “You eat my tacos and den you decide to inconvenience me and my daughter after I’m in bed. Dis is the respect you give me.”

Car. Transportation problems with the pickup truck yet, and the financing hasn’t gone through the bank yet. No car yet.

Bebe Notes. This is kinda icky, but there you go. Her bowels have made some kind of quantum jump in maturity. All of a sudden, she has poops that in no way resemble mustard. Ah, the holidays. My thoughts turn to gift-giving, good food, and TOILET TRAINING.

Grey Hill notes. I’m working on plotting. I outlined the novel; now I’m breaking it into chapters. Seems overly analytical, but it also seems to be working. And I think I’m going to send the first chapter to Banshee studios. It seems like kismet–karma–something. The story’s set on Imbolc; I guess you could call it

Shopping for a used car. If I were a superhero, one of my secret vulnerabilities would be cars. Specifically, car care professionals and salespeople. The very idea of taking the car in freezes me up. Why? I’m not sure, but what it feels like is that one of the few times I feel like a

Dumb joke. What did the mushroom say after her blind date? He seemed like a fungi, but I was still pretty spored.

How else is he gonna learn? The plans to install a server onto the home network are, at moment, on hold. Damn learning experiences, anyway.

Illegal Aliens. Check out Jon’s (Captain Rooba) interview of Nick Pollata, author of Illegal Aliens. It’s quite amusing. And there’s other cool stuff, too. At Banshee Studios.