California, Baby.

There is so, so much good to share. I’m full. Full of shock and gratitude and confusion and hurt because I’m human and sometimes wine and sometimes coffee and always thrill. There is so much good. March was a month of all months. A dream came true, and I was eventually able to share that dream with family and friends and the outpouring of support and excitement was tremendous.

March was exhaustive (2016 as a whole has really been a Thing) but in mostly the best ways, finally.

And where did March end?

With these beloveds (who showcase the splash page of this little site of mine):



Hugging my dog (and her weirdo fluff friend) was not the purpose behind the trip (that was AWP LA–a monster in itself), but it was truly all I needed/wanted/appreciated more than anything.

I’m back in Alaska, for now. Most of the snow melted while I was away and it’s strange. The sun sets after 9PM and I have too much I want to share but each night at midnight–when I think it’ll be a good time to write, to blog, to whatever–fatigue convinces me to wait another day. It’s the typical procrastination scenario.

In my defense, it’s been a very busy few weeks and I caught a nasty California cold.

I’m so happy. I’m so tired.

More later, I hope.


So July is relentless.


I visited Mexico and got sunburned for the first time in 10 years. Grad school started early with a hybrid pedagogy course. Writing is hard. The heat makes me wonky. A summer flu knocked me out for a week. August kicks off on Friday and I’m on eBay bidding on parkas suitable for the arctic and soon I’ll be twenty-three.

It’s June.

It’s June, and it’s warm and, for the first time since I was thirteen, I’m allowing myself to leave the house with bare legs. No tights. Just my skin. Me. A friend I’ve known for years acknowledged his seeing my legs for the first time. It’s funny how we, how I, get stuck in habits. Stuck in rules. Trying to embrace the heat, six months and I’m in the morning of Alaska’s freeze.


I’m in revisions again, like last summer. And the summer before that. If you’d told me last June that I’d scrape the last three month’s work and start over again in December, I would have laughed. Laughed and cried and, let’s be real, ultimately have believed you. This is how it goes. This is my life. My summers. Endless cycles of revisions. I don’t think I mind it. I’m behind. Always behind. But I’m trying to not force it. I’m trying to allow some personal kindness. I ran and ran for the last two years and it’s time to take it easy. It’s summer, right?

It’s June and I have a part time office job at a very corporate corporation because my TA stipend is far from comfortable living. I might also have a part time gig serving sushi. I like sushi. The free sushi would be swell. But working means less time for writing, less time for taking it easy, and I am employed and I do have an annual salary type deal waiting, so is serving sushi necessary?

Maybe not. Probably not.


It’s Saturday, but it feels like Sunday. Lately every day feels like Sunday, even the days I go into the glossy tall office. In this house, my parents’ house, music always plays. Someone is always in the pool. Spiked drinks in sweaty mason jars with neon straws. Everyone home. Visitors from New York and New Jersey and Australia. Me, inside, reading a book a day, claiming I’m writing, revising, but really in one of those slumpy periods where I’m at a loss as to attempt to make the book better, so I talk to my dog and stretch and read instead. I’ll figure it out eventually. I hope so at least.


It’s June and it’s kind of summertime, and somedays it feels like I never went to Colorado at all, that I’ve been sprawled out on my parents’ living room floor all along. Almost 23. Where did the decade go? In August, I’ll go incognito, transition 100% to myhaecceitywhatever. My solution to feeling over exposed. My solution to having students and not wanting to be so terribly accessible online via Google.

I should speedwrite or freewrite or do something. Try to find my ending. The end. Do you have an ending I can borrow? Or, no, that’s not true. I know my ending. I know it, but not well enough to make the final jump, not well enough to understand how the logistics play out.

It’s June. I think I’ll make a Pimm’s cup.


“Writers end up writing about their obsessions. Things that haunt them; things they can’t forget; stories they carry in their bodies waiting to be released.”
–Natalie Goldberg

The Broadmoor.

My sister returned from a semester in London on Thursday. My older sister and my brother-in-law drive in tonight. My little brother is officially on winter break. I’m home, with my family, and I’m trying this thing where I don’t torture myself by obsessing over the amount of pages I write in a day, or the number of chapters I read, or the minutes spent on the treadmill. I’m trying this thing, you know, where I revel in the now, the holidays, and take it all in minute by minute, and forgive myself when I’m a bit more sloth-like than I’d prefer.

It’s rather nice.

Happy Winter Solstice. Pouring a glass of wine and retreating to sit by the fire for the night, where I think I’ll stay through Christmas, until the New Year.

Late November.

My undergraduate commencement is six months from yesterday.
Six months from yesterday, I walk.


I feel like I should knock on wood. Or something. Anything. All too surreal. All too wonderful. I might actually finally do this graduation thing.


I wrote the above words Wednesday afternoon. It’s now early Friday evening. Cultural Astronomy of the Southwest–Block 3–is a faded memory. It’s now sharp white snow and admission office data entry and the occasional interview conducting and a random late night fellow wandering and a certain movie 8 pm premiere that made me more sad than it should have and an afternoon on my living room floor bundled in my ski coat because I can’t seem to get warm.

Yet I still love winter.

I’ve made it clear I don’t know what I’m doing after graduation, but several of my options involve moving back to California–either for free rent while I take care of my body/rest or for instate tuition if grad school is somehow the pulled card.

But I don’t want to move back to California. I like weather-weather, winter weather, too much. Or maybe I’m just saying this because it’s our first two real snow days of the season.

Block 4 starts Monday.Thesis. Meetings. Work. Drafting. Rewrite (it’s happening again). Tutor. Interview. Thanksgiving and then Colorado and then back home again.

Think I’ll stare out the window until it’s nighttime.
I think I might have a fever.