An Essay on What I Didn’t Know Was Bipolar II

My first semester of grad school, I took Forms of Creative Nonfiction. Apart from blogging and an accidental memoiristic short story I wrote in undergrad, I had little experience writing creative nonfiction. The class was intensive, invigorating–my favorite part being the weekly creative samples.

In one particular instance, I was told to write a narrative “about a conflict from three different voices.” I can’t recall the specifics. I think one voice was supposed to be my own, close and intimate, revealing. The other empathetic to the others, and the third removed, report-like. I might be remembering this all wrong; it doesn’t matter.

9 degrees. this is what a bipolar brain looks like, or what my bipolar brain looks like from the inside.

I’ve never been good at following rules: I showed up to call with a two part narrative. The first part was from my perspective, my voice, closer to how I journal than anything else. The second part was third person, with the close interior from my  dad’s perspective. A creative essay depicting a conversation in a crowded car about me and mental illness and Snapchat. In class, the professor and a fellow grad student read this essay out loud. I scratched my hands and listened. Outside, it was -40F with an extra windchill. And after class, I walked home, my own words itching.

Farmer's Loop.

A year later, I returned to the essay. A year later, I knew I wasn’t staying in Alaska, wasn’t staying in the program, and I figured I ought to submit something somewhere while I was in grad school for an MFA. And, hey, while I’m at it, why not go for the flipping moon? I’ve always loved The Rumpus. And when I thought of this little sad essay, I thought of the Rumpus. I could only submit it to The Rumpus. It was a long shot, an improbable shot; immature and native. A whatever. My I love you, The Rumpus, read my whiny writing, thanks, please.

So, on a Saturday night after midnight, I submitted the essay to The Rumpus. I woke the following Monday morning with an email from Tracy Strauss. She liked my essay. Would I be interested in doing a revision?

I am always interested in a revision.

We did a week of back and forth of edits, some big, some tiny. Within days, the essay was officially accepted. And now, some two months later, the end result is published at The Rumpus. My first piece of creative nonfiction published. I doubt it’ll be the last.

Please read it here:

Sitting on Something

I’m proud of “Nothing’s Changed” and I’m scared of it and I’m screaming to the skies that it exists and it takes me back to the episodes of Alaska, to what I lost and gained and forgot. I’m medicated now. We’re still figuring it out. I’m safe. I think I’m safe. My psychiatrist in Fairbanks quit on me a week after The Rumpus accepted the essay for publication, which felt funny, felt ironic. But I’m stable, mostly. I have an appointment set for once I arrive in Seattle. Though in some ways, it does feels too late. What could I’ve stopped, calmed, had I not waited until it got so bad that I was scared of my own brain?

Would it be weird if I did a sort of acknowledgements now?

Thank you, Tracy Strauss. For your elegant, keen eye, and for hearing my voice and giving me a platform to tell this story. Thank you, Daryl Farmer, for pushing me to write outside my normal genre, allowing me to bend rules, and reading my work out loud in class–along with Whittier Strong–in such a way that I couldn’t get the words out of my head, in such a way that I was led back to it.

And I’m grateful to my mom and dad, who have always listened, who have never doubted. I’m thankful to my dad especially, in regards to “Nothing’s Changed.” The revised, published version doesn’t include his side–the bits of his life that aren’t mine to share, his love and patience and understanding and urgency to defuse a wound, all the elements and more that make him such an incredible father.

Maybe this is cheating but I’m compelled to share the original ending to “Nothing’s Changed”–an essay that was once two parts and now is only one. Sharing the original final overly-dramatic paragraph in honor of my dad who has seen me at my worst, and supported me even from there, who has loved me and held me even when flailing.

Like I said, fuck the rules. Here’s to breaking them.

He understands the pain is real, that something isn’t right. But when driving a full car down the I-5 on Thanksgiving Eve, he only wants to laugh. Wants to warm what’s frosting in the back. He doesn’t want a reason for the middle sister to cry, so he tries a joke instead. He understands we hurt, I hurt. The thing is, though, he’s only seen possession of a diagnosis worsen scars. It’s just a word, he says. It’s only a word. You’re human. You’re human. You’re human. This is his way of saying we’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. This is his way of saying, it’s okay, you’re still you, you’re here. You’re safe. You’re human, he says. He’s saying, you’re doing just fine, he’s saying, you’re doing great. You’re human. I love you. I hurt too sometimes. We’re okay.

Cheers to The Rumpus and mental illness awareness. Cheers to stable days and the hope of better health care, the hope of sanity, the hope of peace.

Let’s Rock 2016 Pitch Wars!!!


As a Pitch Wars 2014 Alternate Alum (did I order those words right?), I’m THRILLED to finally pay it forward as a 2016 YA Mentor. Pitch Wars drastically changed my life by leading me to a book deal and connecting me to an incredible community of writers, many I now have the privilege to call close friends.


I’m excited. Are you excited? If you want a relentlessly enthusiastic mentor who may overuse capitalization, hey hey, I may be your girl… If you write YA. I’m only accepting YA!


miss bellatrix

my pup is EXCITED

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go over the logistics.



Okay. That was a lot but, hey, now you know how to truly pique my interest!

I am NOT the best mentor for high fantasy, science fiction, and historical fiction. LET ME READ IT SOMEDAY (I devour all of it) but you deserve a mentor who knows those ropes better than me. 

…Still with me?


Ignore the fact that a few listed are not YA, also this list is SO not close to complete.

(though I admittedly don’t watch much TV at all–feel free to recommend some show to me!)

And if you can comp the movie Swiss Army Man (2016), YOU BETTER AS HELL SEND THAT BOOK TO ME.



You are dedicated, self disciplined, and ready to push yourself past your limits while having a good time. You think your manuscript is nearly there but know it’s not perfect and recognize it may need some serious revision time. While you know the heart beat of your novel, you’re open minded to new ideas, dramatic cuts, extreme changes. You care. I’ll never demand you agree or complete a specific edit, but I do want you to think it through and be ready to answer questions! You must believe in your writing, be committed to your manuscript, know your story’s core. You’re ready to work. Seriously. You might not “win” Pitch Wars, might not even receive an agent offer, but your manuscript WILL be stronger and primed for querying.




Also, obviously, I would love it if your friendly! Like, not weirded out if I constantly announce that I’m sending you hugs and tweet at you on a regular basis.


hiking!I love and care with full force. I don’t do a thing half-hearted and if I choose you and your manuscript, you can bet that I will give you all that I have to help you, push you, to better develop your novel into a work of dynamite. You can bet that my feedback and critique letters will be just as !!!!!enthuuuusiaastic!!! as this blog post. I will fangirl like no other. But I will NOT sugarcoat and I won’t shy away from telling you WHAT I LOVE AND WHY I CHOSE YOU AND OH MY GOSH LET’S GET THIS THING OUT TO THE WORLD, just as I won’t hesitate to tell you what’s not working. I want your novel to GLOW and be sharp and tight and rock it at the agent round and subsequent submissions.

I’ve been on the receiving end of many editorial letters, so I know how difficult it can be to approach revisions (I still struggle! I still struggle A LOT!). As your mentor, I promise that I’ll be here to support you, to help you get off the floor, talk through the roadblocks and more.

We will communicate primarily via email and, if you’re into it, text messages and/or some form of instant messaging (Gchat, Skype, etc.). I’m not a huge fan of phone calls or video chats, but if you feel it’d be helpful–or we just get super pumped and need to shout and cheer together–that’s definitely an option.

Also I have a dog named Bellatrix who I very much I adore and I think it’s important that you know that!



Writing and reading (particularly YA) have been my ultimate passions for over a decade. I’ve been working with critique partners and editing and querying off and on since my middle school fan-fiction days. I wrote my first novel at thirteen, revised for an agent at fifteen, wrote a second book at sixteen, and–though I didn’t sign with an agent until some eight years later–I was constantly learning through the thick of it.

If you go back through my posts here on this wee site of mine, you can read about my various detours of the long haul journey. But, ultimately, after battling as a Pitch Wars alternate in 2014, I signed with my agent Sarah Davies at Greenhouse Literary, and we sold my debut, NOTHING LEFT TO BURN, to Marissa Grossman at Razorbill Penguin last March.

(I’m still very much celebrating and, if the premise intrigues you, it’d make me smile if you added it on Goodreads!)

I earned my BA from Colorado College in English and Creative Writing, where I was known for my lengthy, enthusiastic feedback letters. I’ve completed 3 semesters of an MFA in Creative Writing, which is more noteworthy not for the graduate workshops but for the experience of teaching composition (which I LOVED) and tutoring at the campus writing center. I know how to work with all writers, all ages and levels, both in terms of idea and approach but also the technical and the flow. Starting in September, I’ll be teaching ESL in the Seattle area.

Wanna know non-professional me? Peruse my Twitter, my Instagram, whatever. Say hi. Though I’m often shy, I love love love new friends and adore being a part of the Pitch Wars community. You can also email me at heather.ez.pw@gmail.com.


La Push!

I will stand tall on driftwood for your book! And look happier than I do here! I promise!

Some trivia: I’m addicted to moving, a spoonie, don’t have a spleen, love tattoos and piercings (though my acquisition of them has slowed since entering my twenties), miss Alaska already, crave rain more than any weather (though a good snow storm does compete), have wild insomnia, prever -30F degrees to 80F, must live near mountains, adore hiking when my body is cooperating, completed my Bachelor’s degree in 2 1/2 years, started writing seriously after a fabulous stint of Harry Potter fan-fiction, lovelovelove ballet even if my floor work is atrocious, drink too much coffee, have an obsession/irrational fear with natural disasters, potentially allergic to the sun (or so I say), and am often too hyper.


Long story short: if you have a YA manuscript that’s compelling and you’re ready to work with a mentor who is eager and honored to dig into your work, do consider submitting to me!









Oh my gosh.



How do I even articulate myself right now?

NOTHING LEFT TO BURN (previously known around here as AFOT 1), the book I started writing when I was 13. The book I first queried at 14. That I revised and rewrote and revised and rewrote and put away and gave up on and picked back up again some thirty times. That first received agent interest at 15, and then again at 17, and again at 21, and finally at 23, which led to me signing with the inimitable Sarah Davies–who continued fighting for this book when I was close to caving, collapsed, eating tear-soaked cookies on my studio rug.

And Razorbill! You guys, Razorbiiiiiilllllllll, oh my, an imprint of Penguin Random House, but more importantly, an imprint that’s been publishing books I’ve been DEVOURING since I was a pre-teen.

Can I please go back to 2006 and tell fourteen-year-old me?

I’ve been holding tight to this incredible news since March 1st, after a sleepless night, after jumping at a call from my agent and hearing “you’re going to be published,” after being in such confusion and glee I couldn’t quite cry though I’d been so sure I’d cry and yes fine I did eventually cry (and later sobbed), after calling my mom and my dad, after sleeping for some forty minutes (because my body shut down at the shock) and then somehow managing to teach and not shout at my students to shut up shut up shut up you guys shusssssshhhhhhhh it’s happening!!!!, after devouring a giant sushi boat with my boyfriend in celebration, and subtweeting about the news, and watching Sideways and opening a bottle of delicious wine despite the near-rancid cork.

donut give up.

how many times am I going to post a variation of this photo? I DUNNO. this is a face of a sleep-depreived someone who, mere hours before, learned her dream was happening! and also yay SUSHI!!!

In March 2006, I finished the first draft of the first version of this absurd little book about passion/obsession and first love/lust and Orange County and FIRE (!!!!!). In March 2016, I sold it to a dream imprint and landed with a kick ass editor (we bonded over Gilmore Girls within minutes of our call, and later our shared crush over my very own fictional character *swoon*).

Over ten years. I’ve been pushing and running and kicking and dreaming for over ten years. If you count my kindergarten declaration that I wanted to be a writer, then, well, even longer.

I’m so, so glad I didn’t stop writing (and rewriting).

It feels mighty fine to finally share the news. Hopefully I’ll be sharing even more soon. And perhaps elaborating on what it took to get from there to here, and the work that comes next.

What comes next? I start writing and revising books FASTER.


Some related posts:



  1. NOTHING LEFT TO BURN was first A FEAR OF TEARS and then AUTUMN’S END and then AUTUMN SMOKE and then, because I was very confused about my book, SPARKLERS. Luckily, Rachel–BEST Pitch Wars mentor EVER–led me to the current title.


It’s a warm January. A mild winter. We haven’t had a below 40 day yet and I want it. My students tell me shhhh, they tell me not to jinx it. But below 40 here is normal for winter. Not 20F. Not -2F. Not the smell of wet trees at 11 PM in late January. I crave normal, or rather the idea of it. And I want proof that Alaska isn’t already thawing. That the world isn’t melting. I want the freeze in my eyes, my nose, on my teeth. It feels like something special. Wakes me up.


I’m writing something new and it’s so odd to be writing something new. Attempting to write something new. That’s not true. I’ve written so many new things this past year but nothing big, nothing that feels so heavy it’s hard to think, difficult to see its core.

So much is happening. This spring will be rapid, rough, so light. It’s getting brighter every day. And every day, I wish I knew what to say that would articulate the change.

Creamer's Field

On Wednesday, I spoke on the phone with someone new. A business call that had me waking by the hour beforehand, a call that had me falling out of bed faster than I have since September. For the first few minutes, we small chatted about Alaska. Every phone call with someone new outside out of Alaska ends up entailing some talk of Alaska. This is especially true with customer service reps. When will the sun set? When does it rise? Is it dark all the time? How cold is it? What happens to the light? Why do you live there? Why?

The person I talked to Wednesday, not a customer service rep, this person who was so nice, she asked me about Alaska and I laughed and I said, “I don’t think I really like Alaska.”

And that’s not totally true. I’m infatuated and confused. I’m angry, exhausted. My nervous system is charred by the seasons’ swings that aggravate my own. I’m in love with the challenge and the extremes. I’m broken. Stuck on repeat: stating the same things. I’ll try to not write about Alaska and the weather and the light the next time I post an entry.

8th floor

But this new class I’m teaching? It’s a challenge too, but oy. My students (and me!) are rising to the occasion. I never thought I’d stay up late to read student writing, but that’s already happened more than once and it feels good.

Let’s Round Up and Call It a Decade.

I was fourteen when I sent out my first query letters. There’s a photo of the moment floating around on some hard drive somewhere: me at the UPS store in Rancho Santa Margarita, holding the stiff envelopes addressed for various literary agents in New York. I probably look annoyed, a forced smile, posing to appease my mom. I’ve always felt shy about this process–afraid to share the good or admit the bad. Even now, it feels weird to explain.

I’ll hyperlink to past entries in an attempt to make sense of what I’ve said here previously, in an attempt to connect the tangents of the last four years.


Anyway. Every agent I queried that round said no.
And every round after, too.
No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

(This, I guess, inspired me to write my personal statement for my grad school apps on how I THRIVE on noes–which was extraordinarily cheesy but finally landed me a Yes.)

Fifteen years old, I revised. I tried again. No and no and no. I revised some more. I tried again. A full request. A no. I edited and tweaked and turned sixteen and left high school. I wrote another book, finished it at seventeen while living in Berkeley. A double request followed. An almost yes, a summer of edits with an agent, an ultimate confusing no. I revised again and turned eighteen and moved to Colorado. A partial request. A no. I wrote some more, aside from two revisions on my second book, always working on that first manuscript. Nineteen, living in Humboldt County, I rewrote the beginning. A fire, a wildfire, but I let it die too fast.

I moved back to Colorado Springs to attend Colorado College. My focus was on school, not writing. The book was in the drawer. But then, my first summer after CC, I had a sinus surgery and rewrote it from word zero during my month on the couch. I was lazy. I followed the same plot and fell into the same holes. I went back to school. A writing conference that next summer. A full request I was hush about. I spent June and July and August revising like a fool for that request–switching from past tense to present, digging deeper but not deep enough. I knew this even when I clicked send. I was wrung out. I started my senior year at Colorado College and had some moving/Faulkner/flood panic attacks and wrote some weird short stories for workshop and drove around town alone when it all felt like too much.

September Green.

Another no. This one felt big. A big no. It also felt inevitable. I blogged about it and then shook it off. I went back to writing. It was thesis season. This was last year. I thought I’d write my third book. I was ready to put my eight-year mess aside. But then the fire came. Ideas on ideas on ideas on how I could fix my old story. An understanding of the story, the REAL story. By December, I was in mad dash of rewriting. Real rewriting. Not following the same plot, the same scenes, but dealing with something almost entirely new. The fire from Humboldt County chasing me through all of the winter and spring.

I “finished” the draft and submitted the thing to my professor. It was my senior thesis. Fresh work. A new book inspired from the bones of that book I started when I was thirteen. I graduated and moved home and spent the summer rewriting the end, because I knew the end was limp. I cut the last ten-thousand words. Started in again. My goal was to finish and query before the end of August, before I moved to Alaska for grad school. I did, within a day of my deadline.

And then I didn’t move to Alaska, so I had time. I submitted the manuscript to Pitch Wars and made it in (!) and spent September and October gently revising under the nurturing guidance of Rachel Lynn Solomon. I was her alternate. And then the showcase happened. Requests! What! Within a single weekend, an agent read the book, and a phone call was scheduled. I read that email on my phone while on the drive home from San Jose with my parents. It was late and we were somewhere in Central CA. My dad insisted we stop for sugar. Starbucks was the first place we saw. They made me pose for photos. I couldn’t stop smiling and messing with my hair and it was weird and, I swear, my dad and I weren’t intentionally matching.

news news NEWS

Then, a few days later, the call. The Call. An offer. Shock. I’m still in shock. It still doesn’t feel real.

Two weeks followed. More offers–from the Pitch Wars requests and the queries I’d sent out after the contest. On air. I was on fucking air. It’s the weirdest feeling: being wanted, hearing good things said about your book, speaking with people who believe in the story. It was the spin of all spins. I cried over the decision, but, somehow, I knew who I’d sign with early on: the agent who would challenge me the most, cultivate not just this book but my career, who gave me chills during our first call.

I accepted an offer of representation from Sarah Davies of Greenhouse Literary Agency in the backseat of my mom’s car, parked in front of the UPS store where I sent out my first queries at fourteen. This–the circularity–was not intentional, wasn’t something I realized until days after, but I love it. Ending the query trudge where it began.


It still doesn’t feel real. My having an agent. Sarah Davies being my agent. Finally (FINALLY) making it over this hurdle. I’ve been jumping at it for almost nine years. And it feels so good. It feels right.

I don’t have the exact number of queries I sent out or rejections I received between now and when I was fourteen (somewhere around a hundred). I lost count of the revisions (the lame attempts and painfully thorough) and the endless editing rounds and the critiques from friends and the cut chapters and the versions of the manuscript lost to laptop crashes. But I don’t think those numbers matter. Albeit some extended breaks for the sake of sanity and education, I simply didn’t stop writing. That’s how I’m here. I wrote and I rewrote even more and, you know, I’m so happy it played out the way it did.

HAPPYNEWSSTOPI’m so, so happy.

So much is happening, and it’s weird to be exposed, to share this, to not be so ambiguous. It’s weird that my mom shared this news on Facebook before I had the chance to even shoot out a tweet and people I’ve never met know. And gosh gosh gosh I’m happy and also scared and nervous and thrilled to see what happens next. A succession of THINGS. This. The past month. This whole autumn. And what waits. Revisions with Sarah. Hopefully kicking Lyme disease in the ass. Moving to Alaska. New friends, new important people in my life. In some ways, a new life (with the same head, same me). Grad school and teaching (?!). Going out on submission (!!!!). Writing a second (well, technically, third/fourth) book sometime SOON.

What then? WHAT THEN! What is happening?
I do not know, but I like it.

Blood and What Not.

Tonight. Tonight. Tonight.
I’m bloody grateful tonight.

revision finish line.

tearing up while reading responses to my Pitch Wars submission

So grateful that I cried in front my screen on my parents’ living room rug when it hit me what had happened. What’s happening. My mother thought I made a nice image. Perks of temporarily living with your parents include nice writing rooms and paparazzi (and so, so much more).

What’s happened: another revision finished thanks to Pitch Wars. I’ve never revealed titles on this little blog, because titles always feel so temporary and I like to hide, but can I reveal this one, maybe, please? NOTHING LEFT TO BURN. Another attempt at the story I first told when I was thirteen and fourteen and again at fifteen and seventeen and then twenty and again at twenty-two. Twenty-two, last winter, that’s when I tossed out the old plot and a few characters and gave it one last sprint. That’s when I gave my protagonist a fire to chase and found a fire fighting boy stuck in a lie with guilt you can taste and changed the timeline from six months to a single day.

And now, twenty-three, my revision of that sprint is complete. It won’t be the last revision, possibly not the last sprint. But it feels good. It feels damn good to consider what this story was in 2005 and what it is tonight in 2014.

So grateful to so many. Almost a decade. Those who said yes and who said no and who read and shredded my pages and underlined lines and ate giant slices of almond cake with me under silly deadlines and who sent emails I didn’t deserve and read and reread and read and reread and critiqued and believed in this crazy thing. Most recently, I want to smother Rachel with hugs, for choosing me and the final push and the love and just being there, being here.

Obviously this isn’t the end. Nothing may come of this revision, this manuscript, but I’m closer and I didn’t give up in 2005 and I won’t forget it in 2015. This story is in my bones. Always will be, no matter its outcome. I don’t remember my life before thirteen, before my mind was threaded with this voice, the smoke. It’s so engrained. And I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m damn blessed by the love and persistence that’s kept me going. Family and friends and community. The luxury to make writing a part of my everyday.

Like I said, I’m bloody grateful.

Senior Fictioneers.

I haven’t slept much this week and tonight is the night I planned to sleep, sleep, sleep. Or, well, sleep until my alarm chimes at 7:15. But it’s already 11:33 and tomorrow is Thursday, and I have an information session to present to 80 high school students on behalf of the Admission Office and a novel to finish and a reading to attend and coffee to drink, so can I just ever so quickly say that I kind of absolutely feel so terribly blessed to be apart of this absurd group of writers?

CC Senior Fiction Seminar.

Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present CC’s senior fiction majors complete with our ever patient prof Steven Hayward and our block’s guest of honor Rawi Hage (his eerie novel Cockroach is currently in the final battle of the 2014 Canada Reads competition). Sadly three of our people were in bed when this photograph was taken, but so it goes. Writers like their beds.

I never laugh like that in photos. It must mean something.

You know, I may whine and moan and cry about workshop. About my doubts. About the cost of my education. About thesis. About graduating. About this whole bloody thing. But, seriously, dude, look at that photo. I am blessed, buoyed by a stellar collection of misfits nudging me to my (tentatively) final page.

And when we leave our warm campus and open quads and snow-crusted Pikes Peak, when we leave mandated workshops and required parties, I can think back and remember the day we stumbled outside to take a photograph in front of the tree. I can think about how, so genuinely, I was happy.

I graduate in two months. Take my word for it: college is rather lovely.


I want to retreat. I want to hide. I want to do what I did in August 2011, when I put up a virtual wall and didn’t nudge a single brick until 2013. Like every second semester senior I know, I’m knotted and bruised–horrified and excited and proud and out of my damn mind. We’re less than a week away from March. Two weeks from Wednesday, I fly home for Spring Break and quality puppy time. And then April will sweep in, quickly followed by May. Halfway through May I walk on a stage, and then I drive away. I’ll drive to California and I don’t know what will happen after.

And that’s okay.

But, you know, I can recognize it’s okay but still feel like my skin is being pressed to a flame, right?

the 25.

My rewrite isn’t a rewrite. It’s a rough (roughroughrough) draft. I don’t know how this happened. Back in November–or was it December?–back in that holiday mass, the original plot was pushed over the edge. Nine years and rejection and senior year and a professor urging me to write something new and an idea clucking at my ears, and I was ready to shove this absurd story aside. Ready to close a drawer, lock it shut, and open a new one. I cried a stupid amount. Like cried-cried. But then, within days, something clicked and a character was eliminated and a new character added in and the plot shifted, and suddenly I was rewriting and all was (relatively) okay.

But then this past weekend, I cried and cried and cried. Lately, it feels like, in my attempt to make the book better, my attempt to follow the urge, I broke the book. It’s so new. It’s so raw. It’s so doesn’t resemble anything it once was. It’s Scary Land. Last on Friday, finally, I hit a low, and I (again) cried and cried and cried. I told my mom I was done. It’s over, I said. But on Saturday–like in November or December–on Saturday, at approximately 6:57 PM, when I was reading and sweating on a treadmill at 24 Hour Fitness, a new thought arrived–a new thought that somehow gives me hope, two ideas that might just pull me through the end of this draft.

This new draft.
This rough draft.
This book that holds distant traces of the old, but, in truth, is ultimately new.

golden to boulder.

I want to hide. I want to retreat. Because I’m in new-new drafting mode. In this mode, the last thing I want is exposure. Which is hard when you’re in senior seminar–in workshop with fifteen other writers, fifteen other well meaning writers yacking and analyzing and mocking and praising my fresh pages. Beautiful intensive workshop, when all I want is to put up my walls and write, write, write. I think it’s good. The challenge. The vulnerability. So I’m going with the flow, giving and receiving for another two weeks (surprise, my draft’s deadline is in two weeks). I’m in limbo, flailing in this odd place, the 130 page slump, flailing and trying to dance with the workshop, to listen, listen and take
it in and set it aside and not let the praise and hate stump me. I can do it. If I try. I can love it. If I let myself.

I meet Zadie Smith tomorrow. That’s cool.

So yeah, my mind is retreat-hide-retreat land, and my life is EXPOSEVULNERABLEEXPOSE. And I’m dealing with it. I’m dealing with it with pizzazz. I’m, you know, driving these raw roads, pretending to be a pro. Funny, right?

Right now, that’s all I have to say.

Happy almost Tuesday.

Park City, Utah.

Park City, Utah. I landed in Salt Lake City on Monday. Tuesday and Wednesday I was sick as you can be without being sick enough to merit a trip to urgent care. Park City, Utah. On Thursday, it rained and rained and rained and the sky slammed with light and thunder. It’s February. We’re at 7000 ft. A summer monsoon in the winter? What an oddity. The rain eventually turned to hail. Monday afternoon, I return to Colorado for Block 6. Seminar. Workshop.

But right now, I’m here. Park City, Utah. With my family. Supposedly, with time to spare.


I have a tendency to do this thing. This thing where I stack my “vacations” with expectations–thousands of words on a page, hours dedicated to sweating, books to read, random tasks that have been sitting in my extended to-do list for longer than I dare to admit. So, I do this thing. And then I get sick. Or I get lured into the leisure of idleness. Or my family’s craziness sweeps me into their tide. And I think I need to stop doing this thing, because I only set myself up for irritation, kicking myself for not filling my quota.

The rough draft of my thesis (novel) is due in less than four weeks. The 40,000 word mark is on the horizon, swimming in the triple digits page wise, so, really, I’m doing fine. But I’m at this horrific place in the draft where I’m unsure of the remaining trajectory. I’ve done outline after outline–traditional, emotional, scene lists–but somehow, regardless, I’m still treading mud.

attempting madness.

Obviously I know the solution: write. Press on. Move forward, don’t flinch, push to the next moment. I know the solution. I do. But the last two days, since recovering from the flu of doom, I’ve refused to put what I know to practice. Why? To torture myself. To torture those around me. To milk my fears, or whatever you want to call the emotional habit to not write when I know that’s all I need to do. If I choose the wrong path for the book’s second half, well, that’s fine. I can go back and edit, revise, rewrite (as I always do). But I won’t know what’s right or wrong until I put the words to the page.

My family is out skiing. I’m not. One too many freak accidents on the slopes have deterred me away from strapping my feet into a board. Plus, ballet is too important to me (even more so now as it’s my last semester with the free opportunity to bend at the barre) to put my legs at risk of injury. And, well, I’m in crunch time: write, write, write. Right? Take risks. Write. Look at photos of my bookshelf waiting for me back home in Colorado for inspiration. Stare at the snow. Stare out a clear window blank eyed until a guy passes by and he stares back and I keep staring and he waves and I wave too. Write. Write some more.

I’m sorry this blog has turned into a relentless echo. I’m saying the same things in slightly altered forms month after month. My brain is saturated in this pursuit, in attempting to retell this one meek story (again). My life is an echo. Is that a bad sign?


A week or so ago, the CC Senior Class Committee sent an email to all graduating seniors, informing us that we walk the stage in a hundred days, that our year’s quote has been chosen. A quote that I think is kind of perfect.

“Now go, and make interesting mistakes; make amazing mistakes;
make glorious and fantastic mistakes; break rules.
Leave the world more interesting for your being here. Make good art.”

– Neil Gaiman


Park City, Utah. Two more days.

Words to Remember.

“Successful writers are not the ones who write the best sentences. They are the ones who keep writing. They are the ones who discover what is most important and strangest and most pleasurable in themselves, and keep believing in the value of their work, despite the difficulties.”
–Bonnie Friedman


Ass in the chair. Fingers on the keys. Why can’t it be that simple?
I have more difficulties than I can count.
Just. Must. Write, write, write.

And sometimes play in the snow. And sometimes freak out that you only have four more months of seeing that certain building every day. And sometimes spend too much time hiding behind Netflix. And sometimes water log your books by reading in the bath every night. And sometimes feel like this rewrite first draft was the worst decision of your life. But then, sometimes, just fucking write.