Books, Shelves, Maybe Some Writing. (19.11.1)

The number of pieces I had prepared has dwindled just in time for Nanowrimo season, when I’m definitely supposed to be writing longer things.

So here’s a quick check in, maybe some goals, maybe some progresses.

Haven’t written today for Nanowrimo. Spent a lot of time procrastinating and eating chocolate. Some of the procrastination was productive, such as working on my shelf build, reading a comic.

Considering how long the shelf build has taken, I’ve figured out and learned a bunch of things working on it, and I feel like I’m a lot better able to approach and continue on with various projects now. I planned this shelf shortly after I moved to the new house in December last year, and I’ve been chipping away at it since then. Trying to put in the effort to make it as good as I can, learning to tune in to when my instincts are telling me to take a break, wait, or to keep working to solve problems rather than settling for less than workarounds. I’m proud that I’m getting better at anticipating and thinking through problems without ignoring them and blazing ahead, or putting the whole project off indefinitely. I’m building up perseverance.

There’s already a lot of thought, character, and stories connected to this shelf, and it’s not even standing yet.

I’ve also been making good progress with my ‘get back into reading for me after college’ goal. Last year I read a bunch, far more than I had since mid high school, and this year I’ve kept that up. The library system I’m in right now is fabulous in terms of books and comics. I’ve had a steady supply of books since the beginning of the year. One of the first things in my room when we were moving was a stack of books.

I’ve just finished reading two nonfiction books, within their first set of checkout dates, which is honestly unheard of for me. Usually it takes me three times longer than that to read nonfiction.

One of them was Every Tool’s A Hammer by Adam Savage, and reading that during my slow process on my shelf, and all the other projects I have on hold, was extremely comforting. It made me feel like I’m going in the right direction to follow my interests, build skills, and improve my methods.

In addition to the awesomeness of the library, one of my goals is to read at least one book I already own by the end of the year. I have so many cool books that bring me joy, and I want to enjoy them, not just anticipate them.

A lot of my writing goals aren’t fit for outside eyes until they’re completed, (the brain somehow thinks that telling them is the same as completing them, it’s weird.) but I think I can get away with a couple of these writing ones.

I want to finish a draft of my main WIP by the end of the year. Does that still count as #FinishUrBookFall? I’ve decided that finished means that I have a draft that has all the main elements I need in it. Not necessarily in order. That ship sailed long ago. Not necessarily everything present. But, the main story completed. The end of the book has been a telescoping tunnel from a horror movie since making this goal, and it’s almost at the point where it’s starting to get shorter. I hope.

I have two or three short projects that I’ve been making progress on over the last few weeks, and I want to finish the drafts of those.

For nano, I want to work on something new. Justifying that with all the other projects in progress is a fun experiment in surrealism. But part of that justification is wanting to take something, do some actual outlining/prep work, and then throwing myself at it, to see what I learn about plotting and outlining. See if I can find some bits that I can use for the next projects, for streamlining, faster development of the stories I love and want to tell.

However, I didn’t do any of that plotting before nano started, and I don’t want to completely drop the other projects, so we’ll see what happens next. Maybe I’ll finish a shelf.

Some project one liners, for practice and anticipation:

A tiny dragon surrounded by queer love, sexiness, and rebellion, featuring the occasional dildo.

Kinky lesbian ghost erotica parts 1&2.

Murmurs. Watcher Garden #17 (19.3.2)

Somewhere in the vastness it murmurs

It is not painful to look at the sun.

But it is.

It is painful to look at the sun.

It is not because of the heat, the gas, the sheer power, as has been decided.

It is because the eyes that live there do not want you looking back.

It is easy to create an entire existence if you are a brain.

So the illusion of pain, brightness, heat is easy.

To keep from seeing the eyes that do not want you looking back.

Hot Berry Dream. (19.3.21)

Falling, falling, falling.

Down. Up? Stop.

Whites meld other colors. Blues. Deep purple. Chasing playful passions.

Passions in the air, twisting vines of design across the fading white colors.

A blink is a century, wait. Bees make the colors and wipe them across the sky.

There is nothing but sky and working bees.

What else would you stand on but sky?

Sky in front, behind, is peace. Calm. Anxiety.

Behind is guttering worry, pressing on the senses but staying just out of consciousness.

Can’t see the peace behind. Only see the beauty in front, found after a fall.

Bees migrate between the worlds. Their passions trailing off at the precipice, wilting until their bee returns for them.

If their bee returns for them.

Emerging and returning bees bring the ingredients for the colors made to be wiped across the sky.

A passion barrels toward you. Hits you square and knocks the sky out from under you.


Symbolistic metaphors.


Pick your poison.


Teach yourself which metaphor you see.


Jerked awake hot and sweaty next to a bed not slept in. Foreboding and hope tangled together as unsupervised ropes, a jittery urge to do something, choose something.

Which thing? No matter.

Follow through on change, there will be.

Tea first, then decide. The kettle whistles. Cup clinks on a saucer. The fruit cup glitters with fruits.

Picked up on a whim at the market, couldn’t possibly hurt. Hot berry’s visions only a myth.

Then why does the hand shake as it brings tea to the lips?

What did you see? What did it teach you?

Which change will your choice bring?

It must be chosen after tea.

Choices and Chances. Watcher Garden #16 (19.5.17)

Choice is an illusion,


Choice is a circumstance

A situation

Held in stasis forcibly

Not allowed to leap.

Choose perhaps,

but not freely.

Only from a set selected for you

Rarely is indecision an individual’s fault.

They seek the whole picture,

A bird’s eye view,

Complete with highlight in the pupil,

To know truly what all the options are,

Why some cannot be opportunities taken,

Before making a choice,

While they can feel its illusion

Plastered over station, status, means.


Past illusions have brought them together,

Probability, improbability.

Will it be, this time,


To go along with each other.

Justices Meeting. Watcher Garden #15 (19.4.23)

Evenings sweet tonight,

Hot sugar and fireflies floating.

Moccasins protection meeting mossy edges.

Edges orchestrating the demise of toughest rocks

Surviving themselves in delicacy over thousands of millenia.

Clutching pastry kebabs, a celebration of success that day, she follows the beckoning call to the rooftop.

Her trellis climb to freedom and rest.

Tripping gusts of wind playful around her feet as she steps up.

Justice of hers catches justice of another’s.

Trellis delicately strong for hundreds of footsteps, well traveled well known, snaps.

Weight of justice clinging to the ground, the newfound

Kindred spirit huddled.

Become awkward pile of legs, kebabs, startled fearful yelps.

Has luck run out?

Or found its complement?

Her Balance. (14.1.19)

This piece won 1st place in the Dungeness River Audubon Center’s High School writing contest “Tales From The Trails: How Do You Connect With Nature?” on February 19th, 2014.

It was a grand moment for me, a huge confidence boost in my writing, and it is still something I am incredibly proud of.

She feels the rain touch her skin, watches the way the fog ebbs and flows around the darkened crevices between the buildings, down the alleys and around the legs of the men who exist here in the between. It wasn’t raining, the fog barely felt moist as it touched her leggings. No, the rain was just a memory fading, reminding her to renew it before it faded completely from her mind.

Her heels clicked on the pavement as she moved down the alley between the buildings on the block where she worked. The rain on her skin meant she was tired, that she needed to get away. It meant her core was failing her, that she was losing her perspective and her balance. It reminded her to go back to the place that could heal those losses.

The next day in her apartment, a person couldn’t hear silence. The fridge hummed, the traffic and the people in other apartments contributed their voices. The phone she kept with her always, when she was in the city, sat abandoned on the coffee table. Its calendar had been cleared for two weeks, so it sat silently, waiting for its next command of how to alert its owner. The owner who wasn’t there, who wouldn’t be back for two weeks.

She stood in the silent morning. She watched the trees and the sunlight mountain beginning to be brightened. She played with her breath in the cold air, making puffs of steam, trying to make shapes. She was wrapped in a simple pair of rugged pants a practical camisole under a thick flannel shirt. Her feet felt clunky and weighted in a pair of huge hiking boots. A backpack with the day’s supplies sat ready on the edge of the stairs leading off the off white porch. She envied the man who lived here, who saw this every day. She was glad though, that he went into the city for a few weeks every now and then to take in the noise and get supplies, see the movies and keep up a bit with society. Because when their retreats coincided, he let her rent his cabin, to see the beautiful backdrops to her peace.

She stepped off the porch, grabbing the backpack as she went, just as the sun touched the first tips of the trees on the mountain. She followed an old worn path into the woods next to the cabin. She never spent much time in the cabin. She made her meals early in the morning, before dawn, then spent most of each day hiking. At night she came home exhausted, and fell into bed, barely caring to take off her muddy boots. Sometimes after a particularly exhausting and dirtying day, she’ll strip down to her camisole and a pair of soft shorts before crashing into bed.

The time she had spent in these mountains, she spent learning and exploring. She knew these mountains well, and they shared mutual respect for each other. Today she walked out to an edge of the mountain where the trail looked out over a deep valley before stopping for breakfast. Then she walked along the trail as far as she could before collapsing for a rest and for lunch. Then she spent the afternoon exploring the forest. She was always careful not to blaze another trail when she explored. She made deer trails perhaps, but nothing any more invasive than that. When she first came here, she was afraid of getting lost, but as she learned about the mountain she learned that it offered dangers, but that it also offered her safety. She felt the mountain liked her. It was more than a conglomeration of living things, it was a living thing that was built out of the living things within it. And this life liked her. It protected her from its most dangerous, and taught her about it at the same time.

Between the mountain, the fresh air, the walking, and the heavy boots, after just one day, she was already feeling more balanced and centered than she had before. She settled a few minutes later in a clearing. She was leaning against a tree, tired, but happy. Content. So many people talked about saving this kind of place. But they didn’t know enough to know what to do. And so many more people had a this place, or that place philosophy, wanting to destroy the cities to make way for the trees, or destroy the trees to make way for the cities.

But she understood that it was much more complicated than that, it had to be, because people needed both now. She needed both. Her eyes drifted closed, a small smile on her face. Confident in her mountain and in her happiness.

When she awoke a few hours later, it was dark, the only light coming from a nearly full moon overhead. She could see the fog shifting around the trees and brush. It reminded her of the fog of the city, except this kind of fog was the kind that healed her, not reminded her she needed healed. She stood up in the night air, stretching her muscles and reveling in the cool dew on her bare arms.

As she slowly walked along toward the path back to the cabin, she took in all the many shades of gray and green she could see in the moonlight. The colors shifted, the leaves moved, and a light breeze made the leaves shiver with anticipation. The night was cool, but the air was soft; it didn’t sting with cold. She could hear the sounds of the forest around her, and she knew that everything in the forest was alive around her.

When she was little, the forest was the place she ran to when she had a bad day; it was the place where she scraped her knee and didn’t care because it was too much fun to be in the woods; it was the place where everything was creepy or welcoming for each mood she ever felt.

This place, and others like it, were where she came to recharge. The city had it perks, but the forest had magic. And she couldn’t live without magic.

Brilliance’s Breath. Watcher Garden #14 (19.4.23)

Brilliance trapped in beggar,

Kicked in the shins too many times,

Finally remanded from the wealthy quarters,

trudging now.

This trellis something pretty, something warm.

Something to welcome her.

She settles beneath the friendly nature on spindly spines.

Descendents of the garden here.

To breathe.

Heat Reader. (19.2.14)

I hold my hand over his chest, just until I can barely feel the warmth rising from him. He lives, still as death, half his greenish pale body covered carelessly with a thin, stained sheet. I keep my eyes on that side of him, trying to ignore the gash torn through his other hip. I start to read his heat.

There’s a growl from next to me. “Faster.”

“You know it takes patience.” I say quietly. And he knew the shackles that weighed cold and solid around my wrists got in the way of the read. They all knew.

Though, I could still read faster than they thought. I felt he wasn’t dead. I felt the treatment path. They knew about that part. that’s why I was here, a healer heat reader is useful in keeping their armies alive in the fight against my people.

They don’t know that I can read his importance. His determination, and his hatred.

This man would be incredibly hard to kill. But this time it’s not a bad thing, not a thing I will have to fight. This time it’s exciting.

My keeper tugs my hand away from his body with the shackle. “What this one need?”

I duck my head to hide the flash of excitement in my eyes.

“Take me to the doctor, I must tell him something.”

. . . .

That night I sit alone, finally, in my cell. Legs crossed on the flat sleep mat, calm. My mind races, despite my forced outer calmness.

The man lying on the table this afternoon, he hated the army, the war, his superiors, as much as I do. He wants them to parish.

When I read his heat it wasn’t life simply life, death, or rot heat. I read his heat as the leader of the resistance.

Our Resistance. Salvation.

This man, I’m excited to see better.

To see who my partner in saving my world will be.

Day’s Work, Existence. Watcher Garden #13 (19.4.23)

Sure, quick footed steps.

She flies along the cobblestones here, the river bed there.

Needs met.

Necessities acquired.

Day achieved.

The means? They are what they must be.

Move to survive, keep alive.

Consider carefully when, if ever, there is time.

Law hands left behind, reasons unseen.

For difficult duties of life, it is not so bad to live in the wind.

Justice soars beside her.

Escape. (13.6.7)

Intricate. It’s the word I think when I see anything around me. Complicated, when I think for a minute more. Connected. Always connected, everything. My life. Something I can’t see. Sometimes I can’t realize.

Intricate plans with complicated connections. It’s what I see. What I feel. What will never leave me. Remember. Memories. So many and so complicated. Always there lurking when you look.


So many won’t look, can’t. Aren’t capable. They sit in towers, surrounded in white. Soft, never knowing. Not quite understanding what they drop upon us from their towers is more than a line of words or a plain order. It has to be, for us who live at the feet of towers.


He climbs and climbs. The white is endless. The escape of the tower is necessary and imminent. But forever he will climb. It is the work of some, the goal of some, to climb. It does not matter whether you reach the end, or if you even want to. It only matters that you climb, that you try, that you reach for the imminent yet elusive escape.

This piece was originally written for the Seattle Acquarium’s Creativity Inspiring Conservation creative writing course, and was displayed during their 2013 student art reception.

The statement written for the program:

This was written as a response to a picture of a frog climbing in a white bucket, and to me it represents a struggle to change you environment, and a kind of out place sense in your world.