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Healing after Jun 24, 2022

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I probably shouldn’t attempt to write something coherent right now. I know better. I’m emotionally drained, physically tired, and psychically overstimulated.  The world, my version of it anyway, is a dire place. I could laundry list my problems, those personal, familial, creative, and professional, but honestly that all seems weak sauce compared to the national and global crises of the past few weeks and years. Since 2016. Wait, since before that. Since, I don’t know, always. It’s oh-so-tempting to throw my hands up and declare nearly everything Doomed and Horrifying. I mean, unless you’re a rich white cis het man. Then I guess you can still worry about the global climate crisis. If you feel like it.  Anyway, I’m tired and a bit snarky, but I’m here. I’m still here. I haven’t posted to this blog in a while, but I’m here. I’m guessing if we’re close enough for you to be reading this, that you’re tired too. And I want to say, very clearly: I’m with you. I am. This is not meant to be a ch
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NYE 2021

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I would love to say that we’ve finished off 2021 with a grand adventure, or a peaceful retreat, or some kind of meaningful experience. But really, it’s just been a mess. Par for the course? I can’t claim it’s been all bad. We were supposed to fly out east for Christmas, but a Covid exposure in our extended family (on my partner’s side) canceled our trip. This was horribly sad because we miss our family so much (and I haven’t even met my baby niece who is now one year old, waaaah!), but we were able to salvage Christmas and enjoyed a cozy, sweet, small holiday at home.   I suspect Luna, our sweet doggo, was pleased we didn’t abandon her. We were then surprised by snow the day after Christmas and had lots of fun in the white stuff. On the 27th, the kids and I flew out to rural North Carolina to see a branch of my side of the family. (My partner stayed home to care for our house and dog.) Our travel was delayed and stressful, but we made it to the Smoky Mountains and enjoyed a full two da
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Remnants

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Lately, I’ve been thinking about what remains after all our hard work, our love, and our energy runs out. Legacy seems too grand a word for what I mean. I associate legacy with people who endure and influence beyond the scope of a simple life, whether they deserve it or not. People with fame and fortune, people with power. But what remains when books go unpublished or unread? What remains when songs are unfinished and gardens are left untended?  Some would say it’s surely the love we gave and the lives we shared that matter most. Our relationships are what endure and carry our memories forward. That’s a comforting idea for me, and it resonates deeply most of the time. But I also wonder about the scraps of our lives. Particularly the creative bits. The stories and songs and poems that were abandoned in one way or another. The sketches we never shared. The projects of one kind or another that never came to fruition.  Do they matter at all? Is there any point in work that will not last? T
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Lost & Found

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It's June and the sun is shining in Seattle. Summer has sometimes been a season of joy and relief, but this year I can still feel the shadow of the pandemic and all that's been lost. My heart's still heavy with worry for dear friends and family who continue to suffer from a variety of health, financial, and relationship problems. Some of these troubles are pandemic related, but some are just life being hard. And yet, and yet... There are new opportunities to see people again, and lots of plans afoot to travel and reconnect. I'm spending more and more time outside, wandering, and daydreaming. I'm enjoying beachcombing and looking forward to exploring new shorelines.  Most of you know that I regularly collect many of the odd bits and pieces I find washed up.  Toys, and sea glass, and bit and bobs of whatever happens to reveal itself.  I always leave the shells and stones, as they feel part of the natural landscape and ecosystem, but I routinely pick up manmade things
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One Year of Pandemic

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(Posted this first on social media, but I'd like to keep it here too.) One year ago was the last day of school for our kids and the first real day of isolation for our family. It's hard to measure what's been lost in a year. Countless gatherings with friends and family. Trips. Hugs. Music and theater and restaurants and festivals and conferences. Celebrations. Jobs. Relationships. Ability to focus. And more than any of this, lives. Real lives of real people who we lost during this global tragedy. My heart truly aches for everyone who endured grief, illness, or other sorrow. Here in Seattle, I'm slowly beginning to feel some change for the better. I know more than a few folks who are already vaccinated (though it seems like it might be months before members of my household qualify). Our schools are also reopening (with massive modifications and precautions in place). But before we rush ahead, I'm counting the gifts of this past year too. More time with my family and
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Announcement!

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Hello Friends, I have some fantastic writing news! I've just signed with my new agent, Lisa Abellera of Kimberley Cameron & Associates .  Lisa contacted me after reading and falling in love with BREAKWATER, my speculative fiction about a Miami woman who discovers she's pregnant as South Florida succumbs to climate disaster. Lisa has already impressed me with her knowledge, enthusiasm, and responsiveness. I have new hope and excitement about what's to come and can't wait to polish up this project for submission to editors.  In other news, I'm still working and thinking a lot about all the change that's in the air. A new administration (!), new vaccines (!), new routines and adjustments to keep us all safe, and now, this brand new relationship and opportunity in my writing life. 2020 was a year of drastic change and loss, but 2021 is looking more and more like a time of change that heals, enlivens, and invigorates. Still, it's change, and that requires ene
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Winter Solstice

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Hello loves, I haven’t posted here since March. I’ve been away from this space primarily because, for most of the pandemic, I wasn’t writing at all. I was, like most of us, figuring things out, taking care of myself and my family, trying to find new ways to connect with friends, trying to make sense of, well, all of it. I attended protests and zoom meetings and sent angry letters. I voted. I slept poorly. I have a few friends who’ve been able to be creative and productive during this difficult time, but for me, writing slipped away as I focused on other means of survival. I’ll be honest and say that this lack of writing took its toll. There were other, much deeper and personal losses too, but I think it was mid-November when I realized that I needed to start writing again because I’d lost touch with a sacred part of myself. I want to acknowledge many loving people in my life who helped me recognize this. Sirens, a conference on gender and speculative fiction (this year on Zoom) helped
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