letter to you

i was fourteen the first time they came

i had seen them

since i was born

but fourteen was when they threatened to take me away

they were various shapes

beautiful and vicious

i was afraid

but i wanted to know them

and that was even scarier

some of them stayed

they came on holidays

as i got older

less scary

more sad

i never see them

much these days

anymore

except for the one that holds me down

pressing against my chest

asking me to wake up
and feel it

letter to you

I wrote.

Yesterday I put a song I like on repeat, and I wrote.

I had not written in a long time. It's April 10th today, which means its almost been an entire year since I finished the first draft of the novel. Almost an entire year without writing. Oh, parts and scraps there. Nothing solid. Nothing to shelter me from the weather.

But yesterday I wrote. And it was new. And it was good. Well, the writing was pretty bad. But it felt good. There was goodness all about it. If I let the words try to walk alone right now they would probably fall like a newborn coal. But they'll get it. I'll keep pushing them up. Licking the blood off 'um.

I am 28 now. 27 was the greatest and most exhausting year of my life. I fell in love, and felt the devastating loss of a family member. That's a one-two-punch that would push any writer down for awhile. Which is good. That's...that's...love and grief are life, and letting them flood the words out of my head was how it should be.

But yesterday I wrote.

And it felt like the holy ghost never left me.

My hallelujah fingers are blessed in the dust wine.

Time has passed and left us alone.

We are ready.

*

My friend Meagen likes finding and enjoying the work of artists because (I think) she likes to see how that person sees the world.

I don't care about how the artist sees the world, I want them to show it to me correctly. As if I can catch a glimpse, or glimmer of the way the universe is supposed to work.

If only an artist could show it to me.

For me, making art means finding the correctness.

All ideas are sort of dumb. its making them look brilliant, that's the point.

Meagen is the first person I ever met, who made me question any of this, and begin to enjoy art for art's sake. To see the beauty in someone else's interpretation of the world...that, perhaps not being able to show it correctly, is part of the beauty, and just as deep a meaning of the word art.

It helps that I am very, very much in love with her.

Letter to You

It is January second, 2012. Welcome to the first letter of a brand new year. How are all three of you doing?

I can tell when I need to write, because I'll look down and see writing on my hand. In today's case, the scrawling looks like this:

B
-- = ! :)
E

I also wrote this in my email today, when I was half asleep. I want to remember it so much that I am keeping it here as well, where I will remember sharing it with you:

You can't see the building blocks, but you can feel them, and that's what makes a story well told.

*

I used to be a novelist. All three of you readers may recall. I finished my novel in an apocalyptic crescendo last April. Twenty months of writing. And when I was done, I did what artists do when they finish something important to them.

I put it away.

The summer hit like an elemental fury, like a metaphor unfair to survivors of Haiti.
My life washed away. And I clung to my ideas, and the driftwood of scattered friendships.

One day, months after finishing the novel, I found myself alone, and bored.

And I read the whole thing.
Front to back.
Cringing and smiling in equal measure.

And then, I read it again.

...A stack of index cards beside me.The story so far is seven hundred pages, printed, and I needed help seeing the building blocks. Something to help my mind physically separate the moments as they occurred.

Writing the story was a lot like listening to a badly tuned radio, and hastily scribbling down what I thought I could hear. After getting to read it through, I find many of the voices and moments have become much clearer.

So I broke the writing down into what I think it should look like after a second draft. This took weeks. Mostly because I was just dipping my toes into the shimmering pool of writing. And That shit was cold.

When I was done I was delighted--DELIGHTED--to find everything broke down into a perfect three acts.

Next, I went through all the notes.

Even before I started writing the book, I started writing notes for it. I had one email account and about three phones filled with ideas. Countless moleskine notebooks as well. Most of the notes went into the story or were mutated or discarded.

The notes I had left over were mostly things I had heard through the tin radio when I wasn't writing. little clips and glitches of speech and narration. Skip-static news reports from three parallel worlds away.

So I took these notes, fifty or so pages of them, and put them in the order of the story. Figuring out which chapter they belonged in. Then, I worked on whittling (widowing? no that's dumb) the notes until I had pushed a 70 page document into 30 pages of very small font type.

It looks beautiful. Like little telegrams about another world.

*

It is January second, 2012.

Last year was the best year of my life. I finished a novel, created a game, and met the most beautiful person. Created the most amazing thing.

But now the days grow dark with winter. And the cold is coming closer with every fresh breath of wind. it is time to write again. And tick my fingers through a mess and make it beautiful.

Pray for me. To invisible fathers, and stone gods. To carved gourds, and the whispers in your heart. I have not a weapon but my wits, and God knows I'll reach their end.

-mE.

Letter to You - Islands

my thoughts are pointless islands

in an ocean of noise

The compass is broken

'The horizon is dark

I look to my feet for

guidance.

ignoring

the pinprick memories of stars

knotted fates and knotted stomach

.,;'.'',;;.',;'.,;'.',;,'',','.;,;'

I can see my stories. Frozen in ice

off on the horizon. islands in fog

I do not reach for them

.,;'.',;'.',;.'',;'.',;'.''.;;,''.;;,''.;',';.;'',.;;'.',;'.,;'.',;'.',/;.',/

the ocean is cold

and pointless.

they say writer's block isn't real

it's just an emotional state of being.

I can't write.

So I write about not writing

This ocean is pointless.

,..;;,''.;;,'',;,'.'.;'

In a Cave Somewhere with The Prince of Time

"I see you've grown a beard!"

"Yeah..for the winter. My winter of discontent...

"Aren't you just a clever dandy. Have a seat, let's have a chat."

...Have you been watching me?"

"I'm the Prince of Time, I don't just watch people. Life isn't a television show."

"But I mean--"

"Now, now I know what you mean!--but just because I am the Prince of Time does not make me the physical embodiment of a concept...I'm the prince of moments, and memories. I don't watch you. Or anyone. I miss shit, quite often actually."

"..."

"You'll notice I do not keep a watch on my wrist. (I actually do keep a pocket watch, for sentimental reasons of course. It was a wedding gift, it stopped working around the time we did."

"If I open my eyes, do you go away?"

"No. but you won't be able to see me, and you won't be able to get back here, not without some serious drugs. The Prince of Dreams and I have a bit of an understanding, but we've never agreed on how he ordered events and how my kingdom seems to manipulate them--tea?"

"it's cold..."

"But it used to be warm. Things like that happen a lot. ( a bit theatrical on my part, I know!)...oh fine then, cold tea?"

"yes please...do you visit people often?"

"Not if I can help it, which is almost never...so yes. I do. But let's have a chat. Time hasn't been kind to you, judging by the beard and shitty haircut."

"I'm fine. I think. Most days."

"listen, this is going to sound like a joke, but I don't actually have much time with you...so I'll try to cut all the camp and bullshit and get straight to it. I like you."

"haha thanks. I like you to."

"Well then I wish we had more time!--look at me, getting all flirty with only moments left. Story of my life..a very long life, mind you.--This tea is disgusting, don't drink it love, it was supposed to be more of a metaphor."

"I don't mind it, actually."

"Suit yourself...what we were saying? Ah--yes. Right. You've been pretty hurt, haven't ya, love? The ebb of flow of the shore eroding your little feet and rusting your little heart."

"I'm fine."

"I know that. But people who are fine don't have to keep reminding other people, or supernatural princes, in this case. (sigh)I'm afraid you don't understand the nature of my domain, and so I've come here to help you."

"What's that sound?"

"The shores of the waking. Rising to drown us out of of this little darkness and take you away from here."

"So what don't I understand? About time, I mean?"

"Well the truth is darling, most humans don't really get it. You make calendars, and celebrate birthdays and anniversaries and what not. It's pointless."

"That's a point of view, I suppose."

"I'm the fucking Prince of Time, my love! Perhaps my points should be minded."

"Right..."

"Time is not cyclical. You have seasons, and decades and days and all that but it's useless. It's more painful to think of it that way."

"Then...I don't understand what..."

"The tide is getting higher, can you hear it?"

"Yes. I can barely hear you."

"You going to wake soon. Look, it's simple. Time is one line. And it didn't start at your birth, and it doesn't end at your death, or anyone's really. It started at the dawn of time, and it will go on forever. It's like this...if you were to cut yourself, it heals. Blood seeps out, you call your friends and you show them the scar. It doesn't just reopen of its own accord...the cut isn't echoed throughout the rest of your life. Say you cut yourself on a Wednesday, it doesn't magically happen again the next Wednesday."

"I know that, but.."

"Time is nothing more than memories telling us we've already experienced something else. That is what I'm trying to say, I think. You know this tea isn't half bad..."

"I can't...I can barely hear you..."

"Well it's perfectly fine, as I'm barely making a point! Just try to remember dear, there is no such thing as days, or nights or weeks or anything. The importance we put on moments is myth and magic. It's going to help you."

"What do you mean?"

"...I'm very sorry. It's time to wake up..."