I understand I ought to be outcast from the blogging community for neglecting Phantasmagorium, but I was on the road. So I'll just have you write about outcasts instead!
Valley wind strings birthday graves along the roadside, impossible to tell from the litter and waste.
I admitted to the leader of a prose-writing workshop my worst fear was being misunderstood. He misunderstood what I meant.
Your brother, Sci-Fi, is already drunk and drifting off near a gardenia arrangement, probably spacing out. Kooky Aunt Magical Realism is in The Front Row in a funny hat, primed to catch the bouquet when it's thrown. You can't place it, but something's always been off about her.
Every now and again I'm just going to need to share album covers. I had to gush about Sonata Arctica's "The Ninth Hour" last time, but now I have to gush about Sonata Arctica's "Stones Grow Her Name." I mean, look at it.
There's nothing better for healing than sleep--or writing. Having spent my weekend finally getting to do plenty of both, that's my testimony. I'm not snake-oiling you here, folks, some good, cathartic writing will cure what ails you.
Tada! He's my new author logo. He'll sit quietly under my Ko-Fi button except for on very special occasions; I don't think he's very interested in us. I hope you like him.
I seem to be the only one who's noticed how many romantic cliches in writing can shape up into seriously great villain origin stories. Hear me out.
Many thanks must go to my good chum R.S. Rook, for passing me a "Discover New Blogs" Liebster Award and a set of entertaining questions--plus a bang-up one-sentence summary of my site that was troubling in its accuracy.
Undying gratitude to all of you. In celebration, I've changed a couple of things.