The Boneyard: A Short Story Teaser

Last year, it was my intent to enter a flash-fiction contest, but I could never quite get the story to fit into 1,000 words or less, so I tabled the project. Since it’s October, I figured it’s the perfect time to work on it again. Since I’m no longer constrained by such a restrictive word count, I’ve begun to expand it, and I really like it so far. I hope to finish it this month and, afterward, I’m going to look into submitting it to a lit mag.

Here are the first ~500 words of my horror short story, The Boneyard.

The house on 777 Darling Lane was anything but. Whoever had addressed it either knew nothing of its evil reputation or had a sick sense of irony.

Desta was banking on the latter.

She stood on the sidewalk, her face pressed to the wrought-iron gate, and gazed up at the house. It was a large, ugly thing. The red-brick, ivy-covered façade was almost black with decades of dirt and grime, and most of the windows had long been broken. To Desta, they were like eyes, lidless, lashless; the house was watching her too.

Desta scoffed. Nonsense. She was acting no better than the ghost-obsessed townspeople she derided.

She didn’t believe in ghosts, or that the house was alive, or that by standing so close, she was opening herself up to attack. She couldn’t deny, though, that it was a ghastly place, and she understood better why no one in town liked the house. If it was this terrible on the outside, what might it be like inside? There had been multiple attempts to demo it, but the Council always refused the motion. Most people tried to ignore its existence, but it was hard when it skulked on the outskirts of town like a sleeping giant poised to crush them if awoken.

Desta had grown up hearing stories about all the terrible things that happened in and around it—she never heard anything about the family who owned it, though, and this was what interested her the most. No one could tell her who they were, where they had come from, when the house had been built, or if they were even alive. They hadn’t been seen in years, but every so often, a curtain would move in one of the remaining windows, or a light would flicker on and go out just as quickly.

The only thing anyone knew about the house was that the land it’d been built on had once been called The Boneyard.

It was this mystery Desta was so desperate to get to the bottom of: Who, if anybody, lived in the house? If someone did live there, why did they never come out? And because she couldn’t quell all superstitious curiosity, what was the mystery of “the boneyard?”

She pressed her front against the cold bars of the gate. If she was only a little smaller, she could slip through the bars and get closer, maybe even go inside. What wonderful and terrible things must be hiding behind its walls, and what secrets Desta might learn the truth of. The Council would be grateful to her for setting the record straight. The townspeople would hail her as a hero. Her classmates, always so quick to underestimate her, would be awed by her bravery.

She had to get inside.

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She’s Ba-aaack (Kinda)

Ack! It happened again. My apologies. My mind is as fickle as the weather sometimes. I also haven’t been writing lately, so I haven’t had much to say about it.

Unfortunately, I don’t foresee myself getting back on the writing horse anytime soon. I’m going back to work soon, and all my attention has been laser-focused on preparing for that. Mostly I’m trying to figure out what I’m going to do for childcare. This shouldn’t be so hard, but here we are. It’s ridiculous how expensive it is. Why should I go to work to pay someone $1,000 a month to raise my children? That’s an entire mortgage payment!

I’m going to end it there, before I get myself worked up. Keep your fingers crossed that I’m able to find a cheaper option. Otherwise, going back to work may not even be an option.

I miss writing. It’s always this time of year, with NaNoWriMo looming on the horizon, that I feel the worst about my inconsistencies as a writer. I have the creativity and the talent, but none of the discipline writing requires. It makes me fear I’ll never finish a novel, or any writing piece longer than a short story–and I can barely finish those!

It’s so frustrating. I wish brain transplants were a thing. Since they aren’t, I should probably follow through on seeking out the therapy I’ve needed for a long time, but I can never make myself take that step.

If only I was still of an age when my mother took care of all my medical business, then I’d have no choice.

It’s Publication Day!

Finally, the day I’ve been waiting for. My Shakespearean sonnet A Day in the Life of Henry VIII has had its debut in Copperfield Review Quarterly and I couldn’t be prouder. Seeing my name in print for the first time, and in such an acclaimed literary publication, has me feeling a little teary. I hope this only means good things for my future as a poet.

Please consider supporting me and this great publication. You can purchase digital or print copies of the quarterly on Copperfield Review Quarterly’s website. There’s so much on offer in this edition! Read about handling resistance with Steven Pressfield; Ann Taylor is in the poet spotlight; and, of course, there are plenty of short stories and poems to enjoy.

Get your copy today!

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Here Comes the Bride

I married my significant other of nine years yesterday! Honestly, it was about time. It was a simple ceremony performed by a Justice of the Peace, but I got to marry the man I love in front of all my friends and family, so it was simply perfect.

In honor of my nuptials, I want to share a poem I wrote about us a few years ago.

Units of Measurement

How do you measure a relationship?
In years?
We’ve lasted four.
I’d try to get it down to the second,
but I’m bad at math.

Anyway,
I think I’d rather measure ours
in moments:

Like the first night we spent together
and stayed up until 3am talking
about…you know, I’ve forgotten,
but the sound of your voice
was a roll of thunder over my skin,
and, oh, how I wished your fingers had chased the sounds.

We were so silly
the day we decided to move in together
as a solution to our first real argument.
But I was frustrated–I missed you,
and you, you won’t admit it,
but you missed me too,
and even though it was stupid,
it worked out all right in the end.

I remember the night I came home
from visiting my parents
and you said my new hair color was beautiful
and we tumbled into bed together
and some months and days later
we named our son after your grandfather.

It’s weird, isn’t it,
that buying a house together was scarier
than those 16 hours of pain.

A lot can happen in four years.
I’m curious to see what the next
three years will bring–
maybe a daughter?

We did get our daughter, by the way. She has her father’s eyes. ♥

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Joker’s Right: A Poem

Bringing it back to a time when I thought I was clever–and could actually rhyme!

Though I fancied myself as a rather mysterious person, multiple people told me they could “read me like an open book.” I didn’t like that, so this was my response to them.

In hindsight, I probably wasn’t as mysterious as I pretended to be.

Complicated beyond comprehension,
but what’s to comprehend
when it’s all a game?
I like to play pretend.
A bag of tricks
and some joker’s quick wit
brings the crowd their kicks.
Now it’s the clown being played,
though I’d gladly condescend to claim
you know the face behind the name.

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ADHD & Writing IV

In this series, I’ve talked about my history with ADHD, how it’s affected my creative process, and how it’s affected my life on a larger scale. What I haven’t talked much about is how I deal with it.

Before I begin, let me add a disclaimer: I’ve never gone through therapy and I don’t have any formal schooling in the field. The coping mechanisms I will list here are not rooted in scientific theory. They are simply things I’ve developed over the years to help manage my ADHD. If you’re looking for honest to goodness, peer-reviewed strategies…you may be in the wrong place.

If you’re up for a little amateur advice, though, read on!

Change Your Routine

Technology is amazing, isn’t it? No longer do writers have to put pen or pencil to paper. Neither do we have to crack open a dozen books to research one topic; Google does it for us.

Unfortunately, technology also comes with distractions, and if you’re like me, you probably spend more time on social media than you do writing. It’s too easy to click away from the Word document and check Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and TikTok…

You get the idea.

There are some methods one can try to minimize distractions. Put your device on airplane mode so you can’t access the Internet. Use an older device that cannot connect to the Internet and is meant only for writing. This may even help you “get in the mood” if you associate something with productivity.

As for me, I went a little old school. I brave the cramps in my wrist and fingers and put pen to paper. It really helps. The extra tasks of holding the utensil and physically writing engages my brain and I’m able to focus on the words. When I write, I keep my laptop and phone out of arm’s reach so I have to work harder to check social media. In this case, executive dysfunction is good.

Thus far, I’ve written over 6,000 words of my novel and numerous poems by hand. And I feel damn good about it.

I also bought an iPad with an Apple Pencil to write with. I can’t tell you how much I love it. I write most of my poetry this way now. Of course, there is a risk of me falling into old habits, but so far, it hasn’t been an issue.

Try Listening to Music

I’ve heard a lot of conflicting reports about music. Some people say it helps them focus on a task, others say it hinders them. I can go either way depending on how deep I am in the ADHD trenches. When it comes to writing, certain genres of music help better than others; I suggest classical or instrumental music so as not to get lost in the lyrics. If you’re a fantasy writer, I especially recommend Yanni and David Arkenstone. Their work is very atmospheric and perfect for out-of-this-world stories.

Lists, Lists, Lists

When executive dysfunction kicks me down, it helps if I make a to- do list. And then a list for that list. And a list for that one. Again, it depends on the day. Sometimes something simple like “clean the bathroom, wash the dishes, fold laundry, call the dentist” is enough. Other times, I have to break each task into smaller steps.

  • Write ch.5 of The Forest
    • Write 1,000 words
      • Write in 15 minute chunks
  • Clean the kitchen
    • Wash the dishes
      • Wash pots and pans
      • Wash the silverware
      • Wash the plates, bowls, cups
    • Wipe off the counters
    • Wipe off the stove
    • Sweep the floor
    • Vacuum the rug

So on and so forth ad infinitum. It’s still a lot to do but thinking about it this way makes it feel more manageable. Each item crossed off is a small win.

Set a Timer

This coping mechanism goes hand-in-hand with making lists. On a bad day, I will set a timer and write or clean or fold laundry or whatever I need to do for a set amount of time. When the timer goes off, if I feel I can, I continue. If I can’t, I reward myself with some small thing and then get right back to it. The whole idea is to make things less overwhelming so my brain doesn’t nope out before I can even gain any traction.

Junebugging

I’m super excited to talk about this concept as I was today years old when I learned there’s a term for what I’ve been doing for years.

This doesn’t pertain to writing in the slightest, but it is something I’ve found helpful in other areas of my life, especially when it comes to cleaning.

The term was coined by a Tumblr user with ADHD who, like so many of us, had trouble sticking to one task. They found a workaround: A cleaning strategy based on the way June bugs fight to get through window screens. They climb all around, looking for different points of entry. Junebugging works in a similar way.

This is often what it looks like for me: I pick a task, usually in the kitchen as it’s always the messiest room in the house. I start organizing the dishes by the sink (because I like to wash them in a specific order). I glance towards the dining room and notice dirty dishes on the table. I collect them and bring them to the sink. I begin to wash dishes. I stop to go to the bathroom and while I’m in there, I notice a few things that belong in other rooms. I gather them and take them where they need to go. I find garbage and bring it to the kitchen to throw away. I see the dishes I was in the midst of washing and return to that task.

The point is to let yourself wander, to lean into the madness, but to always return to your original task. It’s not the most efficient method, no, but it does mean I’m getting stuff done and not wallowing in executive dysfunction.

Accept Your Diagnosis

This has been a hard for me, especially since I’m fairly new to learning about ADHD even though I was diagnosed 27 years ago. I just have to keep telling myself I’m not lazy, I’m not making excuses. My brain is simply wired in a way that makes mountains out of mole hills. The best thing I can do for myself, the best thing any of us can do, is accept it and then learn from it. We must advocate for ourselves. And we must learn how to be kind to ourselves.

And what about you? If you have ADHD, what coping mechanisms do you swear by?

I want to say thank you for coming on this journey with me. I appreciate everyone who dropped a like or left a comment. I’m proud of this little project and I hope it was informative and helpful to other people who have ADHD. At the very least, I hope it gave some a sense of solidarity.

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Show Me Yours and I’ll Show You Mine: A Poem

A PET Scan illustrating difference between a brain with ADHD and one without. PHOTO: NEUROSCIENCENEWS

I’ve always wondered
what neurotypical looks like.
Let’s compare brains.

You go first.
Cut off my hair,
peel back my scalp;
what do you see?

Is my brain sectioned
into hyperfixations
or does Henry VIII waltz
to Kpop?

What does it
look like?
A brain?
A castle?
Are the walls pink-grey
or splattered with glitter?

How does it feel?
Do the folds vibrate?
Or is it my legs
which cannot hold still?

Detach my brain
from its stem.
This doesn’t hurt
at all;
you see, I’m
grateful,
so grateful,
for the reprieve.

Thousands of things
happen every
second
and my brain wants
to know all of them.

Next time you see me
in a restaurant,
lower your voice
or all your secrets
will go home
with me.

Cradle my brain
gently.
Is it heavy?
It should be.
It’s full of
secrets.

Smell it.
Lick it.
Hold it to your ear
like a conch shell–
Can you hear the ocean?
Oh, it’s singing a
90s commercial jingle on loop?
Sorry, it does that
sometimes.

Had enough?
Put my brain back.
Stitch me up.
Find me a wig.

Tell me everything!

My brain looks
like a normal brain?
Look once more.
There must be something
to fix;
I’m getting tired
of forgetting–
what were we talking about
again?

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ADHD & Writing III

In the first post of this series, I wrote about my history with ADHD. The second post was about how ADHD has affected my creative process.

This third post is going to be a little more serious, a little more personal. ADHD doesn’t only affect my creativity, it affects everything. It makes it hard to maintain relationships. I struggle to complete daily household chores and other errands. ADHD even affects my ability to hold down a job (fun fact: I was nearly fired twice from my last job for poor attendance).

Even making a simple phone call feels like a Herculean task some days. If I remember to make it at all.

Here’s another fun fact: I had no idea that ADHD could affect so many aspects of my life until last year. I always thought I was just lazy. Is it silly of me to resent my parents for not getting me support when I was a child? I can’t lie and say it doesn’t sting. Okay, so my dad didn’t want me to be medicated–fine. There were/are other therapies they could have pursued.

But as someone once said to me, I am the quintessential middle child. My older sister is 10.5 years older than I and was wild. My younger sister is autistic. I reckon my parents didn’t have a lot of time for me.

As ADHD is like an invasive species of ivy grasping at everything it can, it’s hard to parse how it’s had the biggest effect on me. I’ve given it a fair bit of thought, though, and I think I’ve come up with the answer.

How familiar are you with Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria? The people over at ADDitude describe it like this: “Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD) is extreme emotional sensitivity and pain triggered by the perception that a person has been rejected or criticized by important people in their life. It may also be triggered by a sense of falling short—failing to meet their own high standards or others’ expectations.”

When I first read up on RSD, so much of my life made sense. I often assume I annoy people with just my presence. I often hold a lot of myself back from fear of being rejected or misunderstood. I am very quick to anger if I perceive rejection. And I anticipate rejection everywhere.

All this has culminated into an isolated, lonely life, as I struggle to form and maintain friendships. It’s also meant a lot of false starts and dropped projects–if I’m not immediately successful at something, I ask myself, why bother?

That’s the point I’m at now. I had high hopes of being successful on this blog and my Patreon and being a published writer, but so far things aren’t going as I wanted them to, and I’m struggling with feelings of hopelessness and wanting to give up. It’s taken all my mental energy the last few days to not delete my blogs and social media accounts and slither back into obscurity.

Realistically, I know that would be a silly thing to do. I have had some success: I’ve landed a few editing gigs, I’m gaining traction on this blog, and I’ve had a few of my poems published already with more to come. But it doesn’t feel like enough for my ADHD brain to be satisfied.

I said once I don’t think I’d ever seek treatment because, at my age, I’m set in my ways and resistant to medication. But over the weeks of writing up these posts, I’ve started to think differently. I may seek out treatment, after all. I’m sick of feeling this way.

Third Time’s the Charm

Writers have to have thick skins. By putting ourselves out there, we risk the possibility of being told no. It’s easy to take such rejection personally–we put so much of ourselves into our writing that any rejection of it feels like a rejection of us.

But it’s not. Receiving a rejection doesn’t mean you’re a bad writer. It simply means your writing was not meant for that place, but there are hundreds and thousands of other places it may find a home in.

I have been rejected three times now. I won’t lie, it stings a little, but I try to keep in mind my own advice. I allow myself to be sad for five minutes (okay, maybe more like five hours), and then I try again.

And my perseverance has paid off. I am happy to announce I have just been accepted for the third time! My poem A Day in the Life of Henry VIII, which you can preview here, was accepted by The Copperfield Review and will appear in the Summer 2021 July edition.

As this is a poem I am most proud of, indeed, it may be one of the best poems I’ve ever written, I am beyond happy. And to think, I almost backed out of the query!

If you’re struggling, if you feel like your writing will never be published, if you’re considering giving up–this is your sign not to. Keep going. Keep fighting for your writing.

Your time will come.

ADHD & Writing II

In the first post of this series, I wrote a little of my history with ADHD and why I chose to write about my experience with it. Today, I’d like to write about how ADHD has affected my creativity.

Of course, ADHD isn’t the only thing to blame for my lack of progress in, well, anything. I also suffer from mental illnesses like depression and anxiety, which always seem to be at war with each other. Depression likes to tell me I’m not good enough of a writer to be successful, whereas anxiety is always harping at me that I’m not doing enough.

The “good” thing about mental illnesses is that they are cyclical. Some downs last longer than others, but the wheel always turns over eventually. ADHD, on the other hand, is constant. There are no ups and downs, especially not for people, like me, who are unmedicated. ADHD just is.

I’m in a really great place right now with my mental health, but even so, I’m struggling to remain focused and motivated because I still have to contend with ADHD.

I want to talk a little bit about what ADHD is–for me. ADHD, like most things, is a spectrum and we don’t all experience it the same way. ADHD is also fluid. When I was younger, I embodied the “hyperactivity” aspect of it. As an adult, much of that hyperactivity is gone, but that doesn’t mean my ADHD has gone. The hole hyperactivity left behind was filled with something else.

So often, I see people refer to ADHD as a “superpower.” Of course, this usually comes from neurotypical people who have no clue. Yes, my brain may be moving at the speed of light, but that doesn’t mean it lends itself to creative output. More often than not, it hinders it. My brain isn’t just thinking about art, it’s thinking about all the things, all the time.

This is typically where executive dysfunction kicks in the door like the Kool-Aid man. I have a long laundry list of things I’d like to accomplish every day. Cleaning, writing, errands, reading, phone calls, et cetera. Because of ADHD, I struggle to prioritize things, and because I can’t prioritize things, I can never choose something to focus on. So I wind up doing nothing.

And even when I am able to finally settle on something, ADHD still works against me. I get easily distracted and often lose my train of thought. Prime example: it’s taking me twice as long to write this post as it should because my cat has been noisily licking himself and my brain is choosing to focus on that instead.

Have I mentioned that sensory overload is a big component of ADHD? No? Well, I’m mentioning it now.

I also struggle to keep myself motivated throughout tasks. If my interest-based brain doesn’t see any real value in whatever task I’m doing, it quickly, well, loses interest. Even with writing, one of my greatest passions. The payout for writing seems so far out into the future, I often ask myself why I even bother.

But that could be depression talking again. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference; there tends to be a lot of overlap.