I am fixated on the last images of Lèvres de sang – a French film from 1975. A desolate windswept beach, dawn approaching. Two immortal lovers climb into a shared coffin, close the lid, and drift out to sea.

These are the kinds of stories I love. I find more romance in fantastique films and 19th century poetry than most other places right now.

I was born in the wrong century.

I realize that. My idea of coping mechanisms are; unironically wearing a robe, drinking excellent absinthe (it’s Pernod or nothing) and reading the 1818 edition of Frankenstein.

I am the anachronistic poster girl for 19th century artistic suffering and while I realize how ridiculous that sounds—I struggle to conceive of how it could be worse than what everyone around me does.

Phones. Netflix. Lawn-care. Crossfit. Microbrews.

We all pick something, don’t we? I just choose the most insufferable crutches, and I’m well aware of it. I own too many vintage robes, and listen to French jazz. I watch old poetic vampire films for the pure joy of aesthetic. I live paycheck to paycheck but insist on being buried in Prada lipstick and pearls.

You can’t take anything too seriously. That’s what I’ve learned. Life is a roulette wheel of misfortunes with the occasional, fleeting, elusive bright spot of joy.

We all lose in the end so we might as well enjoy the ride.

The real beauty of it all, is that we get to pick our poison. So no, I may not know who won the football game. But I did ache when I read Baudelaire’s love and hatred for his muse. I did tear up during J’accuse when the poet lost his soul. When Joan of Arc chose the flame.

My poison happens to be pretentious as hell. But it somehow feels more honest.

I am here. I feel. I am alive.

I am aware that society is unfathomable and insane. That we are the only species on this planet that enforce misery on ourselves over something so imaginary as the concept of ‘hustle.’ Let me have my drama, my poetry, my ache.

We’re all dying, and we only get this dream once. Is it so wrong to want it to be beautiful?

All melodrama aside, as summer winds down and I start hearing the whispers of autumn approach, I’ve got a few writing updates:

I’ve (finally) finished revisions on the third draft of The Last Dawn and am preparing myself to head back into the query trenches. I swear I’m not anxious about it at all.

However, I have to shout out Blake Curran (nouncertaintomes.com) for all of his help. Working with him has been an absolute necessity for me during this process. Thanks to his insightful, and meticulous critique, I completely reconstructed my novel. It is now deeper, bloodier, and more brutal – and at last, cuts just right.

Blake is a wonderful human (see also: possible Australian demon) and he’s been incredibly supportive throughout my many spirals. I really couldn’t have pushed myself so hard without his steadfast encouragement. Hats off to the editors, because without them we writers would simply be melodramatic nonsense puddles that use too many commas.

Also, my horror story; This is My Body is going to be published in September, but I’ll do a full post on that later. It’s an uncomfortable little story but if you like that sort of thing, I can’t wait to share.

I’ve also recently joined the Horror Writers Association, and it’s been exciting to become a part of that community. Also maybe a little overwhelming, but I am navigating.

In less serious news I’ve begun working on a meta-comedy novella, which may never see the light of day, but it has really been helping me laugh at myself. I will not further embarrass myself with the logline here, because I have been told repeatedly, I am not actually funny.

Back to the trenches I go—SMH

Currently reading:

Don’t Let the Forest In by CG Drews

Beautiful and visceral in all the right ways. Truly haunting, and the interwoven fairytale prose cut straight to my heart.

Frankenstein: The 1818 Text by Mary Shelley

Reading this makes me weep. For obvious reasons.

Carmilla by J. Sheridan Le Fanu 

Indulgent, gothic, atmospheric, sapphic, classic. What’s not to love?

The Devils by Joe Abercrombie

Absolute powerhouse. This man. How dare he be this good. How dare he just reappear and drop this blood-soaked joyride? How. Dare. He.

Also there is a crazy beautiful UK edtion of this that makes me angry to be American.

Exquisite Corpse by Poppy Z. Brite

Not my first time reading, will not be my last. This novel holds a very special place on my shelf as perhaps the most disturbing book I own. Not for the faint of heart or stomach, painfully indulgent and hyper-sexual, but still legendary in its audacity.

Zombie by Joyce Carol Oates

Again, an old favorite. This book… fundamentally changed me. And explains a lot about my writing. Highly disturbing, but what I find iconic is the narrative style and voicing. So chunky, stuttered, and painful to read. I love it.

Letters to Milena by Franz Kafka

I cannot describe how this book makes me ache. This is romance, I will accept nothing less.