Of all the things I’ve been neglecting lately and pushing back to the deepest, darkest corner of my mind, I think my writing has collected the most dust. I’m not just referring to blogging – though that has started to gather some cobwebs – but rather, to what allows me to call myself a writer.
When I first published Puppet Parade in 2012, I was determined to release at least one book a year. More than two years have passed since then and I have yet to make a dent in that resolution. It’s not that I don’t have ideas or works-in-progress, as it happens I have one completed first draft and two novels in the making… and about a dozen ideas for future novels. The problem is that I lack time. Continue reading “A Writer Who Doesn’t Write.”→
You’d heard your coworkers gossiping about it at lunch break, apparently something’s happened down at the old manor next to the graveyard. You’ve seen that manor before, it always gave you the creeps, but at the same time you wished you could go exploring. Your significant other never seemed interested, and your friends always liked to do something a bit more “light-hearted”, so all you ever did was stand before the wrought iron gates and wonder what was hidden behind those boarded up windows.
“Linda told me she heard voices.”
“Yeah. Apparently someone was making a lot of ruckus last night. Of course she didn’t stop to investigate, she’d have to be out of her mind to do that. Personally I think something’s fishy’s going on. That house is creepy, but there’s never been any voices!”
Do you 2) ignore what they say, or 3) decide to go to the house?
(This is in response to the Weekly Writing Challenge. I thought I’d have a little fun with it. Make sure to click the number that corresponds to your choice!)
The old man sits there, all tweed and spectacles and proper. He has a musty smell about him and a papery quality to his skin; he looks like he might tear if you manhandle him. He rubs his arm, upsetting his smoking jacket, revealing words tattooed across his forearm just under the sleeve. He looks at the youngster across from him, and a crinkly smile touches his lips.
The youngster, in turn, regards him coolly and with a little bit of disdain. With his immaculate black suit, his smooth skin, his modern, metallic scent, he feels far superior. He too has tattoos, a series of binary numbers visible just above the stiff neck of his dress shirt. Continue reading “It all comes down to the story.”→
Growing up in a family that loves to take pictures, you learn how to avoid all the camera flashes and take cover as soon as someone whips out their camera. I have albums filled with baby pictures, and I enjoy flipping through them, pushing my cuteness under my mother’s nose and learning the story behind each one.However, these pictures gradually became less frequent as I grew older until they stopped altogether with the occasional obligatory passport photos or graduation pics.
You’re always cute as a baby, but when you’re older, there is a great chance your pictures might turn out bad. Another great thing about baby pictures is that they’re never forced, which is more than I can for family portraits.
For something different today, I’ve decided to talk about my country – the little place called Lebanon located in the Middle East on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea. It’s pretty obscure, and more often than not, when I tell people I’m Lebanese they backtrack and say, “You’re a lesbian?”, upon which I have to pull out a map and show them where Lebanon is.
Travel brochures will tell you that Lebanon is the Paris of the Middle East, but I’m about to give you the nitty-gritty version, complete with our crazy drivers, famous foods and ridiculous expressions.
I see her prowling the aisles, trying to decide what her pick of the day. She comes in here three or four times a week for a sugar fix, usually after she returns from her job. She looks tired, but her eyes gleam as they run over the shiny wrappers. She takes her sweet time deciding what to buy. You can almost see her calculating and weighing the options in her head.
“Pick me! Look at me!”
“No, pick me! I’m nougat and caramel and peanuts!”
“Pft. Who likes peanuts? She wants walnuts and raisins!”
“Oh, you guys, you know she wants a piece of lil’ white me.”
“Oh shut up. Everyone knows white chocolate isn’t really chocolate.”*