a p r i l
new life, presumed dead, reaches back up through the underbrush and reignites a love for life, slowly, surely.
it’s officially seed-starting season, for those of us trying desperately to grow a garden again, and this has put me in the mood to view the rest of my life in a similar fashion. i’m planting better habits, daydreams that will pan out into longform writing, art that will hopefully last me through next winter. what seeds are you planting right now?
april 7th is the last day to purchase a copy of issue the sixth of wyrd & wyse before the magazine closes forever. this issue features my piece, “in which i walk into the woods and do not return”, and is a gorgeous compendium of literature, art, and magic.
for my friends with little ones, please join me at the spiral bookcase on april 5th for a free-to-attend storytime! these are held on the first wednesday of the month, and are a great way to get out of the house w/the promise of free entertainment.
this is the time in which i start emailing indie bookstores asking them (very kindly) to carry my book. if you know a bookseller who might be interested, please send them my way!
i’m going to be starting a once-a-week livestream in which i sit down and write over instagram live, to give my fellow writers a virtual space in which to hang out and work on current projects. look for the official announcement on my instagram soon!
things i loved this month
summer sons by lee mandelo, which feels like it was written for fans of maggie steifvater’s the dream thieves, who grew up with the raven cycle books as a teenager and are now adults looking for something just a little darker and grittier, but with that similar, “strange things in the midst of an ordinary landscape” vibe. i loved every minute of this book!
where darkness blooms by andrea hannah, a recent YA supernatural thriller release that plays on regional folklore, has some of the best YA queer women rep that i’ve seen lately, and includes eerie sunflowers that watch the town as part of the plot — everything i could’ve asked for!
the spellbook of fruit and flowers by christine butterworth mcdermott — absolutely gorgeous poetry that uses the symbolism of the natural world to connect reality and folklore in stunning, lyrical fashion that hits hard and close to home in the best way.
these spiral bookcase tote bags! i had nothing to do with the ordering or design process here, so i can say without bias that this is my favorite tote bag that i’ve ever owned. very sturdy canvas, with the extra fabric at the bottom that makes it ideal for carrying books. after some trial and error, i’ve found that they are surprisingly rain resistant as well!
ex umbra, a perfume from sugar & spite, which is everything i’ve been looking for and finally stumbled upon entirely by accident. the notes are “ethereal pale musk, white amber, a trio of blanched woods, white pepper, lotus, tiny, delicate slivers of raw coconut”, and it’s just the right balance between dark and light scents.
is there a place you return to often in your dreams? can you describe it?
email me with your poems, your prose, etc and let me know your thoughts!
the spiral bookcase will also be doing the usual array of events for indie bookstore day, which will include typewriter poetry by yours truly. join me there! indie bookstore day is saturday, 4.29.23.
to rule the desert is currently available for preorder through the spiral bookcase, & though i won’t disclose exactly what the surprise is, there will be fun goodies included in all of the preorders!
after meeting emily st. john mandel at the free library and subsequently spending many evenings parsing out some of the nastier snarls in my vast array of novel ideas, i have officially begun work on my first full-length fiction endeavor. i’m sure this will be in the works for a long time, but i do love to talk about my process.
the groundwork for knitting the red blanket, the sister chap to peeling the yellow wallpaper, is almost done! i’ll be starting to do the layout for that soon, although i’ll definitely want to give to rule the desert some breathing room after its release.
a poem to leave you with:
come home; i’ll be
waiting for you, oh
rotted haunt of this
shallow grave. noon burns
through your skin like a
sun-bathed, and neither
of us can reach the
eaves to cover the
gaping wounds. noon burns
your throat as you cough
curses, full of dirt, and
even i have forgotten
the melancholy cadence
of your heart
in my fingers as the vicious
sun settles behind us
and we dig
into the furrowed
and fall predictable
victim to the secrets
we left buried
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