Life is hard.

We all know this, but the difference between knowing that being punched in the face hurts and spitting out your teeth after getting clocked is significant. A long time ago in some long-forgotten AskReddit thread, I read about how sad it was to see blogs that start out pounding out content only to wither and die as the years go on, until, at some point, there’s a final post. It really is, and it’s even sadder when the last post doesn’t acknowledge it’s own finality; as though the author died in some unfortunate accident and, like Fry’s dog, the blog is waiting, patiently, quietly wondering what the next update will be, not knowing it will never come. The blog dwindles then, until the only comments come from bots; the only views from Google’s robots.

Read More Giving It All Away



From "A Conversation with Terry Pratchett", http://www.writerswrite.com/journal/apr00/a-conversation-with-terry-pratchett-4001
From “A Conversation with Terry Pratchett”, http://www.writerswrite.com/journal/apr00/a-conversation-with-terry-pratchett-4001

I picked up my paper and was just about finished reading it when my Sense of Humour asked:

“Who’s that in the picture up there?”

I put down the paper I was reading. “You know damn well who that is.”

“There’s something about the hat, but loads of people wear hats.”

“I assure you, you know him. I’ve read almost half his books. Liked most of them, too.”

“Saying you liked “most” of them is a bit of a backhanded compliment, y’know.”

“Unless you’ve written dozens, like he had.”


“Almost a hundred. Maybe more.”

“Cor, over a hundred? And you’ve barely done one!”

Read More The One They Call Terry



I had to look up whether it was more appropriate to write “an useful” or “a useful”, and while the purist in me wants to write “An Useful” (which sounds wrong even in my head) the consensus (on the Internet; mind) was that it’s “a useful”. The consonant sound, as here: yoos-ful, trumps the “an before vowel” rule, but if this was the vowel sound, as in “umbrella”, then we’d be laughing.


The perceptive among you might have realized that my last update was two weeks prior; quite the break for someone who (paraphrasing myself) wanted to write daily. But alas and alack, and the urgencies of my life grow ever more urgent. Between work and school and schoolwork, I hardly have time to swipe around on Tinder, much less write.

Read More A Useful Update

Great 52 Club


And so my song continues. Week 8: Selected Poems, Seán Ó Ríordáin.

Writing critically about poetry is a doomed effort. By that, I don’t grant anyone license to shirk their responsibilities and be (gasp!) critically intemperate. Rather, there’s no way to talk about poetry that doesn’t end up becoming a stream of words that are absolutely inimical to appreciating the thing being examined. The closest example I can think of would be to cut up a painting into thousands of pieces and then laying them end-to-end to try and recreate the original. Poetry is one of those things that suffers from over-examination, like pictures of yourself from high school or the nutritional qualities of a Chipotle burrito. A good poem (whatever that is) stands on its own, its qualities apparent, while a bad poem gets tossed in the garbage, where it can stink quietly, out of sight.

Read More Poems and Progenitors


Some period-accurate vikings by the incomparable Angus McBride; we miss you dearly


I may be slow, but I try not to abandon things! Here’s your recap: Sayrid, our erstwhile heroine, just lost the duel for her hand to Hrolf, who declared that they would be wed immediately. Sayrid refuses to give up the life of a Shield Maiden, while Hrolf just wants her vast tracts of land…or does he?

So with that, let’s fire up the Blue-eyes counter (sitting at 5 and raring to go!), turn off our literary brains, and prepare for the wedding night to end all wedding nights! I really hope the sex is decent or else I’m hyping for nothing.

Read More Bad Romance Part 4: B-b-b-bad Indeed

Bad Romance

As I write more and more, I like to think I’ve begun developing a mastery of the craft. While the art still mostly eludes me1, I’ve achieved a reasonable mastery of the actual putting down of letters. This is about as worthy of celebration as constructing a sand castle or successfully using a spoon, but fair’s fair, and if you made Versailles out of sand, I’d be impressed. So maybe I’m only good at digging linguistic holes, but by God they’ll be damn good holes.

I’m reading some cantankerous dead German fellow, and he has something excellent to say about this:

The German language, however, is a companion who will think and make poetry only for the man who can give her children.2

Read More A Brief Note On Punctuation