The night mocks me.

The night mocks me. Do you
see it turning? Stars moving
across the sky, the moon at
the lead, all racing to hide
behind the horizon. They can
escape this when it’s done,
and then start anew.

A puff of air escapes my teeth.

They seem like a cowardly lot.
Always chasing the end
of the day or night, never
facing each other. I can’t
imagine why anyone
would pray to them.
They’re so inconstant.

A squinting voice. But they always
come back. Some people
might find comfort in that.

A palm cups my mouth. I
speak through fingers.

Stupid sky, stupid stars.
They watch us shrivel
into dust, thinking they’re
eternal. But I’ve seen stars
fall from the night, breaking
apart before they can ever
touch us. They’re not eternal.
And they die for nothing,
just like us.

A shadow closes my eyes.

I am not some people. See how
the night mocks me.

A squinting voice. Yes.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

You can take back your cloak.

You can take back your cloak. It
is too big for me, and I don’t
like the way it smells.

No, it’s not you. Not your
smell. You smell like ash and
returning and sweat that beads
in the heat of a nightmare.
Your cloak smells like
the bottom of a pond, where
the fish sleep among dead,
curled fingers.

It was kind of you to lend
it to me. Your cloak.
It was warm but not too warm;
it felt like you. But it is
too loose around my shoulders, and
in that way it reminds me.
Of you, that is. And thinking back is cold,
far too cold.

You can take back your cloak. It
was never mine, but I suppose I
was never yours, was I?

© 2016 Stellular Scribe



Music Mondays: Part X

Spring is a month of transition. If you blink, you might miss it. It only takes a few seconds for a bud to blossom, only a moment for an egg to hatch. It’s dead and cold and then it’s alive.

In a way, spring doesn’t happen unless you catch it.

With these two playlists, I hope you catch it. That moment of clarity, when what you write becomes more than what you say; it becomes what you mean.

I would argue that life is most
rife when all is still, because
quiet itself can be such a thrill —
take that moment when your
heartbeat skips, or in the
shuddering seconds of
a passing eclipse, like when
a forgotten dream settles
in splendidly and you’re
left suspended
in serenity.

Oh Rose, will you wake from your slumber?
Oh Rose, will you climb from the dirt?
There are shadows approaching;
they darken the sun —
Oh Rose, find your root, take the world.

Here’s to spring! Happy writing. 🙂

Writing: Architects and Gardeners

 I think there are two types of writers, the architects and the gardeners.

planting panel 1.png

The architects plan everything ahead of time, like an architect building a house. They know how many rooms are going to be in the house, what kind of roof they’re going to have, where the wires are going to run, what kind of plumbing there’s going to be. They have the whole thing designed and blueprinted out before they even nail the first board up.

planting panel 2.png

The gardeners dig a hole, drop in a seed and water it. They kind of know what seed it is, they know if planted a fantasy seed or mystery seed or whatever. But as the plant comes up and they water it, they don’t know how many branches it’s going to have, they find out as it grows.


And I’m much more a gardener than an architect.


~ George R.R. Martin


Illustrations by © 2016 Stellular Scribe
If you’re interested in my illustrations; get these designs on a t-shirt or as stickers at Redbubble! Thanks. 🙂

Music Mondays: Part IX

Just as important as establishing voice is setting up the atmosphere that you want to immerse your readers in. Tone, or the author’s attitude reflected in the writing, and mood, or the feelings the reader experiences, are often tell-tale signs of strong writing when pulled off successfully. So how do you, the writer, translate something as abstract as “atmosphere” into a piece of writing for your reader?

The answer: immerse yourself first.

Of course, the art of immersing can be accomplished in many ways, but today I have two music playlists that are chock full of dreamy drones, ambient tunes, and blissful background melodies to lose yourself in.

For razor winds, frost-bitten noses, warm bowls of stew, and bristling pines. This mix is an atmospheric gold mine of faraway instrumentals that will transport you to the peak of a sleepy mountain.

For dried flower petals, strong coffee, airy breezes, and old books. This classical guitar mix is perfect for sitting in a sunny patch and putting pen to page to conjure up sweet, summery stories.

As always, if anyone is interested in these playlists and wants to know the full track list, leave a comment and I’ll let you know.

Happy writing! 🙂


From Ophelia, To Laertes


There’s a willow in the wood. Dafty, you say, ‘course there’s willows in the wood. But this one’s different. This one’s tall, like a great, wrinkled man, like an old man, old as the savage sky, but he’s not afraid of what the other trees say about him. They whisper and they shake at him, but he grows tall and gentle.

No, that wasn’t a diversion. That has lots to do with what I’m to say. Willow, willow, willow wonder, through the thunder, going under, torn asunder…Ha! That rhymes, that.

Wait. Don’t go. I miss you, dear, dear brother. I wonder when you’re to return from Rome. No…Portugal? I didn’t forget. I’m just diverting. France. That’s where you are.

Mess! It’s all a mess! I won’t tell you. Not until you return. It’s bile at my feet, entrails on the tabletop, sickness in the brain. I am being crude. Forgive me. That was very crude. But this bitty city is terribly gritty…see, I’ve grown witty. Lord, have pity.

Why do I write? Besides the willow in the wood. To give advice, sweet brother. To hold your hand through the page, to hear your voice against the ink. Mad, that. Hear a voice, against ink? Ink is dead, just like our father. But I’ve given it away.

My proposal, my tidings — to get away. Further than France. France is too close; I can almost smell it. Go to Moorish lands, to salt and wind and spotted fish, to sea and sail and blustering gale. Don’t come back. Don’t think of me. This place is too rotten. I have festered along with it.

But the willow — ah, I have that.

— Ophelia

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

How Writing Poetry Has Helped My Fiction

If you pop by my blog often, you might notice that I write a lot of poetry in my spare time. Like, a lot. I think the current count is at well over one hundred poems in just this past year. Lord, whatever you do, do not go back and look at the early stuff. I was fifteen and angsty and I don’t want to talk about it.

With this is mind, it might also surprise you to know that poetry really isn’t my forte. I spend many more hours of the night writing novels, elaborate stories, and all sorts of whimsical fictions.

I picked up poetry by accident.

I’ve been working on my current novel for about a year and a half now (slow and steady wins the race — right?), and about mid-way through it I got to a scene where my main character was supposed to overhear a stranger sing a song that he recognized.

I did the only thing I could do, and whipped out the ol’ rhyming dictionary.

Oh, it was garbage (I can say that now), but something about that shambled-together, trite, melodramatic song opened my eyes to the potential of poetry. That song added an entirely new, visceral dimension to my story: atmosphere, fluidity, voice, movement.

My writing as a whole felt strengthened, so I made it a habit of jotting down poems everyday. As I became more comfortable, I experimented with more forms, styles, and meters. I abandoned a rhyme scheme; I rhymed religiously. I did away with punctuation and capitalization; I carefully molded each section of each sentence.

I know that to some people, poetry can seem scary. It feels like an entirely foreign, much more formidable beast than pure prose.

But I’m here to tell you that poetry really isn’t that different, and writing a little on the side might even help your fiction.

1. Capturing distinct sensations and imagery.

Poetry can be written for many different reasons — but it almost always seeks to convey some sort of image, be it concrete or abstract. Fiction in and of itself is the consolidation of diverse images to create a storyline.

The more poetry I write, the easier I find it to procure similes and metaphors to illustrate objects, meanings, and sensations. The more poetry I write, the more readily I reach into synecdoche, metonymy, and onomatopoeia to personify and paint scenes.

Poetry forces you to discover sharper, more powerful images. In fact, there was an entire movement in the early 2oth century where “imagists” considered the image to be the most important aspect of the written language. William Carlos Williams was well know for his simplistic yet highly evocative poetry. For example, here’s his 1923 poem, “The Red Wheelbarrow.”

so much depends

a red wheel

glazed with rain

beside the white

Now, take away the stanza structure and add some punctuation, and you’ve got a beautiful sentence that could strike color into any prose: “So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow, glazed with rainwater beside the white chickens.”



2. Perfecting pacing. 

Whether you’re writing free verse or a meticulously metered sonnet, poetry is all about pacing. Every choice must be deliberate yet effortless — not too short, not too long, avoid superfluous words, and use just the right amount of description to get your image across.

When I write stories, I often have difficulty managing the pacing. Sometimes I’ll get so wrapped up in a plotline or a particular paragraph of characterization that the end result will be either too long, too dull, or too disjointed.

Poetry has taught me to let my writing breathe. Every word must have a purpose and serve to move the story forward.



3. Balancing different emotions. 

I surprised myself with this one — I thought that I had my characters all figured out. I thought that they were well represented as emotionally complex individuals. I thought I was something special for creating such substantial individuals.

Yeah…then I started writing more poetry, and realized just how flat they actually fell.

I wrote poems — lots of small, un-extraordinary poems — that forced me to tap into emotions that I had never considered before. I truly experienced my characters through their eyes, and I delved into dark, unfathomable parts of their hearts and bright, mysterious places alike.

To give an example, here is a poem called “Wrecked” that I wrote over a year and a half ago:

They left me folded in sheets
of sand — wrapped in molding bandages
on the bed of the shore, with the surf
licking my frozen toes.
The gull who weeps for his friends
long dead is much like me — a nomad
with no name and no clan;
a roamer rejected by rose-ravished
words. Here I waste away,
repeatedly bitten by the wind’s sharpened
teeth — left to rot.

I discovered something intensely hopeless about the character this poem was written about. Something savage and vain, yet somehow wistful.

After this poem, I wrote that character anew — and for the better.



4. Writing with the natural rhythm of speech. 

Rhythm is separate from pacing in that it deals with the fluidity, eloquence, and overall cadence of a piece of writing. In poetry, some semblance of rhythm is almost unavoidable. The same should be said for fiction and other forms of prose.

While you shouldn’t always write “how you talk”, you should always write with the rhythm of speech in mind. What I love about poetry is that it is intended to be read aloud, and therefore must have a certain “flow” about it that cooperates with the voice.

Simply put, the more poetry you write, the more fluently you will consider the world around you and your subject matter at hand. You’ll find your own unique rhythm!



5. Committing. 

Maybe this is just me, but poetry actually inspired me to write more prose.

I got on a schedule of writing poetry, becoming overcome by a deep impulse to translate my newly realized emotions, sensations, and images into fiction, and buckling down to work on a story.

I’m by no means a poetry connoisseur. I’m also nowhere near being a fully functioning, organized member of society.

But somehow, poetry made me commit. And I will forever be grateful because of it.

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So, what are your thoughts? Do you write poetry? Fiction? Do you find any meaningful connection between the two forms?

Thanks, and happy writing! 🙂

© 2016 Stellular Scribe