yo ví una estrella

i saw a shooting star today

I saw a shooting star on Monday, a small bit of recompense after dragging myself out of bed without getting too much vitriol from my brothers. It only lasted a second, a small blazing ball of fire quickly subdued by the overbearing darkness of the early morning. The clouds were the sole arbiter of what could give the Earth light, and the intruder into our atmosphere didn’t make the cut.

The trees continued balding on Tuesday, casting their severed clips onto the ground for us human barbers to rake up and discard. We were supposed to do yard work that day like Father had promised, but he’d forgotten, and I spent the day worrying about an essay due in Spanish.

I almost lost my mind on Wednesday since my government teacher spent half of class scrolling through Trump’s Twitter feed looking for things to complain about and excusing the actions of Antifa as being anything but terroristic and the other half whinging about the test on Friday.

My computer borked and almost got a virus on Thursday. Everything got cleaned up, and then some- I wasted two hours trying to repair my Sims 4 installation. I suppose it serves me right. It was always just ripe for throwing me into a trance, eradicating any will I might have had for writing or reading or doing anything responsible… anything… anything at all… and now I don’t know how to cope with the change.

And then Friday.

I’m not sure how I feel about Friday. The expectations are too high- it’s a school day, but you just don’t understand! It’s Friday! Something’s supposed to happen on Friday, something to vindicate the banality of the other four days of the week!

But nothing good’s really happened today. Nothing I could consider bad, either, except for this raging headache. It snowed, and it keeps snowing, and now white powder dusts the ground, clinging onto every single blade of grass for dear life.


It’s an unsettling texture for my eyes, and yet I’m strangely compelled to study it with all its sharp spiky edges. Edges that are mirrored in the trees after dusk, jagged black lines scraping an unforgiving navy blue sky.

The arctic wind rushes in, brutal and fierce, bringing along more snowflakes with it. The color drains out of the sky, the same grayscale shade that taunted me in my youth sticking ou its tongue at me now. And with it, the loneliness comes.

Sonder. The realization that the people around you are actually people with their own lives and motivations and experiences just like you, not just background actors in the grand story of your own life, and you will never truly be able to know every single person who has ever walked into your life.

Onism. Frustration at only being able to inhabit one body at one place at one time, always stuck in one neverending moment, senses always assaulted with the knowledge that there will be sensations and sights and places you will never experience that others will.

I stood in the road between my grandmother’s house and mine once with stolen mittens and a stretched-out scarf and turned my head to the nighttime sky, childish eyes unable to comprehend the sheer amount of stars screaming out in other parts of the universe that I may never be able to explore. I possessed a mind that refused to accept that some of the stars that I could see twinkling with my own eyes were long since dead, final funeral chords reverberating across the void of space and time.

I can write books about the gifted giving up what makes them themselves in order to be reunited with their loved ones until the end of time, but when push comes to shove, I’d take the opportunity to cheat time itself, to watch history unfold before my eyes. To laugh at the history books when their revisions come out, detailing the Great Meme War and the mess of today’s society. To visit all the nooks and crannies of all the lives of people I’ll never know. Cataloguing stories for ages, exploring the stars, transcending humanity.

Just so long as I don’t lose myself.


there is a point at which you should stop and reconsider, and there is a point slightly beyond that which you currently inhabit

It’s only seven in the morning, and I’ve already made myself upset.

Today is day two of a five-day break from school. I spent the large part of yesterday doing either one of three things:

  1. Playing a cracked copy of Sims 4 with all the DLC installed and taking care of a piddling little alien family while watching and wondering why all of the city’s vampires were killing themselves in protest in my front yard, (???)
  2. Agonizing about how I couldn’t get myself in the right mood to write, and
  3. Reading whatever was in my Now Reading shelf on my e-reader in order to try to get back into the creative mood.

Ah, the overflowing Now Reading shelf, perpetually at the 99 books mark (the shelf size limit on my current e-reader). It takes me back to the summer of 2014, when I’d just gotten my shiny new Moto X (which is currently serving as a backup phone while my current Note 3 reigns supreme) and didn’t know that maybe letting all my data sync to Google unfettered wasn’t such a good idea. It takes me back to countless nights spent scraping the free section of Play Books, wading through myriads of erotic fiction to find the few nuggets of comparable gold (you know, anything not filled with tentacles or underdressed men or anything of the sort) and sending each and every single one to my account’s library.

And then came the first Googlepocalypse of May 2015 where I scrambled to export every single book offline and into a neatly compiled Calibre library. Give another year, rinse, and repeat in the second Googlepocalypse of August 2016.

The result: a library filled with poorly-written self-published works that were most likely once-and-dones. Never having seen a single consideration of an editor or a decent cover artist or even a single revision, these disgusting greatures crawled their way out of the recesses of my library with their stinking claws, begging to be put out of their mercy and forever expelled from the Now Reading shelf.

I’m not kidding. The horrors you are about to witness gave me stage 4 terminal cancer. So strap on your seatbelt, prepare your bleach (or whatever tired adage you want to use), and let’s begin.

I… I don’t even know what’s going on here. This is supposed to be a series about a city that never gets the sun? But there’s a tiger on the cover that’s afflicted with the rainbow outline filter from Windows Movie Maker? And some generic blue wavy background? I’m confused.

Yes, artistic covers are quite pleasing for books to have, and a well-designed cover can lure leery and prospective readers in. But a cover should have something to do with the story: for example, in my first book series The Phobia Interim (no, I still haven’t gotten around to revising Me Before You; I’m stuck in The Duality of Mankind hell) the covers are simple: a white background with an item of significance (the gun that killed Samhain; Anders’ heart, one of Nox’s feathers) and a red bloodstain letter pertaining to one of the characters affected by Bes’ ascension to power. The covers are (at least in my opinion) pleasing to look at. At the very least, they don’t brutally rape my eyes.

Take a shot for every single amateur writer trope you see on this cover:

  1. Listing the full series title and number on the cover in a confounding fashion. Just by looking at this cover, I’m not sure what the title is: Tale Of Two Worlds? The Wizard, The Battle Mace, and The Werewolf? (Ignore the fact that I can’t even read that particular snippet for now: that’ll be point four.) Is “Tale Of Two Worlds” a subseries? If that’s the case- if your series is so convoluted as to require subseries, then maybe you should rethink your plot structure and rework it to make it a little less frustrating to a prospective reader.
  2. Spoofing the lion/witch/wardrobe title. I violated this crime in the past with a horribly-written book on my dad’s old school-issued Macbook while writing about some generic boy named Sylvan and some fairy named Holly. But then again, I was only nine or so, and it never happened again. I see this mistake a lot for the bottom-barrel amateur writing: they think their book is going to become a classic, so they attach themselves to classic book titles, thinking that the name recognition (“Oh! I remember reading that book in high school!”) will be enough to entice readers. Hint: it’s really not. It just screams out “amateur”.
  3. A sharp, uncomfortable contrast between the graphics of the foreground and the background. See, the covers of The Phobia Interim worked despite the background being blank because the foreground matched- a few strokes of the pen to form a simple image. There was an established “hand-drawn” aesthetic. Contrast that with this cover- the background is blank, but the graphics look like they were pulled from some website, passed through an outline filter, and then stretched until the pixels started popping and haphazardly pasted.
  4. The text is some generic genre font with “edgy” colors inconsistently stretched as to make the text almost illegible. A reader shouldn’t have to strain to read the title of your book. That’s just pure torture.

I… I think the title is Sisters? I can’t tell, because there are all these cliché vaguely-bad words scattered in front. And here we go with the fonts again- I can’t even read half of these litle stamps of whatever synonyms the author could find for “bad”. Besides that, there’s really nothing interesting about this cover that would make me want to read it. There are sisters? And some vague sense of dread? And that’s all we know.

And while we’re here, I want to talk about the real reason why I hit the “write” button on WordPress this morning. The 140-or-so-page book that I just deleted from my library.

I despise this book. Not just for the boring, tired tropes that plague its pages- I mean, seriously? Oh, look, it’s a teenage girl who has daddy issues and hates her mom. Oh, look, she’s got a boyfriend who’s the only one in the world who understands her. Oh, look, she turned into a vampire! And there’s a secret coven who hates her! And there’s a mysterious man…

I fell asleep two-thirds of the way into the book. I didn’t finish it. It wasn’t worth my time, and I’m not sure if that’s because of some innate bias against vampire YA books or if I’m just angry that I wasted so much time on it. You are what you eat, and you are what you read, and I’m now ten IQ points lower from having to experience this festering pile of poo.

And while we’re still critiquing covers, I’m seeing a load of clichés that could have been avoided. We get it, it’s a vampire book. We get it, the main character is angry. We get it, you desperately want to be dark and edgy. My tired eyes are already sliding shut.

It’s the same tired crap over and over and over and I’m tired of it, and unfortunately it’s working, because apparently Morgan Rice is a bestselling author. If you’re reading this, stick to the fantasy genre, please. Your books in that area are far better. Don’t ruin yourself like this.

Am I scraping the absolute bottom of the bucket? Yeah, sure, whatever. But I continually got these books in my recommended bar until I ditched Google services and turned to superior ways of gathering free books, like eBook Bike (formerly Tuebl) and the DRM-stripping method for Overdrive books (which I will detail in a future post). And even then, the entire site was plagued with self-published once-and-dones, most of them erotic.

A wise man once said that everyone has at least one novel inside of them. Everyone has some unique experience to share, but more often than not, all these weird and wonderful ideas are thrown aside in order to chase trends and readers. Books are supposed to be art, not commercial products, and they should be treated as such.

The problem is that the self-published community is being flooded with this kind of crap on a daily basis. The focus isn’t on telling engaging stories to captivate readers, or to make them cry or laugh or contemplate whatever issue the book is contered around. It’s on pushing out as much crap as possible to line a portfolio or a Goodreads page: “Hey, look at me! I’ve written seven books! Never mind that, with the basest amount of effort, I could have compressed this all into one book and saved you the thirty dollars it took to buy the entire series!” (Because, you know, Google Play extracts a tiny amount of sales tax with each purchase. More purchases equal more money wasted in taxes that could have been spent on something else.)

It’s amateurs who flunked English class who see authors like John Green and Cassandra Clare (despite how much I despise both of these examples, but that’s a story for another time) succeed in the young adult genre and want a slice of the profit pie without doing any of the work. It’s amateurs who see a trend like the rise of vampire fiction a few years ago or the dystopian societies that are all the rage right now and half-ass an entry to sweep up a few extra dollars.

Look, I appreciate free books. I appreciate authors who make the first book of their series free so that those of us who don’t have unlimited money to take chances with can at least have something. And I have massive respect for those who make all their books free, whether it be for ideological reasons or because they don’t want to have to deal with bank accounts and money transfers. (Hint: I’m both of these.) But there’s a point where you have to step back and ask yourself: is this worth publishing? Is this worth sending out to the world for unknown strangers to read?

I understand that no prospective author starts off serviceable. Everyone is an idiot at the beginning. But there’s going to be an interim between when you start off practicing and when you become serviceable: for me, that interim started out with a fifth-grade short story called High in the Sky that was four pages long and ended with an eighth-grade diary called In Case Of Emergency that I hopes burns in the pits of literary hell forever. The only way I’ll ever release those works are if they’re in a “from the archives” critique. It’s incredibly helpful to see how much you’ve improved.

I’m no gatekeeper. I’m not telling you to stay out of self-publishing if your English is less than stellar. But, god, at least try! And it’s okay if you don’t publish a work if you don’t think it’s up to par!

the great divide

great divide

what is the purpose of planning into the lonely hours
and building up an impenetrable fortress
secure without a shadow of a doubt
if nobody will come and join me?

creating the great divide between you and I
since I hold not a camera but a hand in front of my face
constantly begging, pleading, with you not to record me
and make my everyday mistakes the entertainment of your friends

but then again, these self-made systems don’t exactly lend themselves to discovery
and all good things require some effort to get
but worth is subjective
and the masses won’t care until it’s too late

and what a paradox it is
that I should embark on such an ambitious voyage as the search for privacy
and yet sprinkle all the most intimate details of myself
among so many books
invisible to the reader, hiding in plain sight

but I guess we’re all hypocritical in the end

dispatches from nowhere


The last few weeks have been an absolute mess, and I suppose I owe an explanation.

My basement flooded a week and a half ago. The sky cried itself to sleep and made the sump pump in the lowest level of my house fail, causing unknown structural damage and destroying a great deal of personal possessions. Lots of mementos of my childhood are just gone. All the video game systems in my house either have their power cords destroyed, their controllers either outright broken or out of whack, or don’t have the correct output cords to be compatible with the TV in the first basement, which is where my room is. I’ve essentially become a refugee to whatever emulators I can get running on my computer, which, seeing as Windows has apparently decided to actively work against me whenever I boot into it to play games, really isn’t that fun of an experience.

Except for last Saturday, a birthday party for several members of my family. Getting my rear end handed to me while playing several bootlegs of Wii games that took half of the day to download was pretty… interesting.

The Duality of Mankind, my next book, is now a third of the way done through the first draft. I’ve had to restart writing on it four times- first, two teenagers trawling their way through high school and the death of one of the main character’s family members; second, some sort of pseudo-anarchist utopia with a kid who fell form the sky; a third rewrite I won’t mention that only got half a paragraph before I gave up; and now the fourth attempt, which I’ve almost completely plotted.

And what has become of me?

I’m not quite sure. Halloween has become a balance of trying not to embarrass myself by dressing up as someone I’m not physically fit enough to be and not sucking up to anyone else by being so generic as to be unmockable and unremarkable. I remember almost half a decade ago wandering in my neighborhood with only a glowstick to illuminate my way, trampling among high hills and valleys with my cousins and brothers, a plastic pumpkin bucket swinging from my arm. The neighborhood was friendlier back then. Adults were a lot less terrifying, and checking over every piece of candy was just a stupid rule that could just be circumvented by stuffing your face full of chocolate while in the back of your van on the way home.

But then the family scattered across the state, and we stopped waiting for the sun to leave, and we started waiting for parents to chaperone us instead. And eventually I stopped going out at all, waiting for a friend’s invite that never came.

I’m not so sure that I want to be here anymore, but wanderlust isn’t so useful when you’re not even sure where “here” is.

There are so many responsibilities that I’ve been neglecting, and I know that this is one of them. I’m coming back. I promise.

a garden in the corner of a gym

the presiding queen rules over her patch of concrete
wishing that she had a kingdom to rule instead
but her knees and shoulders have betrayed her too many times
so this atch is where she shall stay

a coercive building made of an ancestor’s malice
children twisting and contorting their bodies in impossible ways
only the finest grade of meat for a woman ironically behind a desk
only the saltiest tears for her mug of stone

all bow down at the command of a robotic voice
programmed to lull the class into a false sleep
bend, extend, repeat
rear ends in the air, youthful limbs ready for inspection

no recourse for a rainy day
a door to freedom bolted shut and locked
maybe if we lift these weights enough
we will lift ourselves to heaven