Rebecca Jones-Howe's Blog

There’s a new Charli XCX album coming this summer. I’ve loved Charli since her debut album, but everything she’s put out since how i’m feeling now has spoken to me. It’s pure hyper-pop that I usually listen to with headphones in because my family thinks it’s superficial and annoying. I enjoy it, and it’s nice to just admit that without feeling shame for once.

I absolutely adored Britney Spears when she first came out in 1999. I was 13, perfect prey for her brand of innocent but vaguely sexualized bubblegum pop. But then her 3rd album came out in 2001, and her songs started sounding “slutty”. All my friends were enjoying Linkin Park on the regular, and nothing brought more shame to me than when adults asked what music I was listening to, and I’d crack open my discman to reveal the shame that was my Britney CD.

“I like Linkin Park, too!” I’d say, which was true. I loved both. It never felt like it actually mattered, though. People always nodded at me with that smile of hesitation. I never felt like I could have duality.

Back then, I used to stare at myself in the mirror and ask myself who I was. “Who are you?” It felt like some kind of weird internal crisis, but it was really just me growing up, figuring out who I becoming whilst facing the pressure to remaining the “little “good little church girl” that Brio Magazine told me to be.

The early 00s wasn’t a fun time to be a teenager, though thankfully, by the time I graduated, I’d found some solace in bands like Jimmy Eat World and Billy Talent and The Birthday Massacre. Britney Spears and other pop ilk (and all the nu-metal) were banished to the dark recesses of my CD collection.

I never felt like I could have duality.

I’ve mentioned before that I’ve been battling depression. Depression as a parent feels weird because I don’t have lot of time to be depressed. My husband’s picked up a lot of my slack, my forgetfulness and my lack of will to cook. He’s massaged a bunch of knots out of my back, but they never really go away. In recent months, I’ve been staying up until the early hours of the morning, trying and failing to write.

Most nights, instead of writing, I just watch YouTube video essays and indulge in cultural things. I started listening to 90s music I overlooked in the 90s, bands like Hole and Massive Attack and The Chemical Brothers. I’ve come up with various ideas for future projects, made a playlist or two. It feels cathartic, but I should really be writing, right?

This whole culture revival is a part of the reason why writing my WIP is taking forever. It started out as an erotic home invasion novella, but then I struggled with my protagonist, an I started a writing the Woodstock 99 novella as a prequel. I’ve been writing for over a year, but it also feels like I haven’t been writing anything at all. I spend so much of my time wasting my time.

I’ve also grown sick of social media. I like posting on Instagram, but my love for other social networks has waned. It’s just exhausting when all my creative effort goes toward “content” that never takes off. Threads is the most eye-rolling platform I’ve ever been on. Occasionally I’ll have a good chat with some Gen X person about the 90s, but there rest of it is just engagement bait cultural bullshit.

I don’t want to waste my precious limited time in a swamp full of recycled microplastic hot takes. I want to make art, dammit. And making art takes time.

It’s so invalidating, honestly, to never feel heard.

My son will be entering kindergarten this fall. I’ll miss aspects of having young children in the house. I’m going to miss his little voice and the way he mispronounces words. I’m going to miss how little he is, but I am very much looking forward to having time for me again.

I’m ready to be fully selfish again.

I’m just so damn sick of being a “Wife and Mother”. The title feels like a participation certificate.

I’ve got a knot of stress in my back and I’m constantly tired and fully caffeine-addicted. I have trouble remembering to do things. I half-finish so many things, and I often try to express how frustrated I am, but people just laugh and say shit like, “iT’s OkAy, YoU’rE a MoM!”

It’s so invalidating, honestly, to never feel heard.

I don’t regret my choice. The nuclear family life comes with a lot of rewards. I get a lot of love from my husband and my kids, but those rewards are for me to savor. My job isn’t to exploit the good parts for strangers on the internet. I’m not an influencer.

I’m just a girl who grew up with big dreams.

I’m so damn sick of being a “Wife and Mother”. The title feels like a participation certificate.

Ever since publishing Ending in Ashes, my “writing career” has been my biggest source of stress. Instead of writing, I had to focus on marketing. Not my strong suit. I’m sure most writers hate marking as much as I do. I like to be creative and authentic, but that combination of traits rarely ever pairs well with an algorithm.

When I make content for social media, it some feels a bit like being a Christian teen all over again. I don’t get to be myself. I have to sell my book in ways that I personally find cringeworthy. DO YOU LIKE THESE TROPES? OMG THEN MAYBE YOU’LL LIKE MY GOTHIC HORROR SHORT STORY COLLECTION!

Sometimes, making this shit feels just as soul-draining as taking care of my kids. I hate it just as much as I hate making my kids dinner, because they’re picky and I always have to cater to all their sensory food issues. They have fucking algorithms too.

And so I escape into my WIP, while also subconsciously figuring out how to market it. I’m not even enjoying the process of writing. It’s barely an escape. At this point, I’m literally just a “Wife and Mother with a Side-Hustle.”

Like fuck man, that’s so fucking depressing. I’ve become the most cliche thing ever. I refuse to think that I’m somehow better than a suburban woman selling essential oils. I refuse to kill what makes me a person. I refuse to follow the algorithm required to sell books online. That dream does not need to be a reality. I do not want to be as miserable as Mr. Beast.

[A]t this point, I’m literally just a “Wife and Mother with a Side-Hustle.”

So yeah, my WIP is killing me inside a bit. I feel so much pressure to just finish it and get it out there. Some of you writers are dropping multiple books a year and I’ve struggled with what. I’m envious that I can’t do the same. I get jealous every time I see an author talking about their “big news”. I throw my phone down and I want to scream.

I’ve finally realized that I haven’t had a healthy mindset when it comes to writing.

I recently watched Pearl. Part of me hates that I waited this long, but I also feel like it was the perfect time to watch it, because it struck me with epiphany. I’ve already had my “I’M A STAR!” moment. I’ve written about how soul crushing it was. Looking back on that post, I really wasn’t giving myself time to grieve. I put my happy face back on and faked my way through the pain.

I didn’t admit to myself that I don’t know how to write a novel. I didn’t admit to myself that I needed to take a break. I was just trying so hard to figure out what the next potential bestseller was going to be. And sure, I wrote some stories and published a collection that I’m proud of, but I did with that a subconscious drive to still be a star.

I didn’t address the fact that writing once gave me solace. It was where I could be sad and angsty and creative and authentic, and I ruined that sanctuary with the desire to be loved by as many people as possible. I’ve been bitter and angry, and I’ve been seeing a “writing career” as that one almighty thing that’s destined to save me from my perceived hell.

So yeah, I’m Pearl, but I’m also not Pearl. love my husband and my kids and my new pet cockatiel named Alex. I like family life. I like that I have people who can support me when I need the support. I’m just some nobody writer living in a mid-sized city in Canada. I have no desire to move or to travel. If it really came down to me choosing between moving to LA for the sake of making it “big”, or staying at home with my family and being comfortable, I’d choose the latter.

I’ve been bitter and angry, and I’ve been seeing a “writing career” as that one almighty thing that’s going to save me from my perceived hell.

I sold three copies of Ending in Ashes at the local punk store in March. People in my own community are finding my work. My writing is helping support a local business. I can be content with that. I can be happy with that. I can still fulfil all my dreams on a smaller scale.

I took my son to his first kindergarten orientation and it was so fucking nice to see him find his footing in a new environment, even when it was scary. I didn’t do the same for my daughter when she entered school. I was too busy writing back then, too blinded by big dreams to care. But I talk to my daughter now about school and her problems. She’s getting older, and I can talk to her about life in a way that I wish my parents had with me when I was younger.

I finally get the chance to be the person I wanted to be.

I’m figuring out how to deprogram myself from the social media indoctrination. Living in the moment with my family is more important. I need to figure out how to enjoy writing again. I don’t plan on feeling guilty if I end up watching people play video games on YouTube instead of writing. Taking the leisure time I deserve always gives me new ideas.

I’ve always been a slow writer. It’s about time I stop being so ashamed of it, because even though I’m not a big book star, I at least managed to buy this Hello Kitty bag with my royalties. I gotta stop taking these things for granted, because if I was selling essential oils through an MLM, I’d be shouting this kind of success through the rooftops.

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I miss writing a journal. I forget how cathartic it is. Now I just forget stuff. I never have the time to write it all down. My thoughts are all over the place. I keep thinking I have ADHD but who the fuck doesn’t think they have ADHD these days? I mean, I could go about getting checked, but I just lost my doctor (again!) and I’m already overwhelmed, like I can’t do this right now.

I guess the real problem is that I never get to spend time alone anymore.

When I do, I feel guilty.

Gotta get back, gotta mind the kids! Can’t let people think I’m a fucking lazy person.

I’ve been re-reading Columbine by Dave Cullen, and honestly, the thing that hits me the most about this readthrough is all that time I used to have to just dwell in my own angst. What I miss the most about being a teenager is being alone. Thankfully, I wasn’t in the kind of negative mindset that made me violent. Perhaps violent with myself at times, but I was always looking inward for escapes. The amount of daydreaming I used to do. There was so much I figured out about myself back then. It was safe and nice and calming.

What I miss the most about being a teenager is being alone.

Now I just feel like I need to potato my way through a day, just sit, just rot, just grow eyes all over. Everything I see gives me anxiety. Every time I walk up with my son to pick up my daughter from school, I worry about their hands getting cold. I worry about them playing tag and tripping on the sidewalk. I worry about them getting his by a car because the drivers in the area are all fucking speed demons who don’t give a fuck about school children or them getting hit by the car. I get enraged. I yell. I panic because THE KIDS ARE NEVER PAYING ATTENTION TO THEIR SURROUNDINGS.

Fuck, I hate it.

Then, when we get home, they’re always taking up space in the doorway, shedding their coats and boots. I’m trying to get the door closed to shut out the world. I gotta hang up their coats and put their boots away and they immediately ask to watch YouTube and I lose it every single time. My daughter always apologizes when I do. Then I apologize. I always have to explain myself.

Mom is just very overwhelmed. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

I have to give myself a bit of credit for being able to explain it, but now I know that my daughter is always constantly trying to prevent me from losing my shit. I feel bad that she’s inherited this from me. I guess it was inevitable, though, and when I can, I try to assure her when a problem is MY problem and not hers. If she still feels bad, she can just give me a hug if she wants to let me know she cares.

I can’t be a perfect mom, but at least I’ve acknowledged that fact with myself and with my kids.

I just feel like I need to potato my way through a day, just sit, just rot, just grow eyes all over.

So yeah, I need to prioritize my time alone. I only ever get that at night, but I’ve been trying to take more time to journal. Otherwise I’m just watching YouTube myself, numbing everything. Growing more eyes, I guess. For a while, I kept saying that all my time watching Woodstock 99 footage was writing research. I used to get so high and I’d feel better, but now that I’ve given up the pot for Lent, I guess I’m utilizing my nights a bit better. Dunno. Sometimes I just give up writing and go to bed.

Because of course, with all the anxiety and dread and heavy doses of coffee comes sleep deprivation, and I really need more sleep.

Writing is still hard. I don’t often fall into the spell of guilting myself over not writing, but I still compare myself to other people. It’s taken me like 6 months to write what I have of the Woodstock 99 novella. I feel like things should come together better once I finish this fucking draft and get the plot sorted out. Then it’s just editing (which is the part of writing that I enjoy the most!). Editing makes me feel more immersed, when scraping this story out of me doesn’t feel like I’m wrestling myself open, trying to scrape out a plot like it’s a fucking PAP smear.

Everything about my WIP has hit a more personal level. It’s been hard to get it out. I’m sorry about the PAP smear reference. Maybe it’s too graphic for the internet. I don’t want to offend anyone. I’m just like, really feeling angsty right now.

I could probably write another short story. Just take a break.

I just want to distract myself.

I have all these old stories that still need homes, but I get stressed out jumping between submitting and writing. Submitting stories is just so stressful and I’ve honestly still got so much angst around submitting after the whole agent R&R fiasco. I’ve got all these fucking ideas. You know, a big old pile of them that makes me think I’ve got ADHD again.

Sometimes I just want answers. I’d kinda like to know if I’m ADHD or not. I’ve literally always been like this. But going about getting answers would just be adding a bunch of new fucking things to my To Do list and I fucking hate it. I refuse to do it.

I do not want to fucking to it.

I just want to distract myself.

I want to buy a pair of fucking balloon jeans online.

I found a pair of vintage ones are are like $40 on Poshmark.

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Yesterday, I cleaned my basement. For most of my winter cleaning sprees, I’ve been listening to nu-metal (for the Woodstock 99 WIP), but this cleaning session had me absolutely gripped by the viral, “Who TF Did I Marry?” series on TikTok. I try my best not to sink too much time on TikTok drama, but then Pearlmania500 recommended I watch the series. I put it on the backburner for a few days, but when I cleaned my basement, it provided the perfect soundtrack. I was enthralled.

For anyone not terminally online, “Who TF Did I Marry?” is a testimonial of “Reesa Teesa” (her TikTok username, not her real name), a black American woman from Georgia, who met, married, and divorced a pathological liar during the pandemic. It’s 52 parts long. Each part is about 10 minutes long. It’s captivating and bingeable 8+ hours of pure drama. It’s everything that Quibi wanted to be.

As a person who went through a post-Gone Girl domestic psychological thriller phase, who was often disappointed by the lacklustre plots and cardboard characters of subsequent psychological thrillers, and the author of an unpublished domestic thriller of my own, I was captivated. “Who TF Did I Marry?” is some IRL gothic horror. There was the villain love interest, the fast-paced relationship, a foreboding setting, and of course, a naive heroine who ignores the foreboding warnings, yet claws her way through it all.

There’s power in confession.

Many have called Reesa Teesa stupid for not seeing the parade of red flags that was “Legion” (her husband’s nickname in the series). I understand the instinct people have to call her stupid, but I do have to ask myself, if I were in her shoes, would I have found myself in the same predicament?

Reesa Teesa isn’t a slasher movie victim climbing the stairs instead of going outside. She’s a human being. It’s a story full of nuances, which I why I feel that people are so enthralled. Having watched the series, I have better insight, more empathy, and better understanding.

Good storytelling can change people.

The Power of Storytelling

“Who TF Did I Marry?” might be a captivating story, but Reesa Teesa isn’t a book character who was living “a perfect life until Legion walked into it…” She’s a regular woman living paycheck to paycheck, a woman who wants to own a house, move to a better city, get married, have a nice car, have a kid. It’s the standard American Dream formula, most of which is becoming more of a pipe dream than any sort of feasible reality. She explains her choices, her reasons, her trauma.

Everyone is already talking about a TV adaptation, which I can admit would be cool, but I still stand firm by the idea that truth is stranger than fiction. There’s something in testimony and in the vulnerability that she put herself through to sit in front of a camera.

There’s power in confession.

You see the way she hesitates, the way her voice shakes, the way she sometimes laugh to deflect the ugliness that would come out otherwise. Watching the series is a very intimate experience, and Reesa Teesa is brave for doing it, especially now that the series has gone viral and she’s found herself in the limelight. I’m sure a part of her felt the need to do it. She had to let it out so she could shed the burden of carrying it. Stories are for healing.

The Vulnerability of Isolation

We live in a society with little space for human interaction. We’re all busy working like there’s no weekend. Everything can be done online. We order food, goods, and services through a screen. We meet people through handpicked profile photos and carefully-written bios that cut through the bullshit. Algorithms match people based on these curated similarities. Connection happens through a screen. We all do our part in this, portraying out lives online in a way that our innermost selves are impossible to know.

People are lonelier than ever before, and so I can understand why many who meet a spouse via dating apps eagerly skip the cheesy courtship stuff, the small talk, the emotional intimacy. Marriage always seems like this finish line, and the sooner you get there, the sooner your life can properly begin.

I internalized the idea of my Happily Ever After coming prepackaged with a man.

I was extremely fortunate to find my husband in college, but I’ve got single friends, divorced friends trying to find love again. The internet is chock full of people’s horrible online dating experiences. It doesn’t sound fun at all, and so I can see how somebody would get themselves into a mental state of “Fuck it, this guy seems like a nice guy…” and just marry him. Especially if he lays it all out on the first date. Sometimes the need to fulfill a dream is that strong.

The Covid pandemic had a major impact on lonliness. Lockdowns were hard on everyone, and while I had a tough time surviving the early days of covid as a mom of young children, I also understand that going through that time alone would have been so much darker. If I were Reesa Teesa, I’d have quarantined with Legion, too.

A promise of comfort can be nice in times of dread.

The Naive Desires of Women

Every millennial woman had a favourite Disney Princess movie. Mine was Beauty and the Beast. Each princess had her own problem, but the solution always came in the form of a man. Whether or not I wanted to absorb that message, I internalized the idea of my Happily Ever After coming prepackaged with a man.

I also internalized the value of protecting myself as a women. I had to protect myself from everything. From men. From failure. From being taken advantage of. From being seen as bitchy. From being ugly. From being unwanted. From shame. I had to have this gut instinct against any form of danger, but I also had to be naive and quiet and small.

Sometimes, the only way to protect myself from any insecurity, any anxiety, any flaw I found with myself, well, it came in finding a man. Having a man meant freedom, quite honestly.

The thing that struck me most about “Who TF Did I Marry?” was how Reesa Teesa was able to express this experience without shame. She straight up says that not having to worry about paying her rent was “intoxicating”. She talks about the joy of looking at beautiful houses, driving fancy cars, the promise of a trip to London.

Many women now understand that love bombing is a clear red flag. I’ve never experienced it. My husband was the first and only guy I dated, and he’s always been a sensible guy who was never able to take me on fancy trips or buy me expensive things. Being pampered always makes me feel weird, and travelling anywhere stresses me out. We recently bought a rowing machine, though. My husband paid for it. I was excited. (I cleaned the basement to make room for it, hence this post.)

I understand how intoxicating freedom is.

Reesa Teesa was led to believe that Legion was a VP at a condiment company. He showed her a photocopy of his Chase bank account. He told he had money from a previous career in arena football. He told her he had offshore bank accounts. She explains that she was naive. She didn’t know how offshore bank accounts worked, or how to buy a house. Legion had an explanation for everything. Again, sure, this in itself is a red flag, but she uses the word “intoxicating”, and I believe her.

At this point in my life, I’m mostly a stay-at-home mom. I work an occasional shift and I pay some of the bills, but most of my life is covered by my husband’s income. I’m fully aware that my situation is privileged af, considering that most couples need to work full time to just afford rent and groceries and bills.

I have the luxury of writing blog posts in my free time. I understand how intoxicating freedom is.

The Power of Religion

Another thing I identified with was Reesa Teesa’s religious upbringing. She comes from a Christian background, and often mentions how aspects of her African American culture affect her actions. All of the Christian stuff she mentions in her story resonated heavily with me.

I grew up Christian. I still am Christian, albeit one who was alienated enough by my upbringing to deconstruct my faith in a empathic and progressive way. Reesa Teesa mentions shame at shacking up with Legion during the lockdown. She mentions fear at being pregnant outside of marriage. Fearing judgement, she doesn’t discuss her new relationship with her family. Despite this, her mother worries. Her mother prays for her.

In the aftermath, Reesa Teesa finds renewal in her faith. Some might take issue with this, as Christianity in the western world isn’t usually viewed upon as a positive thing. I understand this, but I also resonate with Reesa Teesa’s upbringing, and I’m glad that she was able to utilize her faith in God for perspective, and untimely, for healing.

Even her ex’s nickname, “Legion” comes from a Bible story wherein Jesus encounters and heals a demon-possessed man. The demon identifies himself as “Legion, for we are many.” It’s a fantastic nickname, full of analysis and insight, as the latter parts of the series Reesa Teesa attempts to look into the all the personal demons her ex-husband must have.

The Insecurities of Men

One of my favourite subjects ever is male insecurity. “Who TF Did I Marry?” doesn’t directly touch on any of these issues. She finally gets her divorce. She never sees Legion again, but is left to answer all the unanswered questions.

She didn’t know him at all.

I’ve known pathological liars. They’re not all vindictive and narcissistic. I believe compulsive lying is a coping mechanism for severe insecurity. Men have an ability to do this easily.

I feel like some men haven an innate need to feel masculine and often end up doing the whole “loverboy approach” when it comes to attracting women. I don’t mean to say that they’re using this approach in an Andrew Tate way. Strongly adhering to masculine stereotypes, however, is the easiest way to prey on that subconscious female need to get a man. Men develop personalities around being strong, wealthy, a man of high status. They want to be the head of the household. They want to be a provider, a caretaker, a protector.

At this point in history, connections become less and less human.

To me, Legion utilized these stereotypes simply to satiate his insecurities. He wasn’t to appear that he was all those things to somebody. Reesa Teesa even admits to believing that he didn’t respect her. He got off on the idea that he could fool her into thinking that he loved her. It made him feel good.

All of this question tangles into the larger web of modern day male ideology, and that’s a subject much bigger than this blog post. Anyone interested can check out this video from political commentator, Vaush, who seems to be one of the only people online who discusses men’s issues in an insightful way. We need to assess without all that white feminist reactionary “fuck all men” discourse. I know this a touchy subject for a lot of people, but it needs to happen before things get worse.

Wrapping It All Up

“Who TF Did I Marry?” isn’t a new story. Deceptive relationships have happened before and will continue to happen. I appreciate this particular interview with Benita Alexander, former girlfriend of Paolo Macchiarini, whose misdeeds were heavily profiled in Netflix’s Bad Surgeon miniseries. In that story, Benita was a journalist and Paolo was a groundbreaking miracle surgeon. “Who TF Did I Marry?”, however, is refreshing, simply because Reesa Teesa is a regular person. A TikTok user. She’s woman with plenty of dreams.

She explains that the only reason she did the series was to potentially help other people in similar situations, and I admire her for doing it. At this point in history, connections become less and less human. “Who TF Did I Marry?” is honestly the most human thing I’ve ever seen online. She doesn’t have any points to make, just an experience to share. She sheds light on the aftermath, her process of healing. She admits that she’s been changed. She lets herself be 100% vulnerable, which is something that is so rare to see online in this day and age. I think we all need a little more of that.

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Got a call on Tuesday from my the principal at my daughter’s school. Upon hearing his voice, somehow I just knew. What? I didn’t know, but I knew it was bad. I braced myself. I’ve always been a worst case scenario kind of person. If you think it, you can prepare for it.

For a while, I’ve been feeling this sense of dread. Something is going to happen. Something is going to happen. My daughter fell on the playground and she was in the medical room at school. Something happened to her arm. I talked to her on the phone and she sounded off. Distant. Distorted. Her personality gone.

She wasn’t crying. She said her arm hurt. She told me a kid pushed her. She wouldn’t let anyone touch it. The ice pack they gave her did nothing.

So it was an emergency, which meant a long night was ahead.

If her arm was broken, she’d be crying. It’d be bad. It’s probably just a sprain, a fracture, I thought. But the dread just lingered. I packed a bag for the hospital full of snacks, drinks, comfort items. My husband took her to emergency and I stayed at home with my son.

Turns out, she broke her elbow, but there wasn’t an orthopedic surgeon to do the full assessment, so she was given a cast and sent back home. My mother-in-law came in the morning to look after my son and my husband and I went, watched a bunch of doctors try to realign her arm, put a new cast on. She was in a lot of pain and we were helpless. I felt shitty, having to make choices. Just having to watch.

They took an x-ray, but the bone wasn’t quite where the doctor wanted it. He said they could get her into the operating room right away. We said okay. I watched my daughter struggle to hold herself together when they cut the cast off with that terrifying saw. The doctor held the whirring blade against his arm to assure her that it going to cut her, but the thing still looks like a threat, roaring, the blade spinning. I held her hand, but it didn’t do much to quell her fear.

Lots of things were scary. She tensed when the nurse put the bands around her wrists. Her shoulders tightened when I answered pre-screening questions for her. I watched her get an IV, which easily could have been more horrifying if the anesthesiologist didn’t have a British accent. She was great. She face on her IV port, made it feel like we were on an episode of Peppa Pig.

I did my best to be a mom. I did my best to assure her.

“I was here when I had you,” I said. “I know it’s scary but everybody here knows what they’re doing. They’re nice. They’re going to make it better. You always tell me how you wish you could just close your eyes and go to sleep at night. When they wheel you in there, you’ll get to feel what it’s like, to just instantly sleep. And then you’ll wake up and it’ll feel like nothing happened.”

I don’t know if it helped or not, but she got through. She walked out of the hospital with two pins in her elbow, a new cast, a dose of morphine.

[I]n terms of the things that one can dread, a broken elbow is nothing.

So we’re home now. I’m keeping her out of school until the worst of the pain eases.

I give her the medication the doctor told me to. I’m always worried. I constantly give her hugs and tell her that I love her. She’s annoyed with me at this point. She’s 9 and doesn’t want to make a big deal of it. I’m just a mom who wants to hug her forever. And yet at night, she wants me to sleep in her room. I’ve slept on the floor for two nights now, my back aching. Last night, she asked me to read her a book like I used to when she was 5. It’s been nostalgic, but I’ll read over the words, the stupid princess stores, their passages engrained in my skull, filling me with a humbling annoyance.

A taste of the past, which is all a parent really wants, right?

For now, I’m tired. My back aches. I haven’t written much, but it’s okay, considering that I’m currently reading Columbine for my WIP, and, well, in terms of the things that one can dread, a broken elbow is nothing.

My kid had a rough night last night and I had to keep going to her bed, helping her move all her pillows around so she could get comfortable. It’s the most useful I’ve ever felt, honestly. As difficult as it is, I’m doing my best to savor it.

Once this is over, I’ll just have something new to dread.

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Well, I’m still here. I’ve been writing. I’ve been not writing. I’ve been listening to a lot of Limp Bizkit. Been listening to a lot of Hole. Watched a documentary on Courtney Love. Started rereading that book on Columbine. Watched the Trainwreck documentary yet again. It’s writing while not writing. I found this clip of Fatboy Slim in the Woodstock 99 rave tent. I watch all this stuff while writing every single night. Probably not the most focused of writing, but it’s immersive. I skip around scenes, figure out new details. This is the most immersed I’ve ever been in anything.

And, after HOURS of literal procrastination, at long last, finally, my WIP is starting to write itself.

Just like magic.

The other day I posted about a sex scene I wrote. The thread got a handful of likes and I considered it successful. A couple of people engaged with it and it made me feel good. It gave me some motivation to keep writing.

Post by @rebeccajoneshowe View on Threads

Word on the street is that social media might be a waste of time or whatever. Everybody’s soapboxing over this, and while I don’t 100% agree with every Thread on this issue, I can admit to the struggle. Before the mass Substack exodus, I felt as though I was building something nice over there. It was a proper balance between a newsletter and a blog and it worked very nicely. But yeah, then my audience left…

I don’t want to start a new newsletter (even though my gut is telling me that it IS the right way to go. I like this blog, though? I rambling. Condensing my life into newsletter-style plot points is difficult. Returning to Patreon is a logical choice, but I don’t think my audience is big enough to really set up a pay-to-appreciate format yet.

I already have two kids and a husband. I’m babysitting my nephew every other day. I SIMPLY DON’T HAVE THE FUCKING TIME TO LEARN NEW THINGS.

Blogging is useless. I am useless. I am a husk of a person trying to pretend that I have a writing career.

I never feel like I’m doing anything “right” online anymore.

Threads is fun but it sometimes feels like high school, every other post just people penning their loneliness to the Dear Algorithm. I’ve got a somewhat neglected Instagram page that never gets the engagement it once did. TikTok is fun, but I’ve no idea what kind of videos to make to promote my book. It was a fun way to share my fashion personality, but then all the cool music that I scored my #fitcheck videos was removed.

There is absolutely no guaranteed way to #win at writer life.

Blogging is useless. I am useless. I am a husk of a person trying to pretend that I have a writing career.

What am I even doing with my life?

It’s a valid existential question for a writer. Writing was never glamorized as being a “good” career choice. It’s a career ripe with alcoholic stereotypes, full of disappointment, rejection, and parental disapproval.

I am lazy. I am doing nothing. I am stuck in fantasy. My entire life was always spent in fantasy. And it’s kind of neat that some of us actually get to make a little bit of an income and find joy in that, right?

Like we got girlies out there actually writing their most depraved sexual fantasies, selling COPIES through TikTok. Stuff that never would have seen the light of day in the past. Ever since Twilight came out, ever since 50 Shades of Grey and 365 Days and now, the uh, absolute takeover of unhinged female fantasy being shared on TikTok now, I’ve been envious of other women’s ability to sell books.

I want to trash these books, but that would be counterproductive for me. Because I don’t want to be a dick, and also, some of the unhinged themes of these “dark romance” books are themes that I’ve been writing about for years. I fell in love with V.C. Andrews as a teen, and here I am now, a grown-ass woman still trying to figure out why women flock to certain forms of romantically disturbing literature.

I can keep on writing hot chicken sex scenes set in the 90s, or whatever weird unhinged stuff I want. I feel like social media is helping me shape the things that I’m both passionate and furious about into something tangible and insightful and fun.

All a writer really needs is a strong foundation from which to write.

Possibilities are endless on social media. I was on Twitter since 2006, and navigating my career without it has been a bit of a reality check for me, as I’m sure it has for many. All a writer really needs is a strong foundation from which to write. Time might be in short supply, but I find it somehow, I guess. I’m still here, doing something. I’m still happy to write. I’m still finding joy in it.

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I’ve been cleaning lately. Digging into corners. Unearthing junk drawers. Sometimes it’s surprising what ends up in the crevices of my home. The clutter is everywhere. I grew up in clutter. My mom was once a notorious thrifter, and still remains unable to pass up a good deal. Growing up, I vowed to never have a cluttered home. But then, of course, I grew up, grew envious of what others had, and bought a lot of it for myself.

Working in a home decor store will do that. I worked at HomeSense from 2006 – 2022. Almost two decades of home decor trends were programmed into my brain. I was doomed from the start to have too much, my husband rolling his eyes every time I brought home some magic new knickknack that was going to spiff up a corner.

i bought these shelves once because my mom kept giving me plants to take care of, but now it’s repurposed and full of little memories that make me happy.

Most of those knickknacks never actually found a tabletop upon which to gather dust. Most of the artwork never found its way onto a wall. Most of of the new dishes I bought were never used. They all looked great in the store. I had big plans for the things when I held them in the store, but once they entered my home, well, all the hand-me-down staples I got from my parents were just more practical.

The “new” stuff sat in the house, price tags still attached, their dates a painful reminder.

I always get disgusted with myself when I find these things. It’s always on the verge of an existential crisis, and I always wonder why I can’t just DEVOTE THE TIME AND FIX MY FUCKING HOUSE, why I can’t just live like a minimalist. It’s supposed to be easy. Marie Kondo made it seem so easy, but then she also tried to sell me expensive organization stuff after I watched her stupid Netflix show, so like, what’s a lady to do but make excuses?

And I sure have a lot of them: I have kids. I’m too busy. I’d rather stare at my phone when I get home from work. I’m too tired. I have no inspiration. I have more important things to do. I’m too depressed.

And so, in a desperate fix to clear the negative feelings all my shit was pressing onto me, I’d dig out an empty box and fill it. A doom box. A little present for later…

Doom boxes are the real Schrodinger’s Cat solution for decluttering. Because the clutter both is and isn’t there. Sometimes I’d even buy decorative boxes, hoping to sort through the clutter, only for the the boxes to become *pretty* doom boxes, both functional in aesthetic AND in hiding my inability to manage a home.

Nobody taught me hope to clean, but I’ve always gotten a bit of joy in sorting through a mess, organizing it, putting all the things where they belong.

In the 13 years I’ve lived in my house, I’ve amassed plenty of doom boxes and doom bins. Before my husband and I had kids, we had an entire a doom room, which we then called the “shit room”. Then it became a doom corner in the basement, But then my sister moved into my basement in 2021 and I brought all the boxes upstairs. I had doom piles were all over the house, filling portions of my bedroom, corners on the stairs, corners in the dining room. Wherever the doom boxes fit, I stacked them, telling myself that it was going to be okay, it wasn’t that bad.

Most of those stacks are gone now, either sent to the thrift store or recycled or whatever else. I made a little bit of time, because that’s all I have, is a little bit of time and a little bit of energy to spend every now and then. Nobody taught me hope to clean, but I’ve always gotten a bit of joy in sorting through a mess, organizing it, putting all the things where they belong. I get immersed in it, forgetting to eat until it’s done.

And for a week or two, I tell myself that things will always be this way, that I’ll maintain things the way they are. And for a while, I do my best, but then something happens. I work too much. Chaos builds. Darkness overwhelms me. I get depressed again.

It never takes much.

Like I said before, I’ve always lived in clutter and chaos. My mom literally did everything for me. When I first moved out, I didn’t know how to cook anything other than Kraft Dinner. I often faulted her for it, but I understand now. It’s not a personal failing on her part. She was a house cleaner and spent much of her time cleaning other people’s houses, but she could never keep her own house clean. She complained about it a lot. I remember when I was a kid and sometimes she would “go over boxes”.

My childhood home was fucking full of them, just endless boxes shoved into every closet, piled up high in the basement, most of it random thrift store stuff that she must have bought thinking it was going to fix something.

I’m glad that I don’t work at HomeSense anymore. It got really hard to watch women like me endlessly buy candles and frames and shelves and mugs and tumblers. It felt kind of morally wrong to refill those empty shelves with more candles and frames and shelves and mugs and tumblers, but that was my job, was to make people want to buy stuff. I making displays out of them, making them appealing, and the women would always walk up to me and ask, “How do you not buy everything that comes in here?”

It’s a hard question to answer, honestly.

After some point, I got used to playing with the merchandise, making pretty displays with them. When I learned to merchandise, I was always told to “tell a story”, and so I’d do that with the stuff in the store. I’d make a modern dining room table setting. Or a witchy office setting. Or a cocktail bar. Or a luxurious cozy bed. I could always envision some kind of version of my house that has all that stuff, but after merchandising with it, I’d realize that some point that all I needed was the fantasy, that I could leave it on the shelf, and sadly let somebody else buy it.

I sometimes wonder what percent of the stuff I’ve carefully made displays out of now sits in some other woman’s doom box. Or maybe it’s in a shit room. A shit closet. A shit basement. A shit storage unit. It’s nothing that I can fix, though. Being a woman in the western world, this is the true pain, that idea of wanting happiness, wanting perfection, a perfect fucking Instagram photo, and then having to move a bunch of shit out of the way to make my life look like it’s good enough for a square picture.

I never fucking know what I want to write about on this blog. I was doing Substack for a while, but migrated back here. I don’t know how candid I want to be, but I desperately miss that real connection that blogs once had. Being a millennial mom is so isolating at times. The internet makes us all seem like we spray paint our kid’s toy Christmas trees to match our house’s aesthetic.

I’m sure most of us just have the aesthetic of doom-boxing everything.

It’s a slow process and it takes a lot of time to do it properly, but it always makes me feel better to organize my own chaos.

When I was a kid, my mom had a habit of “going over boxes”. It was literally just what it sounds like. She’d pull out a box, take everything out, and decide what to put back in and what to give away. She always ended up keeping most of it. I always thought going over boxes was cool, though. It was fun and meditative, and she’d tell me when she got the stuff. I have fond memories of doing it, and honestly, when I feel that I have enough energy to clean out some clutter in my house, I do enjoy digging into my doom boxes.

It’s a slow process and it takes a lot of time to do it properly, but it always makes me feel better to organize my own chaos. Enough time has passed since the stuff entered the box, and I can process my actions better in the moment, now that I’ve set aside the time to do it.

I can forgive myself for impulsively buying stuff.

I can feel relief that my daughter doesn’t make so many random paper crafts.

I can sigh in relief that I found an important document.

And some of the stuff, well, I find a spot for it, a special place on a shelf somewhere, and I realize that I have an aesthetic after all.

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This Christmas season was my 17th year working retail during the holidays. For nearly two weeks I was sick with some kind of cold. It wasn’t covid, thankfully. Pretty sure it was just a cold, but it made me groggy, gave me the worst head congestion. I lost my voice so bad I sounded like Jordan Peterson. Three weeks later, I still don’t fully feel 100%. I’m still coughing up phlegm.

During the worst of it, whatever free time I had was spent attempting to sleep in muscle-aching agony. I tried to read Northanger Abbey, but my brain was too fried to comprehend the satire behind every squabble about, what, exactly? I couldn’t focus. I had to stop reading.

I hate DNF-ing books, but I had to talk myself into realizing that I ain’t got no time to Jane Austen and her 120-word sentences about awkward upper-class misunderstandings. I’m simply just a tired working mom of two at Christmastime.

I’ve been really striving to be more patient with myself, and to give myself a pat on the back when it’s deserved.

I helped my daughter do her spelling work. She’s been struggling with it a bit, because we all know that gEn AlPhA cAn’T sPelL, and my millennial parent anxiety can’t be held responsible for one more thing that is wrong with the world.

I was horrible at spelling as a kid. It was soul-crushing, honestly. My mom ended up spending countless nights going over my weekly spelling test words with me. It was hard, but eventually, something clicked, and I look back on those nights with my mom as one of my favourite bonding moments with her, moments I wouldn’t have had otherwise because she was always busy cooking or cleaning or out in the garden, or rolling up 500 lumpia1 for somebody for no reason at all. Filipino reasons, I guess. Still, I valued that time.

I realized while working with her that she was so pent up with anxiety over spelling the words right the first time that I told her not to erase them if she thought she spelled it wrong, but to cross it out and try again. Let the page look messy.

And holy shit, it worked. She sat up straighter in her chair, and just figured out how to spell every word on her own. She gained the confident to make some mistakes, and like, damn, I felt like such a good fucking mom, and I’ve been really striving to be more patient with myself, and to give myself a pat on the back when it’s deserved.

I keep thinking that I need to write “writerly” posts…

Anyway, another thing I did recently was revamp my website up a little bit, and move my “newsletter” from Substack back to WordPress. TO be honest, I really liked Substack and was proud of the fact that I’d managed to gain just over 100 subscribers in the time I spent seriously writing there. But you know, then the profiting from Nazi stuff happened and people started leaving. And hey, I don’t like the idea of genocide or of corporations profiting with nor morals. I considered moving to some new newsletter platform (WHICH I’VE ALREADY DONE FUCKING SO MANY DAMN TIMES ALREADY), but then I was kind of struck with the realization that there’s no sense in moving somewhere new when I’ve already got a nice-looking website and 10+ years of WordPress experience.

So from now on, my “newsletter” will live here. I probably won’t be posting with any scheduled consistency, as that just isn’t how I roll when it comes to blogging.

I keep thinking that I need to write “writerly” posts. That I need to educate people and tell them how to do stuff right, which I don’t know how to do. That I need to tell people about all the new stories I’ve published, which I haven’t done. That I need to share picture of all the events I’ve attended, of which where are none in my mid-sized western Canadian city.

Sometimes I feel that I don’t have anythign worthwhile to say as a writer. I’m not in the “hub” of any real physical writing community. I get so lonely and down on myself for not having more name recognition. I just feel like nobody has any desire to hear about the shit I have to say. But then I have to remind myself that I’m just like a majority of writers, just getting by, living my life on the side. I’m not some buzzworthy writer who ruined their book deal by making a bunch of scam one-star reviews on “rival” books.

I’m just a humble Canadian author whose recently published book only has 24 reviews on Goodreads.

I’m just a part-time writer who gets maybe two hours to herself every night, gets high, and tries to get a little chunk of work done before exhaustion takes over.

I’m just a hack of writer who doesn’t quite know how to write a novel yet, and most nights I spend writing are actually spent watching Woodstock 99 sets for WIP inspiration. Recently, I watched Insane Clown Posse, and I won’t lie, I’m kind of a fan now…

Anyway, if you’re here and reading this, just know that I appreciate you. Also, if you haven’t already, please subscribe so I can continue slipping into your inbox.

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Wishing you the very best this holiday season, no matter what you celebrate and how you celebrate it. I’ll be seeing you here in the new year!

– XOXO, RJHFootnotesFilipino spring rolls. My mom always called them “spring rolls” when I was growing up. She also called pancit “chow mein”. I’m guessing she did this because she was trying to fit in as best she could with Western culture and used to words that best translated. These days, I try my best to use the Filipino terms because I missed out on a lot of my Filipino heritage growing up and I’m trying my best to make up for lost time. ︎

Note: This post was originally published on Substack on January 9th, 2023

It’s 7AM on a Saturday and I wake up with low blood sugar. I head downstairs and there’s a banner made with cut-out paper triangles and yarn awkwardly hanging off the railing and one of the armchairs. The letters aren’t written dark enough to read without leaning in really close.

“Good morning!”

It’s my daughter. She sits at the coffee table with a stack of paper scraps and markers. I ask if she made the banner. I ask what it even says.

“It says Good Morning!”

I tell her she did a good job. The triangles look uniform and she spaced them out nicely on the string. Of course, it’s not hung in a very harmonious manner, but she’s 8 and does her best. She also probably woke up at 6AM to do it. The day before, she said she was excited for it to be Saturday because she wanted to sleep in. But she didn’t. She woke up and was too excited, and so she made the banner instead.

Later in the day, when I’m trying to anger-clean my fucking bombshell disaster of a cluttered house, I rip the banner down in a rage because I can’t climb the stairs without getting tangled up in the string.

My second collection of short fiction is being published this year. It’s called Ending in Ashes and I spent most of my holiday break doing edits on it. It got me really excited and manic, but then, when all the Christmas festivities kept interfering with my desire to work on said edits, I started getting frustrated. Overstimulated.

I just wanna sit in a quiet room and do my fucking work. This is Jack Torrence shit.

It’s been that way for a while now.

Doesn’t help that I spent all of November working on a novella about a middle-aged mother who hates her entire family enough that when a stranger breaks into her house, she ends up having an affair with him, because why not, right? I hope I can keep writing it so you’ll find out whether or not her entire family gets murdered, but it’s a satirical erotic horror, so like, you know what to expect from me if you’ve read enough of my work.

Not that I want my kids or husband to die or for a stranger in a ski mask to break in and fuck my brains out, but you have those thoughts as a mother sometimes. I hope you can relate because this is mostly what I’m going to be talking about here, is writer shit, and mom shit.

I feel bad about the banner, but if I’m honest, I’m pretty sure my daughter was fully into some other paper craft that made a giant mess out of the table that I doubt she even noticed. I have enough frantic panic attack cleaning sessions that she’s basically used to it now. She always tells me, “Mom, you just have to take a deep breath.”

Sometimes, I do.

Sometimes, I go into my room and scream into a pillow and then come downstairs and apologize for getting so frustrated so fucking easily.

She always says, “Oh, it’s okay.”

I tell her it’s not really okay, but that I’m glad she understands.

I’m glad she actually gets to learn from my mistakes.

Not that I want my kids or husband to die or for a stranger in a ski mask to break in and fuck my brains out, but you have those thoughts as a mother sometimes.

Later, when I tuck her into bed, I give her a big hug. Bedtime can be tough but I do like hanging out with her and talking about what the best parts of the day were. After we talk, I wonder aloud how much longer I’ll be able to tuck her in at night.

“Maybe when I’m 13 I won’t like it anymore.”

I grimace.

“No, maybe when I’m 18.”

I sure hope the fuck not. By then she’s supposed to hate me. By then, she should be going out to parties, being the girl who’s confident and cool and makes smart decisions because she learned from all my shit.

Either way, it’ll be nice to have her out of my hair because I’m going to have so much middle-aged mom shit to write about then.

I’m drinking a Pumpkin Spice Americano. Because it’s keto. And also, because it’s September, which means that it’s kinda fall even though the calendar says it’s still summer and white chicks everywhere will argue over whether or not we can drink pumpkin spice lattes yet until the end of fucking time.

To be honest, I didn’t take as much advantage of this summer as I probably should have (considering that it was actually nice instead of plagued by forest fires in my area of the planet). I did visit Whistler with the family, which was our first legit family vacation since Covid. It was nice. See?

It was also my first summer with central air-conditioning in my house, so give me a bloody break for being an introvert. I just don’t wanna take my kids outside when it’s 36 degrees outside, all the grass is yellow and crusty, the bushes are covered with spider webs and every store doorway is plagued with crickets. It’s the dog days of summer and it’s okay to stay inside as the flowers wither, the spiders spin their webs and the glorious pumpkin vines take over the decay.

I am very much looking forward to it.

Back to School Means a Break, and a Pumpkin Spice Americano

Honestly, as much as I love spooky season, fall comes with different vibes as a parent, because it means that my daughter goes back to school and every morning has to start with the agony of waking up very early so I can get ready to work and also get my kid ready for school.

Things in my life have become rather exhausting, and it’s at the point where I realize that I do need to take a bit of a break from writing for a while. I did work for an entire year on my upcoming short story collection. I deserve a break. I deserve a little time to make some Halloween decorations and read some books and make my own pumpkin spice Americano because Starbucks actually really fucking sucks.

I recommend this Pumpkin Praline Pie syrup from Jordan’s Skinny Syrups if you’re the DIY type like me.

Writer Burnout

This week, I opened up my novel again. I definitely took a longer break from it since I last vowed to make it better. I didn’t mean for that break to be so long. I definitely don’t intend to take break from it for a George R.R. Martin amount of time but I needed time away from it. Shit’s hard when you spend years on a single project. You amp yourself up. Your head gets gigantic. You’re convinced that you’re going to be the next big thing. Then you hastily finish a project after an agent shows interest, thinking there’s no way you’re going to be denied all your hopes and dreams, and just like that, you are:

What people think being a writer is like:

1) Write a book

2) Get published

3) Become famous

What being a writer is actually like:

1) Procrastinate for years

2) Write your entire series in your mind

3) Spend several years writing your book

4) Get rejected by agents forever

— Alexander Pennington (@Authoralexp) September 5, 2022

Fortunately, in my case, I wrote short fiction again. I wrote my new collection and now I finally, FINALLY am free to just…do whatever I want? It’s a weird feeling. I have no calls I want to write for. I don’t really feel an urge to plunge into a new novel, although I do have ideas frothing in a document somewhere.

I’ve got ideas everywhere. I feel like a machine of ideas with zero ambition and I’m totally okay with that because I need this break from the pressure to produce so badly. So, while this feels like a “break”, it isn’t really.

What I’m Doing Now, Other Than Drinking A Pumpkin Spice Americano

Like I said, I opened my novel. I read the first couple of scenes and while I think they’re good, I’m tired of them. I’ve read them so many times already. Hopefully, if I keep the document open and keep reading, I’ll find the right place where I need to make changes. Inspiration will strike eventually.

Just for fun, I did open up another old story, “Election Season”, with the intention of rewriting it. It’s a horrible kidnapping story (my guilty pleasure genre!) about the 2016 election, and while I did manage to get it published, I have always wanted to revisit it with a little 2022 perspective on the current state of political affairs. I also wanna just make it less bleak and more satirical, which I’m not sure is entirely possible with a rapey kidnapping story, but I am always up to these kinds of challenges.

I also recently wrote a very erotic story for a submission call that I was really hoping to make. It got rejected pretty quick, which got me all butthurt until I wrote a punny tweet about it:

My amazing pegging story was rejected for pacing reasons and now I'm mega butthurt about it.

— Rebecca Jones-Howe (@rjoneshowe) September 2, 2022

I’m gonna revise it and try to get it back out there. Assuming, of course, if I can find a market that wants “upscale dark erotica”. I feel like it’s an untapped market.

How About a Pumpkin Spice Americano?

It’s better than a latte. More coffee. Less carbs, which is great for a sedentary hermit like myself. It’s okay if it’s not your thing. It’s okay of you’d rather go to Starbucks. Just be nice to your barista. They’re important people. They deserve to be treated well, and they deserve a tip. Enjoy yourself a fucking pumpkin spice latte. Or begrudge people for enjoying pumpkin spice lattes. I don’t really care. Go ahead and squabble.

The post I’m Writing This While Drinking a Pumpkin Spice Americano Even Though It’s Pretty Cringe appeared first on REBECCAJONESHOWE.COM.

The last time I updated, I was knee-deep in curling. I haven’t been watching curling all this time. Really, life just got busy with kids, work, and everything in between. It got to the point where I had such little free time to myself that I had to spend it writing, which is what this update is all about.

I’ve been working with Quill & Crow Publishing House for over a year now. It’s been a great experience to embark on since my novel rejection in 2020. Writing the novel and trying to find an agent was just so much pressure, so it was nice to go back to my roots and write some short fiction again. I’ve improved my craft. I’ve embraced a new genre. I’ve also found myself quite the space in the horror community, and so of course, once I had enough stories to put a collection together, I went to Quill & Crow with my work.

As obvious fans of Rebecca’s work, we are honored to be the ones publishing her short story collection. We are so excited to bring her unique neo-Gothic brand to readers in full force next summer! pic.twitter.com/O3ysQ9MEfQ

— Quill & Crow Publishing House (@QuillandCrow) August 24, 2022

Say What, A New Book?

At long last, I have a new collection on the way. Currently titled Endings in Ashes, it contains 11 gothic horror stories with a modern twist. Some stories take place in classic gothic settings. Some take place in the mid-century when gothic lit had those badass covers that I love so much. And some take place in the here and now.

Take heart, though, for if you loved VILE MEN and some of my earlier fiction, my gothic stuff isn’t crazy verbose and full of purple prose. (Not that the gothic fiction aesthetic isn’t bad.) I might be a minimalist writer at heart, but I embrace the romantic with all my heart, and Endings in Ashes will still have all that you know and love about my old work.

It’s still dark. It’s still raw. It’s still raunchy AF when it needs to be.

The book will contain stories that I’ve published in various anthologies from Quill & Crow, as well as shorts from issues of The Crow’s Quill, but it’ll also have one exclusive 16,000-word novelette called “Honeymoon” that I worked so hard on this spring.

I’m very excited and hope that you are too.

Endings in Ashes will release next summer, but in the meantime, you can give my Substack newsletter a sub.

Follow me on Twitter. Follow me on TikTok. Follow me on the slowly rotting corpse that is Instagram. I’ll be keeping in touch.

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