I’m excited to announce that my short story “Humming by Moonlight” has been published in the summer issue of Gold Dust Magazine. The magazine is published in Great Britain for a worldwide audience.
This story started with music. When I follow the thread of my life backward, music is always there. All the major events in my life (and the stretches in between) are marked by song. Listening to particular bits of music can trigger full memories. As a child, harmony was cooked into me during those early piano and guitar lessons. Vibrating strings passing into my core. I think many people have a similar relationship with music. It is something that brings us together as a species, riffing through time and space and playing to the beat of the drums pounding within our own chests.
“Humming by Moonlight” is about that. I hope you enjoy it.
You can read the summer issue—and my story 🙂 —for FREE on ISSUE or download a .pdf from the publisher. Physical copies are also for sale by the publisher.
Over the course of fours weeks this winter, I created a visual art journal dealing with my understanding of the creative process. I used the themes of alchemy and journey as metaphor and peppered the pages with recurring symbols. Mostly, I had fun!
What I found at the end of the project is that my chops for drawing from imagination had improved. I also rediscovered my love for writing.
You can download a .pdf file by clicking the link below. Hope you enjoy looking at it as much as I enjoyed creating it!
We come from darkness. We come from the earth. And it’s where we’ve been heading since the moment of birth.
Escape is in our nature. We struggle from the womb, riding the waves of contractions to our first taste of air. The sunlight helps us grow stronger and taller and farther away.
charcoal and pastel
But our feet were built to stay on the earth, toes curling into the soil like roots. Sturdy legs to bare the weight of a lifetime, standing like stalks, building at the pace of cellular growth.
We look upward into the blue and we dream, and the light above, though beautiful, blinds us.
What we can’t see is that we have never left our holes.
Arms flail. Hands grasp. We stretch our bodies upward like contortionists toward a place high above where only the eye can go. Where only the mind can go. Where only the soul can go.
Hush little baby don’t say a word, Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.
Let her assure you, this woman who held you deep inside, that this hole need not be your grave. You are not the rot and decay that they will find there. You are above. Shot out like a flock of larks into the morning light.
These birds have the right idea—dream it, and it is so.