I recently had coffee with someone special to me, and it was during this visit that he kindly alluded to the idea that my recent writings, while good and accurate (thank you very much), could be a little off-putting to other readers. My mother wasn’t so kind or subtle when she texted me, stating I’d become bitter and wanted to know what was going on with me. Life, Mom. That’s what’s going on with me. Life, and it can be really fucking hard to navigate at times. I immediately reached out to my best friend, asking if she, too, thought I was bitter. I knew she wouldn't lie to me. Further, she'd . . .
A couple of months ago, I had a thought. Looking back now, I think it was more of a moment of weakness, but the idea formed in my brain, and I took action. I decided to download Tinder, the dating app. Actually, in my opinion, Tinder is more of a dressed-up hook-up app (i.e. a fancy Grindr). That old expression, “putting lipstick on a pig,” feels like an accurate way to not only describe Tinder but the bulk of dating apps today. Maybe even dating in general, whether you use an app or not. (And if you don't use an app to date, what's your secret?) Still, I gave in and started swiping . . . . . .
Birthdays are interesting. Some people choose to celebrate all week long, craving the attention, begging for anyone and everyone to know their special day is coming. Others want to ignore the day, hide from it, pretend it’s not so special or anything overly important to celebrate. The rest of us fall somewhere in the middle. Of course, there is no right way or wrong way to celebrate your birthday. After all, it’s your day, right? And you have the right to act, feel, do, say whatever you deem appropriate—within reason, obviously. What I personally don’t understand is how someone can hate . . .
Back in May, I lit a match to my life. Things weren’t working out; I wasn’t happy. Change, though terrifying to consider and actually follow through with, seemed not only necessary but vital for my emotional and mental survival. As a result, I’ve been called everything from a pussy to a motherfucker to courageous for taking charge of my life and—as my cousin would say—hitting the reset button. Am I running? Am I moving forward? Who the fuck knows? Not me, not yet. Probably not any time soon, either. You see, I’ve been traveling. Ohio. New Jersey. New York City. Florida. Nashville. . . .
When I was in second grade, I was the Riddler from Batman Forever for Halloween. How fitting that all these years later, I’d be consumed by questions. Drowning, really, in what-ifs and if-onlys. Weighed down by hows, whys, and whens. Weighed down by riddles, if you will. After my first two crime fiction novels (The Next Victim and ‘Til Death) were published, I did a few book signings and was often asked the same question from attendees: Why do you write about murder? Yep, another question, and one I didn’t know how to answer until recently. Back then, I thought I chose to write in the . . .